THE GREATEST PUSHOVER THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEN
WOW: scavenge. Sam needs some help with a very special project ... Dean really doesn't share his enthusiasm.
a/n : This idea came to me as soon as I saw the drabble word and kind of ran away with me, so I am not posting this as a drabble or as part of the EO Challenge, rather as a dinky little one-shot based around the challenge word.
Disclaimer: don't own them, so not fair.
Sam peered over the top of his laptop at the languid figure stretched out on the bed, absently scratching his ass whilst perusing last month's edition of Auto Classic Express.
"What?" Dean grunted without even looking up from his magazine.
"I, uh, need a favour dude; kinda like, a real big favour," Sam asked cautiously, arranging his features into an apologetically hopeful expression.
Dean finally favoured his brother with an exasperated glance; "this isn't for that friggin' 'dishwash' thing again is it?"
"it's GISHWHES, Dean," Sam replied as patiently as possible; "the Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen."
"It's for charity," he added keenly; "a really good cause".
Dean engineered a deep sigh; "what now?" he groaned.
Sam shuffled awkwardly behind the crappy motel table, rubbing the back of his neck. "well, um, I need a photograph of, " he took a deep breath; "a handsome man posing provocatively across the hood of a muscle car in ladies underwear."
"No," Dean stated bluntly after giving Sam's request approximately thirteen nanoseconds' consideration.
"But Dean …"
"You and your good cause can find your pervy pictures someplace else."
"But Dean, you won't let anyone other than us sit on the Impala," Sam snapped petulantly.
"Damn right I won't," Dean agreed with a proud nod, frowning as the foundations of an epic bitchface began to sprout across Sam's features.
"Why don't you do it," he suggested by way of a reluctant compromise; "we've got the car, you're handsome – well according to some of the less classy chicks we meet, anyway - I'll take the photo. Then you can pay for my months in therapy after being forced to see my brother dressed in womens' underwear." He shuddered theatrically at the thought.
"I can't," Sam snapped, fighting a losing battle to prevent his voice rising into a crabby whine.
"Why not?" The challenge came from behind defensively folded arms.
"Because," Sam huffed; "because I thought of that before I asked you but none of the stuff I bought fits me."
Dean's mouth opened and closed silently, giving Sam brief and intensely disturbing images of Dean sitting on a ventriloquist's lap with a hand up his ass; "you've actually bought ladies underwear and … tried it on?"
His eyes darted round the room and he looked for all the world like he was about to bolt; "did Mom and Dad ever have you DNA tested when you were born?"
"Dean, you're such a freakin' tool;" Sam snorted, cranking up the bitchface a dozen notches; "I don't make a habit of putting on women's clothes; I only bought it for this photo, and I only kinda tried one stupid thing, and …" Sam's coherence faded as a vague and fleeting memory of inserting the wrong arms through the wrong bra straps ended up with him sporting twin peaks across his shoulder blades, not to mention cutting off the blood flow to his arms when he tried to buckle up because the darn thing wasn't built to accommodate a chest of bison-esque proportions.
He realised Dean, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, was staring at him with the same level of shock and disgust as if he had just puked in Dean's boots.
"Please Dean," Sam decided that this conversation had digressed far enough that Dean was more likely to dump him on a park bench and run for it than be inclined to help him out; "it's for a real good cause."
"Don't care," Dean spluttered; "drop a nickel in their collecting box."
"It's for a world record," Sam tried again.
Dean silently picked up his magazine, and made a big show of scanning an article about radiator grilles.
Sam wilted under a sense of totally wasted effort. He hated himself for sinking so low, but Dean had left him no choice; it was time to call in the heavy artillery.
Looking up, Dean found himself confronted with full-on, hi-octane puppydog eyes. Wide and pleading, there may even have been a little tear glistening in them.
"Sam," Dean snorted irritably; "hurry the hell up, bitch; it's cold on here and these freakin' panties are pinching my ass … and not in a good way."
He shivered miserably.
"Oh yeah, and did I mention I really, REALLY hate you?"
GISHWHES is organised by our very own Misha Collins and many of the items that contestants have been required to provide would make Sam's request seem very, very mundane indeed!