A HEAD FOR TROUBLE
It's always been said that Dean has a head for trouble, and he proves it beyond all reasonable doubt in his latest misadenture ... the poltergeist hunt should have been so simple ...
A little bit of silliness over a few chapters. It's not canon, and I'm going to rate it T for the odd naughty word!
Disclaimer: Of course I don't own them!
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Sam was in the bunker's library when the call came.
It was a pretty basic poltergeist job, but the spirit was a nasty one, and the Winchesters were determined to get this one right first time. Therefore, Sam had holed himself up in the library to seek out the history of the house and the family, while Dean had barely spared the library a second glance before disappearing to go and check out the neighbourhood.
Dean had been on his travels for the best part of the afternoon and Sam was more or less done when he picked up the phone to hear Dean requesting that he get himself over to where Dean was working. 'Something's come up', Dean's falsely bright and cheerful voice announced.
Sam sighed.
Given that Dean had taken the Impala, it was a good ninety minutes made up of two lengthy walks and a bus ride before Sam finally reached Dean's location.
The western suburbs of Pine Ridge, he'd stated; junction of Avenue and Smith Street; beside a big playing field.
Well now Sam was standing here on the western suburbs of Pine Ridge. He could see two intersecting road signs, one for the Avenue and one for Smith Street; and beside him was a line of iron railings skirting the edge of a big playing field. But pain-in-the-ass big brothers and whatever hell kind of trouble they were in were noticeable in their absence.
Or so Sam thought, until he heard a low, slightly strangulated voice.
"S'mmy, that you?"
"Dean?"
"I'm here."
Sam scanned the landscape.
"Where?"
There came an audible groan which masked a muttered oath.
"Here," Dean barked irritably, "next to the litter bin."
Sam's head swivelled round to catch sight of the litter bin as mentioned and that's when he saw Dean. Or to be more precise, Dean's denim-clad, inverted ass.
Crouching low on all fours, Dean had his back to the street, and to Sam; and it was only as Sam cautiously ventured closer that he realised that Dean's head was well and truly wedged between two of the iron railings that bordered the playing field.
"Dean, how …?" Sam stood back with his hands firmly planted on his hips and admired the view before him.
"Don't ask," snorted Dean; "jus' help me out of this friggin' fix."
Now Sam was fighting against the urge to bust out laughing. "Seriously Dean," he grinned; "how does a grown man get his head stuck in railings?"
"Goddamnit, bitch," Dean snapped; "I'd finished doing what I needed to do, an' I saw a decent-lookin' diner across the road, so I was gonna call you to ask if you wanted to come out and eat there with me. But I knew it'd take you a while to get here, and there was a game going on in the park here, so I decided to stand and watch that for a bit while I waited." Dean hesitated briefly, gasping as the railings put paid to his attempt to turn and glare at Sam who, in turn, was simply nodding and gesturing at him to continue. "So I came to stand over here out of the way, and got my phone out of my pocket to call you, but it slipped outta my hand and I dropped it and it bounced through the railings, so I leaned in to reach through and get it, but I stumbled forward over a tree root, and overbalanced and now my freakin' head is freakin' stuck in the freakin' GODDAMN RAILINGS!"
Sam palmed his face and sighed.
Kneeling down beside Dean, he surveyed the situation. Dean's head was indeed well and truly stuck.
It had been a tight squeeze, judging by the faint scratches and bruising evident among the light dusting of stubble there, but it looked like Dean had just managed to work his jaw back through the gap. However his ears were another matter; they were already turning a gruesome shade of pink from all the pulling and tugging and abuse that they had endured during Dean's prolonged and ultimately unsuccessful attempts to escape. Despite that, it was clearly evident that neither they nor Dean were going anywhere.
Bending down over Dean's prone form, Sam grasped the railings either side of Dean's head and forced all his strength into trying to pull them apart; even just a few millimetres might help. But they didn't budge; even Sam's formidable strength was no match for the thick lengths of wrought iron that were currently holding his brother captive.
"Damnit," he gasped, letting go of the railings, and trying to rub some life back into his cramping fingers; "has anyone ever told you you've got big ears?"
"Has anyone told you you've got a big mouth?" Dean retorted; "are you gonna get me out of here or are you just gonna stand there bitchin' about me," he added ingraciously.
"Hold on," Sam mused aloud, completely ignoring the abuse from his spectacularly trammelled brother; "If I get behind you, I might be able to push the railings apart."
"Do what you gotta do," Dean grunted; "just get on with it. This is getting embarrassing, and I need a pee."
Sam manoeuvred himself so that he was standing, straddling Dean's hips, and bent jockey-like over Dean's back, so that he could grasp the railings only inches above Dean's head.
"Okay," he announced on a long intake of breath, I've gonna try to lean in as hard as I can and force the railings apart, when I do that, you push back, and try to slip your head back through, okay?"
"Right," Dean replied, bunching his shoulders as if fortifying himself for the task ahead.
Sam pulled in another deep breath. As he leaned down, with his face only inches above the back of Dean's neck, he could clearly see the faint bruising that was blossoming there, medals from Dean's battle to free himself, and suddenly, the whole fiasco didn't seem quite so funny.
"After three," Sam instructed; "one; two … THREE"
He lunged forward, bracing his arms and pushing all his weight into the railings trying to force them apart a fraction, his feet scrabbling clumsily with the strain as he tried to gain some purchase on the loose gravel beneath him.
"Now, Dean, NOW," he gasped. Underneath him, Dean rocked back on his haunches, growling with the effort, which ultimately amounted to nothing.
After about thirty seconds, Sam slumped in defeat. "We nearly had it there," he sighed, rubbing his trembling arms; "let's try again."
Nodding in response as best he could, Dean braced himself as Sam grasped the railings again.
And so it continued; a long-drawn-out interplay of thrust and pull, each brother flexing and bracing above each other, groaning and grunting in unison with the effort of their shared mission.
Or at least, so it was until a purple lacy umbrella smacked Sam squarely across the back of the head accompanied by an indignant squawk of "get a room you perverts."
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tbc