Supernatural 100 Drabble Challenge
Prompt Word: SWING
Word Count: 500

FIRST RULE OF FIGHT CLUB

By: Vanessa Sgroi

They didn't fight often, not anymore, not like when they were kids. Back then they would go at each other at the drop of a hat. Screeching, punching, and tumbling until Dad was forced to pull them apart. Now, as adults, they were usually more restrained, and it took a lot for them to come to fisticuffs. But when they fought, they fought hard. Like now.

Dean took a swing at his brother and missed, allowing Sam's fist to connect with his cheek, opening a cut. Regrouping, he swung around and drove an elbow into Sam's ribs.

The older Winchester wondered again what they were fighting about but Sam had thrown the first punch so he'd obliged and struck back. As usual, things quickly escalated from there. Now it had been 20 minutes of non-stop battle.

He ducked away from another of Sam's jackhammer fists, narrowly avoiding another star-inducing blow. But ducking had put him slightly off balance and Sam's foot swept his feet out from under him. Dean hit the ground with a thud and a loud grunt. He laid there forcing air in and out of his lungs until Sam suddenly loomed over him. He raised an arm in defense. "Truce!" He motioned with his hand. "Help me up," he panted.

As soon as Sam's hand gripped his, Dean yanked him down hard, rolling away as Sam teetered and collapsed on the ground like a felled tree. They both stayed prone, heaving great gusts of air.

"Sammy, what the hell are we fighting about?" Dean muttered.

Sam threw and arm up, canting it over his eyes. "I don't remember."

Dean huffed out an exasperated laugh. "Great, we're laying here all beat to hell and neither one of us remembers why." He moaned and rolled to his hands and knees, eventually coming to a standing position. He motioned for Sam to stand too.

Sam sighed and tenderly probed the lump forming on his forehead. His hand then moved to his split lip. "I'll go get the first aid kit."

Dean nodded. "I'll go get the beer. And whiskey...definitely whiskey." He limped toward the kitchen.

Fifteen minutes later, they were both doctored up and sitting morosely at the table, beers in hand and shots of whiskey waiting patiently in front of them.

Dean took a long swig of his beer. "Dude, I'm getting to old for this shit." He rubbed at the back of his neck.

Sam peered at him through his one good eye and nodded. "Yeah. Me too."

"I won though," Dean smirked, "you know that, right?"

That earned him a glare. "If anyone won, it was me."

"Yeah, says the man with a black eye, busted lip, and sore shoulder."

"Sure, says the old man with the heating pad on his back, a twisted knee, and two puffy cheeks."

Dean finished his beer. "Fine. We'll call it a draw. Even if I did win."

"Dean!"

Dean's smirk turned into a full-on laugh.

FIN