By: Karen B.

Summary: The boys are stuck in a motel room during a rainstorm. Is it ever that easy? 'Eh… I think not. Humor/ adventure. Hurt/drunk/angst Sam. Protective/angst/cocky/ Dean. Time set: Early in Season Three.

Disclaimer: Not the owner.

Rated: Smorgasbord - Little bit of everything.

_There is no neutral ground in the universe; every square inch, every split second, is claimed by God and counter-claimed by Satan. - C.S. Lewis


There was a world of difference between good porn and bad porn - Indiana Boner and the Temple of June - was bad porn. In a huff of frustration, Dean reached for the remote control to click the television off - suddenly remembering - there was no remote.

He glanced at the retro wall clock. The silly black and white cat wore a bow tie and a dumb grin; while its two oversized eyes darted left then right, long black tail swishing time away. Eight o'clock at night, Dean noted, and all wasn't well.

When the rainstorm hit, the drops came down so heavy and so fast they had slowed to a crawl. They barely made it to motel cheap as shit, before baby ran out of gas. The room was shabby, borderline filthy and totally outdated. The walls were a sickly slate gray, tacky and spotted with mold, not to mention paper thin. The carpet was so dirty there was no telling what color the rug might have been. The tiny bathroom was in worse shape. There were wiry short hairs in the sink, the tub was rusted brown, the toilet crusted yellow, and the ceiling leaked. The twin-sized beds were harder than nails and the blankets and sheets full of cigarette burns. Simply put, the place was so disgusting, Dean figured cockroaches would turn up their noses and run the other way.

Dean sighed. They'd been stuck in the twenty-three dollar per night room for three days, with nothing to do but make their own entertainment.

He picked up his gun sitting on the nightstand, checking the rounds, more out of habit than anything else.

Swish, swish.

He looked up at the wacky cat clock again, eight 0' three. "You lookin' at me? You lookin' at me?" Dean asked the cat - he'd decided to name Chester - using his best Robert Deniro accent. "Are you lookin' at me?" Dean aimed his gun at Chester. A bullet where the cat's heart should be would certainly put a new spin on the 'killing time' cliché. Chester's eyes dodged back and forth, unafraid. Killing time was the last evil thing Dean wanted to kill, time was killing itself just fine. "Friggin' cat." Dean stood, shoving the pistol into his pants and shut off the television as he strolled past, trading his seat on the bed for standing in front of the window.

He pulled back the ratty curtains. Balling his fist, Dean wiped a small circle clean so he could see outside. If only he could wipe out the supernatural crap he and his brother hunted as easily. If only he wasn't going to hell in a few short months, he might be able to accomplish that feat. If- the biggest, lousiest word on any planet.

Raindrops banged against the glass, like miniature water balloons exploding. He felt like a prisoner in his own skin as much as a prisoner of the crappy room and near perfect storm going on outside. The air conditioner was on the fritz, of course, the room as humid as a jungle. It hadn't stopped raining since they got here and there were only two roads in or out of the small town - both now under water as the river had crested. Pretty much everything had shut down when the storm hit. Dean didn't even have time to gas up his baby, so even if they could leave motel cheap as shit,the Impala didn't have enough juice in her to make it to the next town - let alone start her engine up. They'd made it to the motel just as she coughed and hissed, conking out. When the storm finally did let up, he'd have to hike it to a gas station, gas cans in tow before they could blow this joint.

Dean tugged his shirt away from his skin. He was drenched, sweat patches forming under his armpits. He'd already taken two showers to cool down, only to heat right back up ten minutes later. Dean sighed, bored as ever, or was he lonely? He sighed again just to hear the sound of something other than the pounding rain and the swish, swish of Chester's forever moving tail. He squinted harder out into the stormy night.

"Where are you?" The blink, blink of the red neon vacancy sign looked like a blurry, floating blob through the fall of rain and Dean couldn't even see his baby parked only a few yards away. Thunder rolled, the sound to close to the sound of gunplay. "Damn you, Sam."

Swish, swish.

He and Sam had been at each other's throats the past two days. They were both going nuts over the incarceration. Well, more like he had been at Sam's throat.

Swish, swish.

Come rain or come shine, Dean loved Sam, like no body's business. But locking the oversized hands, extra long-legged, sasquatch, cleverly disguised as a kid brother in a tiny motel room with him day and night -turned them both into an old married couple.

Swish, swish.

Speaking of his emo wife - Dean glanced back at Chester - eight-thirty. Sam had left over an hour ago.

When Dean's stomach started barking out orders to 'feed me', Sam couldn't take it any longer. The rain had let up slightly, and emo wife had announced he was taking a walk down the road to a Dunkin Donuts for coffee and, well, donuts. Sam should have been back by now.

Swish, swish.

Dean kept looking out the window, trying not to worry and thinking about the last few days in motel cheap as shit.

"Dude, I'm bored out of my boxers." Dean sat on his bed ripping up pieces of napkin.

"To much information." Sam shifted on his bed, not bothering to look up from the mammoth-sized book he was reading.

"When the freak is all this rain going to stop?" Dean rolled the pieces of napkin into tiny balls.

"Not soon enough." Sam turned a page.

"This room sucks, the rain sucks, the remoteless television sucks. There's nothing to do, and all you do is read and go on line." Dean stuck a napkin-ball in his mouth, getting the paper good and wet. "You suck," he mumbled.

"Yeah, took that poll yesterday, Dean, I get it." Sam read on.

Dean picked up his weapon of choice, loaded the wet napkin, aimed and blew through the straw.


"Ear shot, two points."

Sam looked up.

Dean gave his brother a wide, toothy grin.

"You think you're cute, don't you, Dean?"

"Yes, I do."

"You're at it again… aren't you?" Sam huffed, digging the spitball out of his ear with one finger.

"Yes, I am," Dean said with pride.

"I thought we put a stop to all this after the whole duct tape fest," Sam cocked his head, the spitball falling out of his ear to the bed. "Took me two hours to break loose from that chair," Sam gripped, flicking the spitball to the floor.

"Yes, it did." Dean grinned wickedly. "Teach you to fall asleep sitting up. Ha!"

"Very funny." Sam thumped the book shut.

"Hey, I'm sticking to the deal, staying on my side of the room," Dean defended himself pointing a finger up and down the imaginary line between them.

"And of course, your side is the side with the bathroom, and mini fridge." Sam rolled his eyes.

"But your side has that cool hole in the wall, like the girl's shower scene in Porkey's." Dean chuckled, "You should go take a peek or better yet, Sam, put your di…"

"Don't say it." Sam held up a hand, "Just don't say it." He quirked his lower lip in disgust. "Look, can you just knock it off, Dean. Thumb wars, pillow fights, shoving contests, booby trapping the toilet," Sam huffed, "Next you'll be using your knife on my cell phone... for target practice."

"Phone darts. Ooooh, good one, Sammy." Dean glanced around. "Your phone on my side?"

"You're not touching my phone, Dean," Sam growled. "Man, you're nerve racking and I'm sick of it."

"I'm not nerve racking, I'm bored."

"Dude, you touch my phone and that's strike three," Sam barked.

"What happens after strike four?"

"Touch my phone and find out."

Dean reloaded his straw using two spitballs and blew.


He nailed Sam in the shoulder. "Oh, yeah, a double hitter."

"How many times are you going to do that?" Sam snipped.

Dean blew another spitball hitting Sam in the chest. "Eleven more times." He nodded happily.

"You're a jerk," Sam drawled sarcastically.

"No, I told you, I'm bored."


"So, the only way to kick being bored, is to mess with my baby brother."

"How about you try reading a book," Sam suggested. "Oh, wait…forgot…I don't have any picture books, no primary reading, no erotic, graphic novels featuring full colored centerfolds."

"How about I give you lessons on how to kiss my ass." Dean shot a spitball.


He pegged Sam's forehead. "Bulls-eye."

"Dean," Sam spat, dropping the big book with a dusty thump to the nightstand. "You…never mind." He got up and headed to the bathroom.

"My side, bitch," Dean glared at Sam as he crossed the imaginary no-man's-land line.

"Bite me." Sam slammed the bathroom door shut.

"Poor sport," Dean whispered under his breath.

"This storm isn't stopping anytime soon," Sam called out from behind the closed door. "We're not leaving this room, Dean, so I suggest you stop playing games."

"Yeah, sure." Dean grabbed Sam's book of the week off the nightstand and flopped back on his bed.

He mouthed the title, and frowned. If ever a wiz there was - Sam was it. Because, because, because every book he read, every single word - held the weight of the world. Dean opened the book and scanned the words. Of course - not even in English. Dean pressed his lips together tightly. He'd warned Sam about trying to find a loophole in his deal. Who was the kid, kidding. Did Sam really think he could fool him.

"Damn you, Sam."

The thought of his brother dropping dead at his feet for just reading about ways out of hell made Dean tremble, sending Sam's bookmarker sliding out from between the word-crowded pages.

"You lost my page." Sam stood in the bathroom doorway, staring down his nose at Dean, hands on his hips.

Startled, Dean fumbled for the marker, trying to find the page he'd lost - that'd be a bust.

"Didn't you?" Sam pressed.

"No." Dean shoved the bookmarker back in any ol' place.

"Thanks a lot." Sam stomped over to the chair, grabbing his hoodie off the back.

"Screw you, Sam," Dean said in a low and threatening tone, "What'd I tell you about trying to find me a way out?"

"I'm not."

"Then what's this?" Dean held the heavy book up. "Big Brothers are from Mars, Princesses - that'd be you, Sam - are from Venus?"

Sam tisked.

"Did you really think researching in another language would fool me?"

"It's a bedtime story," Sam deadpanned, looking away.

"Friggin' hilarious."

"Yeah, going to hell is so funny, Dean, can't you hear me laughing?" Sam stormed across the room, grabbing his wallet off the highboy dresser.

"Where you going?" Dean asked, suspiciously.

"This poor sport's going out."

"Poor spor…anyone ever tell you it's not polite to ease drop?" Dean set the book on the bed beside him.

"Yeah, you."

"You're not going out," Dean insisted.

"Yes, I am."


"I said, out."

"And I said, no you're not."

"I'm not your wife, Dean, I can go out without your permission."

Dean bit into his lower lip. He couldn't blame his brother for wanting to try to break the deal. Dean would do the same thing if he stood in Sam's size thirteen boots. He certainly didn't want to go to hell, was scared to death, but he sure wasn't going to admit that or risk Sam's soul to earn his. Getting out of hell free was not an option. Besides, nobody left this planet alive, anyway, so Dean silenced his fear. Day after day. Masking his emotions with whatever he had on hand. At the moment, annoying Sam was what he had on hand.

Dean blew through his straw, landing another spitball in Sam's hair. "Touchdown."

Sam scrunched up his face, angrily clenching his fists at his sides.

Dean shrugged. "Can't help if I'm a good shot."

"I'm not here to save you from the perils of boredom," Sam sighed.

"You're not here to save me at all," Dean stated sternly.

"Yeah, okay." Sam walked stiffly over to the window and peered out. "Whatever."

"Don't, yeah, okay, whatever me, Sam."

"Going to the twenty-four hour Dunkin Donuts just down the road, happy now?"

"It's pouring." Dean tipped his chin toward the window. "They're probably closed."

"Rain slowed down a bit." Sam turned from the window, stubbornly tugging his hoodie over his head. "Besides," he said, his voice muffled as he struggled to get his head through the opening. "Dunkin Donuts never closes."

"True." Dean blew a spitball nailing Sam in the right eye just as his head poked out. "He shoots, he scores, and the crowd goes wild." Dean made breathy 'roar of the crowd' sounds, waving his hands about wildly for effect.

"Dean, come-oh forget it." Sam headed for the door, pulling his hood up, he marched out into the rain.

"Bring me jelly, " Dean yelled reluctantly, just as the door slammed shut.


A clash of thunder brought Dean flinching back to the present. "Any slower, Sammy, and turtles could beat your pain in the ass back here," he grumbled.

Swish, swish - time ticked on.

Dean's imagination began to run away with him. Maybe emo wife-boy had stopped to get his nails done all pretty and pink. Or he'd caffinated himself under a Dunkin Donut's table. Kid never could hold his coffee. Or, Sam could be hurt, kidnapped, drowned, stabbed, struck by lightning and roasted like the marshmallow he was. His brother always found trouble. Some way. Some how. Heck, he could probably bleed to death from a papercut.

Swish, swish.

Dean turned, his eyes tracking the damn cat's dodgy eyes as the shifted slyly back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and…

"What the hell do you know about any of this?" Dean snarled.

The cat silently laughed at him, the hands of the clock reading nine thirty-five.

"Friggin' cat. Shut up, Chester," Dean barked at the feline. "This is stupid." He dug his cell out of his jean's pocket and flipped it open. Just before Dean could hit speed dial there came a knock at the door. "About damn time." He let the curtain fall back in place, stuffing his phone away and taking the lousy three steps to the door.

The knocking turned to banging.

"I'm coming, man, what'd you do forget your key?" Dean's hand paused on the doorknob. "Who is it?" he snickered under his breath.

"Your emo wife," came the soggy, muffled reply.

"I divorced his ass weeks ago."

"Dude!" The banging turned to kicking.

"Forget the jewelry…I want my alimony check," Dean laughed.

"Open up! Hurry, man, there's something out here," Sam shouted in a high-pitched tone.

Fear flashed through Dean, faster than lightning. "Crap." He pulled his pistol from his waistband and whipped the door open.

Sam stood straight and tall a frown frozen on his face. His hair poked out from under his hoodie, rainwater rolling off each strand to patter to the wet donut box he held precariously between both hands.

"What? What's out there?" Dean aimed his gun past Sam, searching the night.