A/N: Happy birthday, Dizzo. ^^


Prompt: Rub

Word Count: 100

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The Thing About Prank Wars

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Dean was pissed, jaw clenched and grip white-knuckled on the steering wheel. It was obvious he was making a conscious effort to not rub his forehead.

"I said I was sorry, Dean," Sam repeated, though a quaver of amusement colored his tone, compromising his sincerity.

"Don't even talk to me," Dean growled. He shot Sam a glare, eyebrows drawn together – or rather, the reddened skin where his eyebrows had been before they were singed off were drawn together.

Sam couldn't help it. He laughed.

"Fuck you."

"Like I said – it always escalates," smirked Sam.

Dean reached over and smacked him.

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End.