Title: Static Cling
Warnings: Cursing, bad prank ideas, some squickiness.
Characters: Sam, Dean, and… well, guess.
Word Count: 2614
Summary: Sam got brought back from the dead, so Dean assumed Adam got the same treatment. As it turns out… he was half-right. Spoilers for the series 'til 5.22.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I barely own the ideas I use, randomly cobbled together from bits and pieces of things I've watched or read. Eric Kripke and the CW are the REAL geniuses here.
Author's Notes: Another idea that latched onto my head and wouldn't let go… you can think of this as the darker counterpart to 'Shiny Happy People.' Same basic premise; hypothetical season 6, unrelated to other stories. Adam's storyline is resolved, but this time, things are much less happy. And while I won't say this is my darkest story, I will say that this is probably my darkest take on Adam to date. You have been warned. *evil laughter* Reviews are beloved, as always. Enjoy!
It starts small.
Dean gets into the car after a short, but heated argument with Sam over their father's legacy (will they ever not argue about the man?). He turns the key, expecting some nice, angry metal to help soothe his troubled soul, and is instead greeted by the vocal stylings of Mike Myers.
Daddy wasn't there!
Daddy wasn't there!
To take me to the fair!
It seems he doesn't caaaaaaare…
He thinks it's Sam, of course. Who else would it be? And while Dean might have once thought it beneath Sam to belittle their issues like this, Dean is slowly but surely starting to think that Sam's "You don't know me, you never did, and you never will" was more than just the demon blood talking. A quick, angry flick of the finger turns the radio off. It's not exactly funny, but it's relatively harmless and a lot less unsettling than all the other things on the 'What's New in Sammyland?' questionnaire. So, fine. If Sam wants to reinstate the prank wars, Dean is more than willing to take up his water guns and squirt to the last drop. Who knows? A little laughter might be good for them…
You know, as long as they don't die laughing. Or… well, actually, considering their other deaths, a laughing death might not be so bad.
So when Sam gets home after a long, pointless tracking session and finds himself completely unable to take off his boots, Dean isn't quite expecting for Sam's reaction to be so… strong. Not 'strong' as in an emotional breakdown or beating Dean to death with the tacky-ass leopard spotted lamp on the bedside dresser, but 'strong' as in Sam glaring at Dean, grinding his teeth, and tearing the boot off of his foot with slightly unsettling ease. A few meaty strips of skin come off with it, and… wow. Super gluing your brothers boots to his feet may seem like kind of a dick move, but he had the damn solvent in his case, and he totally intended to give it to Sam… eventually. Of course, it soon becomes immediately obvious what Sam was thinking when he starts hopping around on one foot and chasing Dean with his bloodied appendage. Dean has a… thing about feet. A bad thing. The worst performance he ever gave with a woman involved a slightly older lady who wanted him to suck on her toes, who was just hot enough to convince Dean that he could get past his gag reflex and make it work for her and… long story short, puking during sex? Huge turn off. And while blood in and of itself usually isn't too bad, foot blood? Well, if Dean spends the rest of the night locked in the bathroom, it's only because he knows what's waiting for him outside. He's slept in worse.
Personally, he thinks that should be enough for Sam, and they need to focus on the hunt anyway. Because apparently 'Gross Dean Right the Fuck Out' day is EVERY DAY this week, their hunt turns out to be a fucking tanuki, and Dean is nearly knocked out by a magical raccoon using its scrotum as a flail.
Repeat: Dean is nearly knocked out by a magical raccoon using its scrotum as a flail.
You really must understand this. There is a large bruise on Dean's cheek. The source of that bruise? HIGH SPEED TESTICLES. Nuts the size of a small child.
To his face.
It's the mother of all teabags.
Karma owes him a break for that. The fact that fucking Sam saw it happen was just the Ultimate Indignity, and Dean figures that fact should massage Sam's pitying instincts enough to get him to back off from the prank wars for a bit.
Of course, he figures wrong. The second he cranks the car up, Bon Scott and the Young brothers mock his pain in song…
I've got big balls,
Oh, I've got big balls,
And they're such big balls,
Dirty big balls,
And he's got big balls,
And she's got big balls,
But we've got the biggest balls of them all!
Sam is half-laughing, half-seizing by the end of the first chorus, and Dean is mortified. He would've expected this kind of thing from his brother… but never from AC/DC. Their betrayal is the bitterest French fry on Dean's Combo Platter of Humiliation, and Dean vows to make Sam pay for his unforgivable misappropriation of classic rock…
…which is why, a week later, Sam comes out of the shower with platinum-blond hair.
"What the fuck, Dean?" Sam demands, looking far angrier than he has any right to be.
"Wow, Sammy. You are a babe. And… looking kind of disturbingly like mom at the moment…"
"You think this is funny?" Sam shouts, putting so much emphasis on the 'f' that it produces visible gobs of spit.
"Awww, you don't like it? Not feeling pretty?" Dean asks, smiling in sympathy. "Tell you what; let me finish my hamburger, and we'll take you out, get your nails done… Hell, I'll even take you shopping for some new shirts. Then we can come back to the hotel and eat ice cream and watch old movies together."
Sam's breathing is intense; in and out through his nose like he's a dragon without fire to breathe, trying to kill Dean through sheer force of air. "This," he says, teeth clenched, "is not funny. This," he says, pointing to his hair, "makes me stand out. You could spot me in a crowd of a hundred people with this hair. We're supposed to blend in, Dean! No distinguishing marks, no bright colors, nothing that would set us apart from the crowd."
Dean snorts. "Oh, yeah. And that big, beautiful black classic in the parking lot, that's not distinctive at all."
Sam just continues breathing imaginary fire at him. "Fix it."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Fine."
One hour and one treatment of brown hair dye later, and Sam's hair is…
"DEAN," Sam cries from the bathroom mirror, looking dangerously close to grabbing his brother's face and using his massive thumbs to pop Dean's eyeballs like a pair of juicy tomatoes.
Dean backs away slowly, hands up in surrender. "Dude, I swear, I had no idea that would happen."
When Sam reaches out to grab him, Dean bolts from the hotel room. He returns an hour later with several nice hats.
Sam is not appeased by his offering.
Dean goes to sleep expecting to wake up with an oil-stained hubcap in his bed, or covered in the demagnetized strips of his entire cassette collection. What he gets is far worse.
The first thing he notices is the dry, acrid taste in his mouth. Upon closing it to try and get some moisture trapped in there, the second thing he notices is—hair. His mouth is full of hair. This springboards him from groggy pseudo-awareness to being fully awake with speed and force that would make the wiliest Whack-a-Mole green with envy. It is all around him. All over his pillow, all over his sheets, his face, his shirt, his bed. He is disgusted, until he takes note of the color of the hair and realizes—it's not where the hair is that's important. It's where it isn't.
And it isn't on his head.
"SAM," Dean shouts, shooting up from the bed fully intent on kicking Sam's ass from here 'til next Friday. His newly-acquired penchant for pull-ups notwithstanding, Dean is still confident in his ability to hand Sammy his hindquarters on a cheap plastic tray. But the giant prick is nowhere to be found—instead, Dean simply finds a note.
Turnabout is fair play, jerkass. – Sam
P.S: Since I'd hate to have to kick your ass in addition to humiliating you, I'm taking a little hike. See you when you've had a chance to cool off.
Dean will never cool off. Not from this.
After spending half an hour trying on the various hats he bought for Sam, he settles on a black beanie and stomps his way out to the car, eager to eat away his troubles in the greasiest diner he can survive. He cannot believe—how could Sam even think of—
How could this happen to me?
I've made my mistakes,
Got nowhere to run,
The night goes on as I'm fading away.
I'm sick of this life,
I just wanna screeeeeaaam!
Dean practically punches the radio in turning it off.
Kill. Murder. Destroy. Fuck the apocalypse. Fuck Satan, fuck demon blood, fuck the angels, fuck destiny. This is the final straw. This is where brother turns against brother. The two shall meet on the chosen field and only one shall walk away. Dean is looking for a glove to slap him with to officially instigate the duel when Sam knocks on the window.
Dean immediately exits the car.
"See, Dean, this is why we should never start these stupid pran—"
Sam's Speech of Peace-making is interrupted by Dean's Declaration of War, also known as his fist, and occasionally 'Mr. Rightey.' And at that point, it is on like Cranky Kong, with the two of them getting into a knock-down, drag-out, no-holds-barred brawl right in the middle of the hotel parking lot, in broad (well, early morning) daylight.
In retrospect, they probably should have at least taken their domestic dispute indoors. Dean doesn't even know why he's surprised when the cops show up.
Being locked in a holding cell together gives them some time to cool off.
Not that they use it for that, but still. The time is there if they need it.
"Bald," Dean whisper-shouts. "Bald is not beautiful, Sam! Not on me!"
"And green is such a flattering hair color," Sam counters. "I look like a tree, Dean. An actual, walking tree!"
"So?" Dean scoffs, rolling his eyes. "You can just dye yours again. But I can't exactly dye what no longer exists!"
"Boo hoo," Sam says. "Great thing about hair—it grows back! Yours will take no time at all. Mine takes months to get how I like it, and… you know what? Screw it. I'm done. This is over. No more prank wars. If you do anything else to me, I'll just shoot you."
Dean feels a tiny thrill of victory. "Giving up already? Fine by me. Don't start what you can't finish, Sammy."
Sam glares at him. "You started this."
Dean returns his glare. "No, you started it, with your cute little 'mess with Dean's soundtrack' joke."
"I didn't mess with anything. You started this when you replaced my mouthwash with jalapeno extract!"
"No, I didn't!" Dean replies. "I never touched your… son of a bitch."
It seems to dawn on Sam around the same time. "We've been had. Again."
It is around this time that the guard finally comes to release them.
"I thought he was dead!" Dean sighs as they get back to the hotel.
"We've thought that before," Sam replies.
Dean takes of his hat and lays it on the table. "No, I mean, for real this time. He danced with the devil, dude. Really, actually came over to our side and helped us out. Which of course, meant he had to die, because…" He trails off when he hears Sam snickering, and realizes abruptly that he just exposed his polished, shining new chrome dome to the world without even thinking about it.
"I'm sorry," Sam says. "I just… it's the first time I've really got a good look at it, and… oh god."
Dean makes a point of angrily snatching the beanie off the table and slamming it back down on his head. He then turns to rage against the Heavens. "All right, you son of a bitch!" he shouts. "We get it! Ha, ha, very funny, you've had your fun! We all had a great time and learned a valuable lesson, whatever! You can come out now!"
"Seriously!" Dean shouts. "We're not even mad!" he blatantly lies. "Just come out. We can go have a beer to celebrate the Apocalypse-that-Almost-Was."
"Jackass," Dean mutters.
"Maybe it wasn't Gabriel," Sam suggests with a shrug.
"Who else would do this? Who else would have a good reason to mess with us and not kill us, AND a kindergartener's sense of humor?" Dean asks.
Sam shrugs again.
Dean continues to contemplate the question as he packs.
"I got nothin', Sammy," Dean says, closing the door.
"Me too," Sam agrees. "If it's not Gabriel… I guess we just have to solve this the old-fashioned way. Look for clues, cross things out until we get the right answer."
Dean turns this over in his brain. "What kind of clues?" he asks as he cranks the car, making the point moot, because the defining clue immediately leaps out of the speakers in the form of a distorted voice to greet them…
Finally someone let me out of my cage!
Now, time for me is nothing 'cause I'm counting no age.
Nah I couldn't be there,
Nah you shouldn't be scared,
I'm good at repairs,
And I'm under each snare.
Bet you didn't think, so I command you to!
Look, I'll make it all manageable.
Pick and choose,
Sit and lose,
All you different crews.
Chicks and dudes,
Who you think is really kickin' tunes?
Sam's eyes go wide as he stares at Dean, who is pretty sure he is wearing a similar expression. "The cage," Sam says.
"Lucifer?" Dean asks.
Sam shakes his head. "I don't… no way. He wouldn't mess with us like this, he'd probably just kill us."
"Michael too," Dean agrees. "Guy had no sense of humor."
"Got that right," a third voice chimes in.
A familiar fear begins pumping into Dean's bloodstream as both he and Sam look around the car to find no one there.
"Who are you?" Sam asks, just in time for the radio to turn itself up…
You see with your eyes.
I see destruction and demise,
Corruption in the skies,
From this fucking enterprise,
Now I'm sucked into your lies…
"…only one other option," Dean says. "But there's… he can't… wait. Sam, get out your cell phone."
Sam complies, and Dean snatches it out of his hand, activating the camera and peering into the little screen. A quick sweep of the backseat shows him everything he needs to know.
He's leaning back, feet resting on Sam's seat as he finger-drums in time with the song. His hair is darker, his skin is pale, his clothes are tattered and filthy, but there is no mistaking him for anyone else. He is wearing a slightly malicious smirk, and his deeply-shadowed eyes along with his chapped lips and thin, sallow face make him look… skeletal. Ghastly. Dead.
"Adam," Dean breathes, barely even noticing as Sam's head creeps up beside his own to stare at the screen.
Adam's cold eyes point directly at Dean through the phone's display as he begins mouthing the words to the song…
I ain't happy,
I'm feeling glad,
I got sunshine,
In a bag.
But not for long,
Is coming on.
It's coming on.
It's coming on.
It's coming on.
It's coming on.
With a little wink, Adam flickers and vanishes from the Impala.
Dean closes the phone and hands it back to Sam. "Shit," he says.
"Shit," Sam nods.
Finally, they agree on something.
To Be Continued…
A/N: The songs used were, in order…
Daddy Wasn't There — Ming Tea (from the 'Austin Powers in Goldmember' soundtrack)
Big Balls— AC/DC
Again, feedback and reviews are beloved.