Title: Cow Tipping
Characters: John, Teen!Sam, Teen!Dean
Warnings/Rating: potty mouth...PG-13
Summary: Summer in Cow Country. Not a damn ghost in sight.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not getting paid. Just like playing with the boys. No cows were harmed during the writing of said fic.
Dean leaned his back up against headboard. It was warm. So warm, in fact, that there was no need for even a light sheet. That was just fine with Dean. The bright moonlight filtered in through the dirty window, but that made no difference either. There was the deep lowing of a cow, something he had grown accustomed to this summer. He could hear crickets off in the distance, and even a bullfrog. Well, he was pretty sure it was a bullfrog. He grinned and laced his hands behind his head.
There was something about summer that just made everything right with the world. Dean liked to think that it was because there was no school. That was true, but it was more than that. He glanced over at his brother's bed. Sam was making a show of trying to read by the glow of a flashlight. Even Sam's geekiness didn't put a damper on how great summer was.
In summer the days got longer. That in itself was bonus for Winchesters. Less night meant less grave digging. And as much as Dean loved to hunt, digging holes was not his idea of fun.
Summer meant that Dad eased off a bit. Oh, there was still training and sparring, but if there was ever a time when Dad seemed to embrace a little less physical activity it was in the heat. He hated the humidity. Dean figured it had something to do with jungles and the sound of rotors and zapper rounds. Dad never mentioned it but the more humid it became, the stronger the chance of him cussing in Vietnamese.
This particular summer they found themselves in the Midwest, which was full of cows, corn and hanging out. It was about as close to normal as the Winchesters had seen in a long while.
Dean had learned that cows were cool in a stinky, dumb kind of way…but the girls? Now the girls were something else. Girls in summer clothes, or lack of summer clothes- that was something Dean could so get behind.
There were tank tops, cut off shorts, bare feet and flip-flops. There were little bits of midriff showing. Girls with hipbones that showed above lowcut jeans and shorts, flat little bellies or rounded asses, tiny boobs and large boobs. There were redheads, blonds, brunets, and even girls with hair color that would never occur in the natural world. It was a smorgasbord for a handsome devil like him. And the bikinis. Hallelujah for bikinis. Fuck yeah, summer meant girls. All in various states of undress. And Dean was new meat, in a town where everyone knew everyone since kindergarten, so while there may have been some grumpy fathers, their daughters were loving the loving they got from Dean Winchester.
This town had even put good ol' boys on the map. It was just chock full of kids with nothing better to do than to drive pick up trucks, drink and ogle girls. And there were bonfires - honest to God bonfires that in no way, shape or form smelled of decayed flesh and bones. There was something satisfying about throwing a match to a burn that did not require you to look over your shoulder for a pissed off ghost.
Which brought Dean to the sad realization that he was home in bed at 10:45 on a Saturday night while his 13–year-old brother was reading to himself in the next bed beneath the soft glow of a maglight. Dean snorted softly to himself. He should be out with Trixie and Dixie, the Martin twins, and all the good old boys whipping the latest bonfire up to dangerous levels. However, the reason he is was here in bed and not feeling up the Martins was all because of those fucking cows. It had started innocently enough, a couple of drunken boys and something called cow tipping.
In Dean's defense, he had no idea what cow tipping was. So really, it was kind of unjustified to find himself punished on a Saturday night for something that he really had no idea was wrong.
I mean, there was wrong and there was Winchester wrong so Dean had hoped that Dad would at least see the irony of it. It turned out that was not to be the case.
"Sam, Sam…Don't you want to even know about it?"
Sam muttered. "No Dean, I have studying to do and I would really prefer you out with your goofy ass friends, but since Dad has decreed that you are in for the night, so am I. So. No. I don't want to know what you did to make me suffer by having you here on a Saturday night."
There was silence from Dean's bed. But it was only momentary. "C'mon, Sammy. It may come in handy someday. Save your ass from being grounded, or better yet, add another little piece of worthless information to your gigantor brain."
Sam sighed, and clicked off the flashlight, dumping the boys into total darkness except for the bright moon.
That was all Dean needed, to launch into his evening's escapade.
"Sammy, dude. This cow-tipping thing was pretty cool. Except Travis swore it was just a matter of stealth. Stealth I got. The sonofabitch forgot to tell me about the fuckin' bull."
"So you went out there tonight intending to push over some poor innocent cow, and instead tried to shove over a bull? " There was a small huff of breath from Sam's side of the room, "Testicles, Dean. Ever heard of them? Boys got'em, girls don't."
"Don't be a shit, Sam. It was dark. Besides, did you really think I was gonna grab bull balls on the outside chance it was a bull and not a cow? What kind of idiot do you think I am?"
There was no reply from Sam. Just a humph which more than showed Dean exactly what type of idiot he thought Dean was.
"You should've seen Dad's face when that Hicksville sheriff dragged me up to the house. Who would have thought that the rent-a-cops in this dinky town gave a rat's ass about some stinky cow?" Dean chuckled. "The old man was all pissed and ready to tear me a new one till he found out I got busted for cow tipping."
Dean was really laughing now. "Fuckin' cow tipping"
"Bull shoving, Dean. Not quite the same thing."
"That's what Barney Fife told Dad, 'Well Mr. Winchester'…Dean dropped his voice in what he considered a pretty passable representation of a Midwestern twang. 'This boy of yours just missed finding himself run through with Ol' Man Marcum's prized Hereford bull. He's got a pair of horns almost as big as his balls.'
Dean laughed again, but then shifted his weight in bed with an audible groan. He rubbed lightly at his ribs.
"Damn cow patties. How in the hell are you supposed to run in a field full of cow shit? Would've been home free if it wasn't for the six-pack of Colt 45. " He patted his stomach and belched to prove the point.
"Slowed me down just a touch, but it turns out a pissed-off bull can't outrace a fucked-up Winchester."
"So you find it amusing to knock over cows." There was obvious disapproval in Sam's voice.
Dean rolled his eyes. Sam and his bleeding heart drama of the week.
Sam was thirteen. And while Dad would not allow a vegetarian son, Dean could see he tried to indulge in Sam's sanctimonious animals should be treated with respect kick that was precipitated by being surrounded by cows that were destined to become hamburger living in their back yard. And their front yard and on the way home from library. Hell, there were cows on the way to fill up the Impala.
Thirteen was the year that Sam flirted with becoming a veterinarian. One of his geeky buddies even tried to get him to join the local chapter of the FFA. The vet thing did not last long. That ended unceremoniously during a field trip to a local dairy farm where Sam almost passed out after the local vet showed a group of FFA students how to palpate and turn a calf who was hung up during labor. It turns out that Sam could deal moderately well with helping to stitch up his family, but watching a vet stick his arm up a cow's vagina was something that required some type of fortitude that Winchesters were not genetically programmed for.
Dean got Sam sometimes, and maybe he didn't want to be a hunter, but he surely never intended to participate in cow birth again. Sam had avowed that there was not a strong enough plastic glove made that would coerce him into doing THAT. Ever. Sam could barely articulate the horror of calving, contractions, blood and afterbirth and violated cows. For Sam to be at a loss for words? That in itself was as telling a tale as could be told.
"Well, my cow tipping may not have been my finest moment, but it beats watching cows being born, Sam."
"Dude…he stuck his arm, his whole arm–up a cow's…ahem. " Sam coughed. Cow's vagina just sounded wrong. "Cow's girl parts" Fuck, that sounded worse. "It was fugly man. "
"Sammy, you got me there. I've seen a lot of pussy, but it never involved a gloved hand up to the shoulder." Dean grinned then offered an honest laugh, the kind that just naturally made Sam laugh along.
"Well Sam, at least you don't have to make pretty to Mr. Marcum and his bull. What kind of peace offering do you give a bull? Do they like carrots or something? Maybe I can take him a picture of some fine looking heifer ass? Leave him a rump roast in the font pasture." Dean giggled this time. "Dad says I have to apologize. I mean, dude. 'Sorry I tried to tip your fucking cow that turned out to be a bull. Sorry I was fast enough to outrun the mean-as-shit, pissed-off bull.' As far as I can tell, Marcum ought to post a sign in that fuckin' pasture: 'Caution: Mean- As- Shit Bull'"
"Since when has a sign telling you to keep out ever stopped you from doing something you wanted to do?"
Dean grinned. "Point taken."
"I kind of like it here though, Dean. You know, the kids are alright and Dad's been mellow." There was a humph from Dean's side of the room. "Well, as mellow as Dad can be without the help of brownies laced with weed."
"Do we need to have that 'just say no to drugs' talk, Sammy?"
"No, Dean. But even you've got to admit, Dad taking a couple of hits of weed would make for a pleasant evening."
"Yeah, but I ain't doing the baking on that one." Dean continued on voice low in the darkness. "You know Sam, we're only here for a little while, enjoy it while you can, cow patties and all. There will be a hunt in the future, there always is.
"I know. But I'm milkin' it for all it's worth" Sam ventured.
"Milk it. Fuck Sammy, get your head out of the cows, dude! I will call those geeky Freaky Farmers of America and have them put you on the roster."
"It is Future Farmers of America, Dean. Don't be such a dick. Plus, where there are future boy farmers, there are girl farmers and that corn fed Becky Thompson might make me at least want to sit through another meeting. Minus the cow, of course."
Dean grinned. "I knew it wasn't just your attraction to cows. Sammy's got a girlfriend." There was a low lecherous growl to Dean's voice. But it held no real heat, more the brotherly snark that permeated the boys' late night talks.
"Boys!" A low bark as Dad passed by their door.
"Yes, sir." In unison.
"Hit the hay. We have a 5mile run in the morning. Before it gets too damn hot."
"Yes, sir." Again, perfect inflection, two as one.
They listened as Dad's heavy footsteps led away from the door toward the kitchen. Dean swore he could hear a chuckle rumble low en route.
"Night Dean…do you think we can run past Marcum's pasture? Maybe that will give you a little incentive to outrun me. You know, self preservation or something."
The pillow flew with deadly accuracy at Sam's head.
"Fuck you. I can run circles around you. I don't need some pissed-off bull for me to kick your ass in any race."
"Bring it Bull Boy. Bring it."
"Five am, you little cow midwife. Be there or I'll kick your ass. But let's skip the pasture okay? Dad's already a little pissed and Markum's bull might hold a grudge. And dude, honestly, that fence is shaky at best. If Markum was mad at my cowtipping, I can't imagine how mad he'd be if his prize bull pissed off the great John Winchester and wound up being 1500 pounds of hamburger."