By: Karen B.

Summary idea: A missing scene for the episode - Bugs. Bees are the least of their worries.

Disclaimer: Not the owner.

Rated: Squirrelly, silly, light-hearted/crack humor. You've been warned. Bonus feature: Hurt/ stoned Sammy. Guilty, scared, brutally handsome, frustrated, Dean.


The day was sunny, but cool, fluffy clouds hung in the sky as if drawn there by a giant, white crayon.

They'd been on the road for hours, only having stopped once at a 7-Eleven. Dean happily slurped his blue-raspberry Slurpee, while Sam sat in the passenger seat, still plucking stingers from various parts of his body with a pair of tweezers.

Dean made a loud sucking noise through his straw, glancing over at Sam. "You still at it?"

Sam shook his head yes, bangs bouncing over his eyes as he pulled out yet another stinger with a grimace.

"Should have taken the steam shower, man," Dean sighed heavily, taking a long slurp of his drink. "Thing was awesome. Power washed every stinger down the drain." He reached over and brushed something off Sam's shoulder.

Sam looked down at his shoulder nervously. "What was that?"

"What else." Dean grinned, staring out the front windshield at the long stretch of road ahead of them. "You're shedding again, Francis. Ha," he laughed, a bored sort of laugh.

Sam squared his jaw line and went back to plucking stingers.

"Still feel buggy, huh?" Dean asked seriously.

"Yes, De…owe," Sam yelped, pulling another stinger from behind his left ear and dropping it into his hand for examination. "Tell me you don't." He tossed the stinger over his shoulder like it was a grain of salt.

"I don't." Dean causally slurped the very last of his frozen drink. "Sammy, look." He poked his tongue far out, and wiggled it around, staring at himself in the rearview mirror. "Badass cool, huh?"

"Yeah, Dean, 'cause having a purple tongue always brings a guy more luck with the ladies," Sam drawled, pulling out yet another stinger.

"Let me tell you, little brother, sure beats…ahhh-Gawd," Dean yelped. Dropping the cup, his right hand slipped off the steering wheel to pinch the bridge of his nose, the action sending the car swerving left to center.

"Dean! Watch the road." Sam worriedly reached for the wheel to help keep the car on its side of the yellow line. "What's wrong with you?"

Dean scrunched up his face. "Brain freeze just kicked in." He batted Sam's hand away and shook his head.

"That all. Man, you scared me." Sam ran a hand through his hair. "I thought - never mind. You all right to drive?"

"Fine." Dean said, already recovering and seeing the very worried look on Sam's face. "You thought I was having an allergic reaction to the bees, didn't you?"

"Would make sense."

"Not allergic, Sam. Neither are you."

Sam sat back and turned up his right shirt sleeve. "Not one or two at a time, but we we're attacked by a hungry swarm. We got stung like a thousand times. You even took one on your di-."

"Sam!" Dean's loud chirp halted the conversation from going further. "So." He quickly changed the subject. "What the hell does it mean, anyway, when you get brain freeze, Google Boy?"

Sam plucked out another stinger, this one from the crook of his arm. "Means you're not brain dead after all. Ha," Sam mocked his brother's dull laugh, not bothering to make eye contact and flicking, yet, another stinger to the floorboard.

Dean smirked. "Any of those stingers find the big, round bull's-eye on your ass?"

Sam's mouth turned down and he slouched further in his seat, picking at a stinger stuck under his thumbnail.

"Awe, Sammy," Dean gave a little chuckle. "Don't worry, little brother. I'm sure you'll figure out a way to get back there and pull them out. Maybe in the next town we can find a pretty girl to help you with that."

Sam looked sternly at Dean. "Maybe you need to find one for yourself," he threatened.

"Not a bad idea, Sammy. I'll do that." Dean nodded happily, waggling his brows. "You can wait in the car while she works her magic. Do your nails, spike your hair, read your Reader's Digest."

"Whatever." Sam pulled the stinger out from under his thumbnail and flicked it at Dean's face.

Dean ducked. "Missed me." He poked out his purple tongue, then leaned over the steering wheel stretching his back.

Sam sighed. He was tired. They'd been up all night fighting off bugs. And now he just wished Dean would bug off. He cringed, bad choice of words. But getting away from your annoying, big brother when you were stuck in the car for hours and days on end was never very easy. Over the miles and years he'd tried everything he could think of to ignore Dean on their long road trips across the states:

He'd stare out the window and count the passing trees until he hit a million - too boring. Would spit shine his cheaper-than-dirt tennis shoes - too disgusting. Sharpening his Latin skills, memorizing the dictionary, and learning everything there was to know - about everything there was to know - was good to know. But often times Sam ended up with a headache reading in the bouncy car, so he'd switched tactics. Playing with his plastic toy soldiers was fun; until Dean decided to use them as hockey pucks and shot the troops out the car window. All but one army guy survived Dean's wrath. That was the one Sam jammed in the backseat ashtray, and there the little guy stayed to this day. One time Sam even tried whining, but that only got Dad mad and earned him a shoulder punch from Dean. He finally learned, the easiest and best way to escape Dean while driving in the car was to sleep. For as long as he could. Faking or otherwise.

Deciding he was done harvesting stingers, Sam scrunched up against the passenger door and closed his eyes.

After a few minutes, Dean's voice floated over. "You pretending to be asleep?"

"You pretending to be a Roadie?" Sam smirked.

Just as he'd found his own ways to entertain himself and escape his brother in the car, so Dean had found his. He'd scare Sam with creepy stories about clowns - the jerk. Play his Led Zeppelin cassette frontward and backwards - dad never minded. He'd play tag, pulling Sam's hair every two seconds - never getting caught. Or, he'd stare Sam down until Sam turned red with anger and he started to whine - pissing Dad off again. But pretending to be a roadie, using Sam's head for a drum set - That was Dean's favorite way.

Sam kept his eyes closed waiting for Dean to start drumming on his head.

Instead, Dean surprised him by saying, "You don't look very good, Sam."

Sam peeked open a suspicious eye, Dean was always full of surprises. "I'm fine."

"You have any breakfast?" Dean glanced over.

"Nabbed a granola bar at the last rest stop."

"Good." Dean nodded in approval. "Get some sleep, Sam."

"Trying, Dean." Sam let his eye fall shut and shifted further against the door, drifting.


The sunshine had faded, and the fluffy white clouds had turned to gray.

Dean munched happily on a stick of garlic beef jerky. He glanced over at Sam slouched down in the passenger seat. He thought briefly about drumming on the kid's head, then thought it would be more fun to snap a picture of Sam with a stick of beef jerky crammed up his nose, adding to his 'Sammy's a dork' scrapbook collection. The last good picture he'd gotten of his sleeping brother, he'd stuck a carrot in Sam's ear. Time before that, a wad of gum. Time before that, a spoon in his drooling mouth. But Dean knew better. Wouldn't get a good shot this time. Sam wasn't really asleep. Sam was ignoring him. He always could tell the difference. Dean shoved the last of the jerky in his mouth, instead of up Sam's nose. He peered down at his lap, with the intention to nab another stick of jerky from the bag situated between his legs, that's when he saw it, staring up at him.

"Holy-" Dean froze. What to do? What to do? Don't make eye contact. "Crap," he muttered, snapping his eyes back up to the road, concentrating on driving. Now what? He couldn't run from it. Couldn't hide from it. Was afraid to move a muscle, least it bite him in a not-so-good place.

"Okay, okay," he spoke quietly. First thing - don't panic. Second thing - get help. "Sam," Dean quietly called to his 'non' sleeping brother.

No answer. Of course not.

"Sam," he whispered again, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.

Sam's brow crinkled. "Shhh, he's sleeping."

"Dude." Dean raised his voice only slightly above a whisper. "I'm serious."

Sam ignored him, sagging further in the seat.

"S-a-m-m-y," Dean called out slowly. "Help."

"Not playing your games, Dean."

Dean didn't say another word, only his heavy breathing filled the car.

Irritated, and just a little curious, Sam opened his eyes, rocking his head to look over at Dean through a curtain of messy bangs. Dean was sitting stiff and straight and staring bug-eyed out the front windshield.

"What's wrong with you?" Sam asked, sitting up.

"There's something big and hairy in my lap," Dean barely said the words out loud.

"That's sick," Sam muttered, mouth a gape and refusing to look.

"Sam. Get. It. Off," Dean said each word slow.

"Dude. You can handle that task on your own when we find a motel room." Sam squirmed in his seat.

"Need your help. Get it off," Dean gritted between clenched teeth.

"Dean, keep talking like that and I'm going to barf." Sam slunk back, closing his eyes again.

Dean gave a little groan and chanced a peek down. "Sonuvabitch, there it goes!" He jammed hard on the brakes, sending his beef jerky to the floor, Sam flying, and the Impala to a squealing stop - sideways - in the center of the road.

"Man, are you nuts?" Sam barked, gripping the dashboard, stopping his forward momentum. "You can't just brake in the middle of the road like that, jerk." He twisted in his seat "Aw-gaw," Sam moaned, rubbing the back of his neck. Think I got whiplash." He peered out the back window. "Lucky no one was behind us."

Dean slammed the car in park, bouncing in his seat. "Whiplash my ass, Snidely. It's in my car!"

"What's in the car?" Sam canted his head, following Dean's wildly shooting gaze.

"Shit." Dean scrambled out from behind the wheel, up onto his knees, and sneaking a cautious look over the back of the seat. "Where'd it come from?"

"Dean, what are you talking about? Where'd what come from?" Sam asked, looking at his brother like he was twelve sheets to the wind.

"Was as big as my hand. If it bites one of us we're dead." Dean noticeably trembled, sweat dripping down the sides of his face.

"Hey, whoa, Dean, get a grip." Sam took Dean by the shoulders and turned him to face him. "What'd you see?"

"It had beady, black eyes and long, hairy legs."

"Your last date," Sam snickered, and let go of Dean's shoulders. "Come on. Stop screwing around.

"Not screwing around, Sam. There's a spider in my car."

"A spider?" Sam chuffed. "That's what has you so freaked? A spider?"

"Sam." Dean ran his eyes over the car, searching. "This wasn't just some itsy bitsy spider. It's hairy and huge!" Dean ranted.

"Okay, okay, Miss Muffet." Sam held up his hands in defense. "How about you calm down. Deep breath," Sam said in a condescending tone.

Dean took in a deep breath, then slowly let it whistle out his quivering lips.

"Good," Sam complimented. "Now, what did Charlotte look like?"

"Black and tan. No, orange and black." Dean shook his head. "Sam, I don't know. It was fast," he huffed. "And hairy," he puffed. "And huge, Sammy, thing's freaking h-h-h-huge," he panted, damn near hyperventilating. "Big enough to arm wrestle, and it had fangs," he added.

Sam's eyes lit up in dawning. "Oh, crap."

"Oh, crap, Sam? Oh, crap? What's oh, crap? What are we talking here?" Dean's voice shook.

"Um." Sam draped an arm over the seat, looking left to right. "You won't like it," he said causally, reaching over to cup Dean's shoulder and give a reassuring squeeze .

"Sammy!" Dean scolded. "A little more sharing and a lot less caring." He shrugged Sam's hand away, his frustration rising.

"It's not a big deal, Dean." Sam attention cut to the back seat again, seeing nothing but their zipped up duffle bag, empty candy bar wrappers, and several fast food bags full of napkins, salt and ketchup packets.

"Having no TV or hot shower in our motel room is no big deal," Dean barked. "Some fuzzy bitch creepy-crawling around in my car. Big deal, Sam. Very big. Huge." Dean spread his hands in show. "This huge."

Sam sighed, "Gotta be Matt's pet spider."

"Pet!" Dean bit out. "It wasn't cute and fuzzy, Sam. It was huge and fugly."

"The kid got rid of all his bug friends," Sam explained. "Somehow the Tarantula must have found its way into our gear, or stowed away in one of our jacket pockets."

"Your pocket, Sam, not mine," Dean announced. "Freaking hell!" Dean's eyes suddenly went wide with realization. "That!" He hiked a thumb over his shoulder. "Was like an entire day in our rearview, bro," he screeched, grabbing a handful of Sam's jacket and hauling his brother right up into his personal space - nose-to nose. "We've been riding around all this time with it?" Dean tightened his grip. "Charlotte could have had one of us for lunch by now," he said, never taking his eyes off Sam.

"Relax, will you, garlic breath?" Sam crinkled his nose, forcefully detaching Dean's hands from the bunched up material of his jacket. "They eat crickets, sometimes things a little bigger… like pinkies."

"Fingers!" Dean surged across the seat, stretching over Sam's lap.

"Dean, what the hell?" Sam pressed against the seat.

"Gun." Dean deftly popped the glove box open.

"Bright idea, Dean!" Sam barked, knocking his brother's hand away before he could arm himself. "Shoot up the inside of the Impala." Sam shoved Dean back to his side of the car. "Get a grip, man."

Dean stared at Sam a moment in thought, then went for the firearm again. "Don't care, Sam. Gunning this bitch down."

"And you call me a girl." Sam slammed the glove box shut, almost catching Dean's fingers, the gun still tucked safely inside. "Look. You're not in any danger of losing a finger."

Dean stared at his hand, obviously checking to see he had all ten.

"By the spider anyway." Frustrated, Sam blew a strand of hair out of his eyes. "Dean, just listen, pinkies are newborn mice or rats sold in pet shops," he explained. "They're used as feeders for snakes, reptiles and-" Sam shrugged. " Large spiders."

"Not large, huge, Sam. Huge."

"Fine, whatever, huge spiders. Dean, point is, we're safe. Tarantula bites are rare and even on the occasion they do bite it's not serious. They're not poisonous. Now if it were a Black Widow or a Recluse crawling loose in here, then I'd say be worried."

"Dude, you are so never getting laid." Dean shook his head in disbelief. "Not ever," he added.

Sam gritted his teeth. "Let's just stop wasting time, catch the spider and-"

"Blow it to bits," Dean suggested, still eyeing the glove box.

"No," Sam growled.

"Fine, Spiderman, we'll go with plan B, fumigate the car."

Sam shook his head. "You're overreacting."

"Plan C," Dean continued his rant. "Squish it under a boot."

"How about we let a snake loose in here to eat the spider, Dean?" Sam suggested sarcastically.

"Are you wacko?" Dean yelped. "Then how do we get rid of the snake?"

"Mongoose," Sam deadpanned.

"A rat, Sammy. In my car? No. No way," Dean rejected.

Sam rolled his eyes at his freaked out brother. "We could sell the Impala," Sam threatened. "Buy a mini van."

"Sammy, what you said." Dean looked sickened, then his brows raised. "Let's just open the doors and maybe she'll crawl away on her own."

"Won't survive on its own," Sam lectured.

Dean drew back in horror. "So."

"So," Sam let the word linger. "We go with the most logical plan." Sam got up on his knees. "Mine." He reached around to the back seat. "Capture Charlotte." Sam plopped back down in the passenger seat. "Alive," he added, flipping open the box that held Dean's precious tape collection. "Then find a pet shop willing to take it off our hands," Sam finalized the plan, turning the tape box upside down.

"Sam," Dean snapped, cringing as his priceless collection of cassettes clattered to the seat between them - one on top the other. "Bro," he growled, digging through the mix to find his favorite tape. "Don't screw with Zeppelin." He shot Sam a cold-hard look, shoving the tape safe and sound into a pocket.

Sam tsked. "Just pull the car over to the side of the road, and let's do this."

Dean gave Sam a dirty look, then slowly eased his baby over to the shoulder.


"Watch out," Dean griped, elbowing Sam in the eye.

"Guh. You watch out." Sam jabbed Dean in the ribs, both hunters floundering over each other in the front seat in search of the spider.

"Sammy, move." Dean's boot pressed into Sam's groin.

Sam froze. "Gee, Dean, if I do that…for sure I'll never get laid."

Dean bent awkwardly to peer at the position he had Sam trapped in.

"Ever." Sam reinforced his predicament.

"Fine," Dean muttered, removing his boot from Sam's packaging. "But you better get laid and soon."

Sam scowled at Dean. "Look. It's too crowded for both of us up front. You take the back. You see her, we corral her into the box."

Without another word, Dean hopped the seat to the back.

Ten minutes later they were still on their knees, heads pressed to the carpet and peering under the bench seat, still not seeing the spider.

"Come out, come out wherever you are," Dean sing-sung over and over and over again.

"You really think that's helping, Dean?" Sam retorted in aggravation.

"Yes I do." Dean's head shot up from the back seat. "See." He held out his palm to Sam. "Got it." The spider lay on its back, fuzzy long legs in the air. "Furry bitch is dead," he announced triumphantly. "And you'll be happy to know I didn't kill her. Found Charlotte this way, squished under your Reader's Digest."

From the front seat, Sam studied the unmoving form for several long seconds. "Uh, Dean," he said softly. "It's not dead, man."

"Sam, I know dead when I see dead." Dean poked the spider's underbelly with a finger, the crisp critter crumbling under his touch. "See," he smiled big. "Bitch is deader than dead."

Sam gave Dean a sympathetic look. "Not dead, man, that's only an exoskeleton."

"Look, college boy, you blind? There's no bones." Dean flicked at the body, crushing the empty shell.

"Ecdysis," Sam stated firmly.

"Huh?" Dean cocked his head in confusion.

Sam snorted. "It's how they grow. They molt. shed."

Shock and horror flitted across Dean's face. "No."

"Yes." Sam nodded.

"Like a Shape Shifter slips its skin?" Dean ogled his prize, that had quickly turned into a booby.

"Something like that."

"C'mon!" Dean skeeved out, frantically rolling down the back window. "How the hell do you know all this crap?" He tossed the remains out onto the road. Rolling the window back up, he muttered, "Times like these I wonder if you were raised in a jungle full of ass-picking baboons, Sammy."

"Not a jungle full." Sam smiled cockily. "Just one," he said, pointing an accusing finger at Dean.

"Shut up," Dean hissed, then frowned. "Uh-oh, Sam."

"What now?"

"I just thought of something," Dean said in an hesitant tone. "What if spidey had spidey babies in here?"

Sam thought about that a second, then said, "Could happen."

"Okay, that does it." Dean stooped over and drew the small dagger he kept strapped to his ankle.

"Dean," Sam protested, gawking at the sharp, silver-edged knife.

"Listen, Buddha boy," Dean quirked. "You find the thing, go ahead and save it. Put it on an alter and worship the bitch. Meditate over it if you want for all I care. But if I find it first, I'm putting that thing down," he pronounced, waggling the knife in the air menacingly. "My way."

"It's a harmless pet," Sam declared.

"Don't care, Sam. I want it dead. Now." Dean started his search. "Has to be here somewhere, where'd it go?"

"Could have found a hole to squeeze through," Sam replied sarcastically, peeking over the front seat with his box.

"Watch it," Dean snipped, loudly, poking around the back seat with his knife "My baby has no holes."

"Wasn't talking about the car, Dean."

"Ha, ha, Sammy!"

The spider suddenly appeared from out of nowhere, creeping across the back seat, one, long, hairy leg at a time.

"There it is," Dean and Sam shouted together.

Before either one of the hunters could wrangle into position, the spider jumped, plopping to the floor and zigzagged around until it disappeared beneath the bench seat.

Dropping to their knees, Sam in the front, Dean in the back, they ducked down, both brother's shouting, "I got it. I got it."

"Dean, don't kill her," Sam ordered, finger's groping under the seat, among the dirt and debrie.

"Via con dios, you eight-legged freak." Dean stabbed at the thing that swiftly brushed past his hand.

"Arrrggg," Sam's cry reverberated around the car as he instinctively pulled away from the jabbing pain that came to the back of his hand. "Nuh," he cried out again, his hand helplessly pinned to the carpet.

"Oh, man." Dean wrenched the knife out, and quickly sat up. "Nonono." He gawked at the blood dripping off the tip of the blade.

"Guh." Sam sat up, cradling his hand to his chest, fingers visibly trembling.

"Ouch." Dean sheathed the knife without even wiping off the blood, then started to frantically rummage around in the back seat, all the while muttering, "Ouch, ouch, ouch."

"Think, that's supposed to be my line," Sam breathlessly hoisted himself up, and slunk into the passenger seat.

"Oh, man, Sammy," Dean muttered, utterly stunned, automatically snatching a handful of Subway napkins out of an old paper sack. "Hurt much?" He reached over Sam's shoulder and handed him the wad, going back to rummaging.

"Umph." Sam clamped the napkins down, putting pressure on the puncture wound between the soft fleshy area of thumb and forefinger. "Of course it hurts much," he grouched, his hand burning and stinging at the same time. "Nice knife skills, there, Dean," he commented dully, two, fat tear drops clinging to the corners of each eye.

"Bro, I thought you were the spider." Dean dutifully unzipped the duffel and dug inside for their first aid kit. Finding the green medic bag, he hopped the seat, plopping down behind the steering wheel. "At least it's your left hand," he justified.

"You- you need gla-glasses," Sam girt out tightly gnashed teeth.

Dean leaned over, horrified at the amount of blood seeping up between Sam's fingers. "Shit, Sammy."

"Fine. I'm fine," Sam panted for control of the pain.

Dean stared wide-eyed at his brother. "You know you didn't have to take one for the team, man," he gave a light laugh, trying to let his concern slip away in favor of cool calm.

"This sucks," Sam whimpered, turning his head to lock eyes with Dean.

"Rocks," Dean added, taking Sam's hand gently into his own.


"It sucks rocks," Dean explained, feeling sick as warm, sticky blood flooded his palm.

"Shut up," Sam groaned.

"Just let me see how bad I got you." Dean slowly lifted the soggy, red-soaked napkins away from the area.

"Congratulations." Sam grimaced, eyeing his trembling hand. "You sent the blade straight through." He shivered. "You just had to use the knife, didn't you?"

Dean clicked his tongue in awe, carefully turning Sam's hand over. "Yep, straight through," he announced. "Good thing too."

"Good thing?" Sam was dumbfounded.

"I'm awesome with a knife." Dean nodded toward the glove box. "Even more awesome with a gun. You know I can put a bullet through a bull's-eye from three football fields away," he exaggerated, flinching at the image of Sam sporting a bullet hole - rather than the lesser knife hole - had he gotten to the firearm in the glove box like he'd wanted to.

"Just finish the job and capture the Tarantula, Dean." Sam drew a deep breath, leaning his head back against the seat.

"Screw Charlotte." Dean gave a quick glance around. "You're still bleeding."

"That what all this red stuff is?" Sam shut his eyes, rolling his head toward the passenger window, cheek pressed against the cold leather of the seat, and swallowing hard.

"Why the hell did you go and put your hand in my way?" Dean growled, guilt striking him in the gut like a heavy punch.

Sam didn't respond.

"This is a mess, and in a bad place." Dean tenderly prodded the jagged edges. "Going to take some fancy stitching up, bro," he hissed, sympathy pains piercing through his own uninjured hand.

Sam didn't balk, didn't react at all, eyes still closed and breathing even.

"Hey?" Dean bent in close to his brother's face. "Sam?" He frowned worriedly, brushing long bangs away from Sam's eyes. "You still here?"

Took a second, but Sam gave a weak thumbs up with his good hand. "Not wussing out on you," he mumbled.

"See that you don't." Dean went about opening the kit, and pulled out a thick, white square of gauze. Applying the dressing over the wound, he said, "Hold pressure on it, Sam."

Sam pressed his hand down over the patch.

"Good," Dean said softly. "Now,"" He took Sam by the wrist and raised his arm, "Keep your hand elevated, will slow the bleeding down." He went back to digging in the kit.

"Great." Sam rocked his head back, staring at the ceiling of the Impala.

"Damn it, where is it?" Dean grumbled.

"What are you doing, Dean?" Sam huffed, two parts exasperation, three parts pain.

"Ah-ha." Dean held up a brown pill bottle and gave a shake, the contents rattling inside.

"What are those?" Sam asked suspiciously.

"Not Flintstones vitamins." Dean smiled. "Got the funny stuff right here. May as well get a head start on pain relief."

"Where's the good stuff?" Sam winced.

"We're out." Dean struggled to pop open the white, cap.

"Dean, I hate the funny stuff. They make me feel-"

"Funny," Dean smirked, still unable to open the bottle.

"No. They make me dizzy," Sam amended.

"Sam, you hate the good stuff more. Man, you don't even like to take Tylenol for bloating and irritability."

"Bite me."

"I already stabbed you, bitch. I don't think you want me biting you too," Dean said seriously.

"Jerk," Sam whispered weakly.

"Don't worry, Sammy, these babies will kick in way before the bloating and irritability do. Ha!"

Sam shot Dean a dark and brooding stare.

"Look, here's the plan," Dean said quietly. "We hit the closest motel, tip-toe your ass over the threshold, flush that wound clean as a whistle, then stitch you up tight as a drum. All before you ever break a sweat. Ten four?"

Sam nodded. "Ten-four."

"Finally, a consensus." Dean gripped and grabbed at the stubborn cap, glancing at Sam's raised hand and noting the dripped blood already drying on his wrist. "The bleed slow any?"

"Yeah, think so." Sam lowered his arm, resting his injured hand in his lap and keeping on the pressure.

Still unable to open the meds, Dean resorted to using his teeth to try and twist the cap off. "Damn, baby-proof bottles," he mumbled around a mouthful, nearly chipping a tooth and still not gaining access. "Where's a four-year-old when you need one?" Dean bent over going for his knife for the second time that day.

"Dean!" Sam let loose the gauze, leaving the bloody square on his lap. "Give me that." He snatched the pill container, using his good hand, and unscrewing the cap, giving the bottle back to Dean.

Dean quirked a brow. "I'll seriously never understand you, Sam," he grouched, swiftly palming two pills. "Here." He handed Sam a bottle of water, that was laying on the seat between them.

Sam scooted up, downed the tablets with half the water, then sank back into the seat with a moan.

"Yummy?" Dean asked, capping the bottle and stowing the drugs back in the first aid kit.

"Ice cream is yummy, Dean. Told you, these things make me dizzy and I weird-out."

"Better than when you geek-out." Dean handed Sam a clean piece of gauze. "Pressure, Sam," he reminded, then stooped over, checking around the floorboard between Sam's legs.

"Now, you're freaking me out. What are you doing?" Sam demanded, shifting his legs to make room for Dean and covering the wound back up.

"Checking one more time for your eight-legged friend."

"Personnel space, Dean. You're making me extremely uncomfortable, and nervous." Sam started to feel like putty, dropping further down in his seat. "You find the icky, sticky spider yet, D'n?" he slurred.

"Not yet." Dean continued his search, head jammed halfway under the seat, then asked, "How's your hand?"

"It's weird how big my head feels."

"I didn't stab your head, Sam."

Sam giggled like a little girl.

"It's not funny, Sam." Dean waggled a hand in the air. "Give me the flashlight."

"What?" Sam giggled some more.

"Flashlight, Sam. A flashlight."


"In the glove box."

"Dean, I like…uhhh…I…what are you doing?"

"Hunting a spider, Sam."

"I dunno about that, Dean." Sam fidgeted in his seat. "Like what if it's huge? What if it eats your fingers off, man. Uhh…yeah…maybe you need the gun." Sam sat upright and reached for the glove box.

"Duuude!" Dean smacked his hand away. "Just forget I said anything and sit your stoned ass back and be quiet."

"Whoa, bro." Sam plunked back in the seat, head thunking against the passenger window. "To dizzy to be stoned."

"Sam, just try humming Metalica." He shoved Sam's leg off to one side, head down, still searching.

Sam started humming a few bars of "Ride the Lightning."

Dean peered up at Sam from his position on the floorboards, pain darting across his face. "Don't do that." He ducked his head, going back to look for the cause of all this trouble.

"Don't do what?" Sam questioned.

"Hum, Sam. Don't hum."

"But you told me to."

"Don't," Dean ordered. "Watch it," he said, battling with Sam's long legs again, in search of his quarry.

"You watch it," Sam snipped, trying to maneuver away from his annoying brother.

There came an urgent, loud tapping on the window.

"What are you doing now?" Dean asked in annoyance.

"There's a man, man." Sam nudged Dean's head with his knee.

"Knock it off, bitch." Dean whapped at Sam's leg. "You know the funny stuff makes you see things."

"I'm serious." Sam wiggled and waggled. "Get up here. He's all like…not happy looking."

"You're just stoned, Sam," Dean groaned irritably, wondering if he should have resorted to the funny stuff before they got to a motel room. Was always a damn near instant buzz. Who'd have thought such a tiny, yellow pill could make his little brother so drunk and dizzy and dopey, in such a big way. No matter, stuff would soon put Sam down like a big baby, for hours.

"Dean, the whole prison thing. Don't want to go there again. Chicken sucks."

"Sam, you just need to calm down. You'll be asleep soon."

"Gentleman, step out of the vehicle now," the tone was muffled, but stern.

"Oh, hell no. "Dean extricated himself from between Sam's legs, popping up to see a uniformed officer bent at the waist and peering into the driver side window.

For a brief moment, the policeman loomed in the window, staring both boys down as if they could be his final stand. He was an older man, hair completely white, and his tin badge as dull and weathered as his face. He wore a tan shirt, brown rimmed hat, and a six shooter on his hip; the holster as butter soft as a well used ball glove.

"He's no rookie, Dean," Sam muttered under his breath.

"Nope." Dean sat up onto the seat. "He's seen some action, not getting out of this easy."

"Out of the vehicle, now," the officer said more firmly, standing straight and taking a step away from the door.

"Just peachy," Dean murmured, sliding across the seat hands raised non-threateningly. "Important thing here is to act normal," he said over his shoulder to Sam, keep your hand pressed tight to your jacket, in plain sight." They didn't need to be fielding questions about where all the blood was coming from. Hell, they didn't need a cop searching their car. Finding the gun in the glove box, the knife strapped to his ankle, the military arsenal in the trunk.

"Come out slow. Keep those hands where I can see them," the officer said, keeping his own heavy hand on the butt of his six shooter. "You there… in the passenger seat," he called to Sam. "Slide across and come on out of there, too."

Sam grimaced, pressing his injured hand flat against his clothing, like Dean had told him too. He wasn't so stoned he wanted the cop to notice the stab wound. For sure they'd go to jail then, and orange didn't go very well with his eyes.

Dean stood, hands slightly raised. "What's the problem, officer?" He searched the man's uniform for a name tag, but came up empty.

Sam slowly exited the car, barely able to stand straight.

"Let's see some I.D," the officer ordered no nonsense in his voice.

Dean handed over his ID without a word.

"Did we do something wrong?" Sam handed over his ID. "Offi-offi-offi-" His tongue sluggishly tripped over itself. "Officer," he finally managed, relaxing sideways against Dean.

The officer, didn't seem to notice, busy scrutinizing the documents.

"Sam." Dean elbowed his loopy brother back upright. "Actway ormalnay illway ouyay," he whispered in Pig Latin.

"I am acting normal," Sam chirped happily.

The officer flashed them a suspicious look. "Everything all right?"

"Hm?" Dean feigned deafness, cocking his head to one side.

"We were super-duper- luper pantastic," Sam shook his head, "I mean fantastic, until we smelled bacon," he beamed.

"Uh, gaw." Dean hunched in on himself wanting to disappear.

Graciously ignoring the statement, the officer smiled, handing Dean back his ID. "Mr. Hetfield." Then Sam's. "Mr. Hammett," he said sweetly. "Highway's no place for hanky-panky, whatever your orientation is."

"Hanky-" Dean straightened up. "Oh, come on!" he yelped, shell-shocked.

"Boy!" The officer's smile faded, his right hand going back to resting on the butt of his gun. "You better turn the volume down and remain calm, until we can straighten this out."

Dean shrieked, "It's not what you think. We're -"

"On our honeymoon," Sam interrupted, using a high pitched girly voice.

Dean shot his brother an annoyed 'You're so screwing this up' look.

"We had to pull over 'cause-" Sam peered down at his shoes, scuffing the ground and looking, for all the world, embarrassed.

"'Cause?" The officer prodded suspiciously.

"'Cause there's an icky-poo spider in the car," Sam glanced back up, eyes round and wet and fear-filled.

The officer looked Sam up and down. "Big fellow like you, afraid?" He frowned, trying to hide his smile.

"My partner," Sam gestured with a tiny, head tilt toward Dean. "He knows what a baby I am when it comes to creepy crawlies."

Dean smiled reluctantly, nodding. What choice did he have, but to play along with his stoned-out-of-his-mind bullshitting brother. "Francis, here, is a total girly man," He said, using a totally butch tone of voice.

The officer scrutinized Sam.

"It's true." Sam shrugged shyly, puppy dog eyes cranked up full strength.

"It is," Dean jumped in, always astonished by the power his brother held in such a simple, unmanly look.

"I've heard some stories in my day," the cop said. "But this takes the bull by the grapefruits." The officer winked at Dean, stepping up to the car. "Let's just have us a look, shall we?" He stopped abruptly when something crunched under his scuffed boot. He peered down and lifted his foot. "Come into my parlor," he said, glancing back at the boys. You two weren't lying. There really is a spider. A tarantula," he noted. "And a pretty big one, at that… judging by its exoskeleton."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Another spider-loving geek."

"Watch it, Tippy toes," the officer barked.

"Sorry," Dean apologized with a frown.

"You know after they molt, their super sensitive and you shouldn't really handle them."

"I didn't know that." Dean shot Sam a glance. "Did you, honey?"

Sam sadly shook his head, no, hair flopping back an forth over his eyes.

"Hold it together a little longer, pal." Dean put an arm around Sam's shoulder for support.

"How'd you boy's come across a tarantula in these parts, anyhoo?"

"That's what we've been trying to figure out," Sam said, batting his lashes and swaying his hips back and forth in a natural, Polly-Anna ease, that made Dean uncomfortable.

"We had a romantic picnic lunch about five miles back," Sam continued. "Think that's when the icky thing probably crawled into my coat pocket." He shivered hard, method acting going into overdrive - or more likely the funny stuff.

The officer looked sadly at Sam, with great understanding. "My wife hates them too, but my ten-year-old son loves them. Don't worry, I'm equipped and trained to deal with anything. I'll get it off your hands if you like?"

"Go for it." Dean said, giving Sam a little smack on his ass. "You'd be getting me out of the dog house, right darling?" he directed at Sam.

"Maybe." Sam crossed his arms over his chest, desperate to hide his hand and stop the wound from throbbing.

'Straighten up.' Dean mouthed at Sam, while the officer searched the car.

Sam winked and blew Dean a kiss, then mouthed, 'I love you, Tippy Toes.'

Dean whispered sharply, "What is wrong with you?"

"Funny stuff. Remember?" Sam stumbled into Dean and breathed hot, wet air into his ear. "You're awesome."

Dean held his brother at bay, feeling his face flush red. "Stop it. That's disgusting."

What Sam and Dean couldn't accomplish between the two of them, the officer did. In record time, he emerged with the Tarantula captured safely inside the tape box. "Now I suggest you boys move along." He tucked the box under his arm, and headed for his cruiser.

"Thank you, officer," Sam and Dean said in unison. "Come on, dear, the big, bad fugly is gone." Dean eased Sam back into the car.

"Huge," Sam corrected.

"Fine," Dean huffed. "Huge."

"Oh, and, boys." The officer called out.

Dean bit his lip, nervously turning around. "Yes, sir?"

"I've been patrolling this road long enough o know a breakthrough performance when I see one. Straight folks pretending to be gay," he clicked his tongue. "That's a new one. If you two aren't actors, you should be. Two grown men afraid of a spider," he laughed loudly, gave Dean a two-fingered salute, then got in his cruiser and drove off.

Dean got in behind the wheel staring straight ahead, listening to Sam snickering beside him. "Don't say it, Sam, just don't."

Sam didn't say it as Dean pulled them back onto the open road. He yawned and slid across the seat, until he was propped up against Dean. "What we doing now?" Sam snuggled under big brother's chin.

Dean swiped long, shaggy hairs out of his face. "Getting you to motel, so I can stitch you up and you can sleep it off."

Sam lifted his head and smiled wildly up and Dean, eyes all squinty, every dimple showing. "You won't take advantage of me? Will you, Dean?" he asked seriously.

Dean leveled Sam with a look, but didn't say anything.

Sam didn't say anything either, just yawned, tucking his head back under Dean's chin, shutting his eyes and going down like a big baby.

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean bit into his lip, going back to focusing on the road, arm still around Sam, holding him tight.



You okay over there?" Dean glanced across the aluminum picnic table at his stitched up and still stoned little brother.

Yep." Sam dug into his bowl of Mr. Cool's famous old fashion vanilla ice cream, spooning another bite into his mouth.

"Prove it," Dean challenged, taking a lick of his cone.

"I can hold my fingers up and count my hand, Dean," Sam said, putting action to words. "See?" He wiggled his fingers. "One."

"Oh, yeah, you make total sense," Dean deadpanned. "Dude, I gave you the good stuff four hours ago and you still don't have a clue. You count fingers, Sam, not hands."

"Funny stuff, not good stuff, remember." Sam smirked, shoveling more vanilla into his mouth, not dripping a drop.

"Funny stuff. Good stuff. With you, Sammy, it dosn't really matter which," Dean sighed, peering over his cone. "Eighty-two flavors, man, and you chose plain, old-fashion vanilla in a dish every friggin' time."

"Sooo" Sam kept his eyes down. "Least mine doesn't drip out of the bottom," he said, happily eating his ice cream, watching the tip of Dean's cone drip and turn soggy.

"You seriously need to try their flavor of the month, Sam." Dean licked drips of ice cream off his hand. "Mmmm, Candy Panties tastes just like one long, hot, lustful night of se-"

"Dude, seriously? I don't want to know what it tastes like." Sam stuffed another huge scoop into his mouth.

Dean glanced down at Sam's freshly bandaged left hand, gingerly holding his ice cream bowl in front of him. Took twelve stitches to sew the knife hole he'd put in his baby brother's hand up. Sure they'd had worse, but never by his hand.

Sam caught Dean's eye. "What?"

"Nothing," Dean said softly.

"That's right. It is nothing," Sam said knowingly. "Got worse shaving," he murmured around another mouthful. "Besides, the ice cream you bought me makes up for it."

"Sam, I don't think ice cream makes up for-"

"Ah gaw," Sam groaned, quickly covering his eyes with his good hand.

"Hey, hey, what is it?" Dean panicked. Half standing, he reached across the table taking Sam by the forearm. "Need more funny stuff?"

"No. No way. Not ever," Sam rejected the offer, dropping his plastic spoon into the bowl, and peeking open one eye. "Just a brain freeze."

"Dude." Dean slunk back down to his seat. "Don't scare me like that."

Sam went back to busily whisking his ice cream into soup. Dean to licking his.

They sat quietly for awhile. Birds chirping, squirrels chasing each other around the surrounding trees.

While Sam turned perfectly good ice cream into broth, Dean couldn't help but check out Sam's injured hand. There was a red spot on the center of the gauze, and his stomach rolled.

"Stop gawking already," Sam looked up form his half-whipped ice cream.

"You're bleeding again."

Sam glanced at his hand. "No. Your sick-o flavor dripped on me. Stupid," Sam muttered.

Dean leaned over to get a better look. Realizing Sam was right, he sat back. "Guess this tops our 'don't tell dad' list, huh, man?" he asked quietly, guilt churning inside him like an unsettled ocean as he continued to peer at Sam's well bandaged hand.

Sam narrowed his eyes. Whenever Dean mentioned the 'Hush-hush' list, he knew his brother was brewing up a guilty storm. "Look, Dean, this isn't nearly as bad as the time I shut your fingers in the car door." Sam smiled wickedly.

Took a second, but Dean finally smiled wickedly back. "What about the time we were playing blind man's bluff, and I let you run head first into that tree," he snickered low, "Again and again and again." Dean took a bite out of his cone.

"Doesn't compare to that time I dared you to jump off the playground slide onto my skateboard and you broke your ankle." Sam picked up his bowl, pausing at his lips. "Not to mention the time I was waving Brenda Bodenheimer's jump rope around my head like a cowboy, and ended up smacking you in the face and giving you a black eye," he slurped at the bowl nosily.

"I got that beat with the time I poked you in the eye with a dirty fork," Dean stuffed the last of his cone into his mouth.

"You know you don't have to be sorry." Sam set his bowl down. "Was an accident. I'm not sorry for that time I pissed in your beer," Sam snickered, tossing his empty bowl in a nearby trashcan.

Dean choked, swallowing the last of his cone. "What time?"

"That time," Sam laughed louder.

"Was it an accident?" Dean asked.

"Maybe." Sam shrugged.

Dean made a disgusting face. "Pissing in my beer doesn't count, because I didn't even know you did it. And, besides, by far not as creative as the time I melted orange and yellow crayons and told you it was Mac and Cheese."

"You were a jerk." Sam wrinkled his nose. "I was sick for two days, and you had to clean up all my barf."

"That's right," Dean crossed his arms angrily. "Payback's don't count."

"Yes, they do."

"No, Sam, they don't."

They bickered back and forth a minute.

Dean was the first to pull out of the squabble. "How about when I tried to drown you in the toilet?"

"No worse than the time I stuck an ant farm down your shorts," Sam snorted melted ice cream out his nose.

"Never forget the time I stuck you inside a dryer, so you could go for a ride. I am beyond awesome," Dean cracked.

"Dad almost nailed your beyond awesome behind," Sam volleyed.

"Yeah, you told him you crawled inside on your own, and hid in the clothes. Helped me avoid capture." Dean smiled fondly. "Always taking one for the team, huh, Sammy?" he asked, guilt returning.

"Don't forget the cocktail waitress incident. You took one for me then." Sam threw back at Dean with determination.

Dean waggled his brow. "That was my pleasure, little brother."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean, I'm okay with you stabbing my hand."

"I'm not," Dean whispered. "This is about as bad as the time I dropped you on your head."

"You never dropped me on my head." Sam frowned.

Dean got up. "Actually, hate to break it to you, Sam, but I did." He shrugged his shoulders. "When you were only a month old." Fired up with guilt, Dean paced around the picnic table never taking his eyes off Sam's bandaged hand. "You were in your baby seat and started fussing like a baby."

"I was a baby."

"Can I finish the story?"

Sam waved his bandaged hand at Dean.

Dean continued, "Mom was busy in the kitchen. I wanted to help, so I picked you up and started to carry you to her, when I tripped over a Tonka truck. You slipped out of my arms, landed on your head." Dean cringed.

"You never told me anything about that." Sam followed Dean as he hustled past him.

"Didn't want to give you a complex, buddy." Dean stopped pacing. "It's why you have a cone-shaped head to this day," he gave a nervous, little laugh.

"Huh." Sam ran a hand over his head, so that's why his skull was pointy.

"Seriously though. There wasn't a mark on you, but you screamed your lungs out like a bitch for an hour. Mom freaked. Scared the crap out of me" Dean started pacing again. "I hid in a closet for any hour. When Dad found me he was a fireball. Really laid into me." Dean shook his head. "After that, they didn't let me near you, alone, for like two months."

"Uhhh, so what are we talking about here, Dean?" Sam asked thoughtfully.

"Just don't think your case was the only one dad was all over." Dean rubbed at the back of his neck, befuddled, staring off in the distance. "Dad raised hell with me. All the time. His last order was for me to take care of you. Bang up job I do with that."

"You do," Sam deadpanned.

Dean grunted disbelievingly.

"Dean, you have Dad beat by a long shot, when it comes to the 'taking care of me' department." Sam showed off his bandaged hand. "This," he chuckled, "Gets added to the hush-hush list." Sam smiled cockily. "That's after I score a few more bowls of ice cream."

"Only if you order the flavor of the month," Dean mumbled.

"Guh," Sam gagged.

"Let's hit the road, Sammy," Dean said, storming off toward the car.

The end.