By: Karen B.

Summary: Prank war story. Dean stuffs Sammy in his Sixth-grade gym locker. Claustrophobic Sam. Guilty Dean. A spin-off / back-story for Wicked Witches Guidebook; which you do not have to read for this story to make sense.

Disclaimer: Not the owner. Not no way. Not no how.

Dedicated to my beloved Grandfather. One of his favorite sayings was 'pow, right in the kisser. He had a lot of sayings…smiles fondly. Man, I miss him. Sniff, sniff.

Thank you for taking a peek.

All he could hear was the tick, tick, tick of his heart. He was cramped and hot, his Speed Stick with stain guard, doing nothing to rid the smell of sweaty gym shorts, holey tub socks, and B.O.

Sam had tried to remain calm, acutely aware that the rest of his gym class had left the locker room -- for the day -- as gym was their last class. Sam cringed. There were a lot of 'lasts' in his life. Being the smallest boy in the class, made Sixth grade physical education -- suck ass. He was always the last one to get picked to be on a team, the last one to finish the one-hundred yard dash, and being overly shy, Sam was the last one to shower and leave the locker room.

Today, Sam Winchester didn't even make it to the mildew encrusted, shower stalls. Someone had snuck up behind him, cruelly shoved him inside his gym locker and locked the door. For the first half an hour, he'd tried to remain calm, stay in control and think this through. It's what he was trained to do. After all, he was a Winchester -- a solider. He was trained to go the distance, and when he couldn't go the distance -- he'd suck it up anyway, and go the distance some more.

Sam had waited, listened, thinking the prankster would show back up, at the least a janitor should be coming along soon. But, there'd been no one. For hours. No sound came from the locker room on the other side of his prison, only the drip, drip of a leaky shower stall.

Sam didn't understand what was happening. He'd never been afraid of the dark before. He never gave dark, small spaces much thought before today. But this. This was eight ways of crazy. He had air, yet he felt like he was running out. He'd jumped into survival mode, trying to take in as few breaths as possible. Conserve, preserve, store up energy -- keep his head in the game. Keep in control. Two hours later, Sam had lost all control. Puffing, hacking, coughing, crying and otherwise slobbering all over himself. He was soaking wet, shaking all over, and needed to get out -- now. With barely any room to move, Sam continued banging, kicking and squirming inside the locker. At first, Sam's punches came at full strength sending the metal cabinet rocking back and forth. Now, his punches and kicks were weak. The small tap, tap, no longer rocking the locker.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid. Heeeelp!" Sam's tortured scream died on a sob as his stomach started squirming as much as he was. Gawd he felt sick. Throwing up on himself -- in the already rancid locker -- would be so very, very bad. "Ge' m' ou' 'f here. Ple…Plea." He banged over and over rattling the metal door. He was so damn hot, his wet hair plastered over his eyes. Not that he could see a damn thing in the dark, stuffy confines anyway. With each second, the fiery heat increased along with Sam's panic. His ticking heart was now banging harder than his fist. The invisible fire seemed to take hold of his chest and he could barely breathe. "Please," he begged, no longer having the strength to scream.

His breathing was getting worse by the second, and he couldn't be anymore smashed in. Now he knew how pickled herring felt, or one of those hermit crabs finding itself wanting, way too small for its shell.

How'd Sam let someone get the drop on him? He was trained better than this. His father and Dean were going to be very disappointed in him -- provided he lived to tell them. His head was fuzzy, and the monstrous panic was choking the living daylights out of him. What if it wasn't a prankster at all who had shoved him in the locker. What if it was a supernatural being? What if it had gone after Dad and Dean? Butchered them and left them for Sam to find (provided he got out of the locker) two unrecognizable piles of cold-blooded meaty tissue.

"Hup," Sam gagged, tears rolling down his face at the image that filled his head.

Dad and Dean torn apart. Dead for hours; while Sam remained helpless and trapped in a friggin' gym locker -- rooted to his spot -- there was nothing worse. Sam's nose and mouth were clogged with mucous; he was reaching a critical point. What he wouldn't give for a Kleenex. He couldn't breathe, and his head was full of fluff and stuff-- suffocating him.

"Hup. Hup," he gasped, his head slowly rolling from side to side.

If he wasn't so crammed in, the tiny space holding him up, he would have collapsed flat to his face. As it was, his shirt had gotten bunched up around his neck, like a dog collar, making it even harder for Sam to take in air.

Everything started to get so far away, and Sam's hands that had diligently been banging away, slipped to his sides and stilled. His eyes fluttered and rolled, and his chest ached. Sam wormed uncomfortably, unable to move or stretch out any part of his cramped body. Just when Sam thought he was about to totally shut down, the locker door was yanked open.

"What the fucking…"

Sam struggled for breath.

"…Shit." Two wild, frenzied hands gripped the front of his gym shirt.

Sam was hauled from the locker, coming out like a wet noodle and falling forward, lifeless into two strong arms. His head lolled backward and he stared into the face of his rescuer. His eyes were blurry with tears, and his clothes sticking to him -- all soppy with perspiration.

"Gah," Sam moaned, arms dangling limply.

"Son of a bitch!"

Sam was lowered flat to the hard locker room floor, his arms flopping outstretched next to him.

"Sam!" Two fingers snapped in front of his face. "Sam. Sam, you with me?" The same two fingers glided up and down the side of his right cheek, repeatedly. "Sam. Hey. Sam."

In response, Sam's fingers twitched against the concrete. He blinked several times before he finally recognized his hero -- Dean.

Thank you, thank you.

His brother was here, he was okay. He hadn't been butchered, and left dead cold for Sam to later find. Sam wanted to sit up, to answer his brother's frantic call. He wanted to ask what the hell happened, but he was paralyzed by weakness -- or was that fear?

"Oh, God, it was just joke, just a friggin' joke." Dean gently pulled Sam's shirt down away from his throat.

Sam's mouth gasped open. "Jus jo…" his body quivered slightly.

Dean gripped Sam's shoulders and gave a frantic shake. "Dude, you didn't have to go and turn all bluish on me."

"Dea… ca… brea…" Sam jolted. "Brea..." He gulped in air.

"Hey, hey, don't worry, easy. It's okay. It's okay."

Sam wheezed and rasped uncontrollably.

"Sam, please." Dean leaned down close, a hand slipping under Sam's shirt collar to rub his chest.

"Stay…way…" Sam angrily tried to knock Dean's hand off him. "Dea…uuuuh," Sam rasped and his eyes rolled.

"Christ." Dean gripped both Sam's arms and hauled him to his feet. "Come on, buddy, you gotta walk for me." Dean hitched Sam against his hip and started pacing up and down between the row of lockers and wooden benches. "Gotta get some fresh, clean air into you. jockstrap boy. You'll be okay." Sam was dead weight, feet that were too big for his body, tangling and twisting as he drunkenly tried to move. Dean continued dragging him up and down each row of lockers; keeping Sam stuck close to his side. "Walk, Sam. You can do it, come on."

"Nuuugh." Sam shivered and his chin drooped to his chest.

"No, Sam." A firm hand cupped under his chin and titled his head upward. "I got an idea. Over here." Sam was dragged toward a row of porcelain sinks. "This will help."

The patter of cold water hit his face. "Uhhh." Sam roused, body going straight and stiff at the shock of the wet drops.

"That's it, kiddo. I'm so sorry. I had no idea." Dean shook his head sadly. "Was in the broom closet with Emma. Crazy chick lips trying to bite mine off."

"Masochistic jerk," Sam whispered.

"Mas-o-what?" Dean cocked a brow. "Look, bro, I forgot about the time. I didn't mean to leave you in there this long… I swear it."

"You'd forget… nose…" Sam panted with exertion. "If … if nuuu-hhh…" Sam groaned. "If ugly thing wasn't 'ttached te-te-te- your head."

"Yeah, okay, nerd, I'll give you that."

"G-give me m'r 'en tha', D'n."

Sam stared at himself for a long time in the mirror before him. His eyes were puffy-red slits, that had a distant far-off look to them. His hair was long and greasy looking, and his face had a pale blue Smurf-like tinge around the edges.

Sam sucked in a deep lungful of air. "Dean." He stumbled, leaning forward and gripping the edge of the sink, knees dipping and trembling with weakness. "You…" His eyes shifted to stare at 'reflection' Dean. "Why?" Sam cocked his head in uncertainty.

"It was brutal, I know. I didn't think. Sam, I'm sorry. I just wanted to get back at you for the thumbtack you put in my boot last week."

"Payback for the deer terd you put in my Raisen Bran." Sam ran a shaky hand down his face. "These prank wars have been going on for years, gonna kill us one day, Dean, its got to stop."

Dean nodded. "Hey, since when did you become claustrophobic, anyway?"

"Since now." Sam turned away from the mirror to look at 'real' Dean.

"Oh." Dean averted his gaze. There was a moment's pause. "Punch me," he said, turning back to Sam an excited smile on his face.

"What?" Sam frowned.

"Just once. Right here." Dean pressed a finger to his chin.

"No." Sam shook his head. "No way."

"Go ahead Sam, I deserve it. Bash my face in."

"No." Sam rolled his eyes in irritation. "Just…no."

"Come on you little bitch." Dean began a crazy boxing dance, bee-bopping up and down in front of Sam. "Hit me. Sam, come on, hit me," Dean urged, his finger still pressed to his chin indicating to Sam his target point. "Come on, chicken little." Dean bounced about faster, fists punching the air.

Sam wrung his hands together nervously as he watched Dean float like a butterfly, knowing he could stink like a bee.

"Damn it, Sam, you're such a douche bag, hit me. I promise…" Dean panted. "Won't hit you back," he assured, showing off his fancy footwork.

"Dean stop! I don't want to hit you, man. I just want a truce. No more prank wars. Never again. That's all I want. Peace out," Sam muttered.

"Hit me, nerd bitch. Hit me." Dean carried on with his boxing routine as if Sam had never spoken a word. "Just hit me, damn it. Friggin' hit me."

Sam's head was spinning from watching Dean jab left, jab right, duck low, then pop back up right in his face.

"Bitch boy, hit me. I'm not invisible, you know. Come on, short shit." Dean socked at the air with both fists. "Give me the ol' one-two punch. It's easy, Sam. Just reach up and pop big brother in the jaw. What are you waiting for, Christmas? You want a telephone book to stand on or some crap? Step ladder? Booster seat? Ha!"

"Dean, cut it out!" Sam balled his fists, the tension seeping into him taking away his shaking, taking away his fear.

"What's wrong with you, anyway, Sam? Flipping out like a girl over a crappy gym locker, like that." Dean bobbed left, then right. "You suck, freak. Hit me…hit me…just do it, Sammy…do it…do it…Sammy, do…"

Pow! Right in the kisser -- Dean dropped to the floor.

"Happy now?" Sam stood over him, hands on his hips, boot tapping.

"Eh…" Dean rubbed at his face, staring up at Sam dazedly. "Yeah, dude."

The end