Disclaimer: I own nothing of or relating to Supernatural. More's the pity.

Win, Lose, or Draw

By: Vanessa Sgroi

So broke the dawn of another morning. Orange-gold Spring sunshine was happily lighting the purplish horizon, a gentle breeze tickled the still-bare branches of the trees, and birds twittered and trilled in joyous song. This façade of peace and tranquility, however, was destined to be torn asunder by the latest volley in an ongoing war. In short order, it was shattered by the bellow of an enraged Winchester male.

"SAM!"

The younger Winchester settled back on his lumpy motel room bed, leaning against the headboard with a grin. He waited patiently with his arms crossed. Three, two, one . . .

"SAM!" Dean, his older brother by four years, burst through the motel room door, green eyes wide and panic written across his face. "Sam, what . . . what did you DO? The . . . the car . . . the Impala . . . she's—"

Sam laced his fingers behind his head and watched his brother work up a full head of steam.

"My CAR! You . . . you . . . you messed with my car! She's . . . she's . . . oh, God! She's rainbow colored!" This last bit was practically a wail.

Not in the least contrite, Sam chuckled.

"This isn't funny! She looks like a . . . a . . . a hippie-mobile."

"No, you're right, it isn't," said Sam as soberly as he could, "This is friggin' hilarious!" He began to laugh in earnest and watched as Dean's face turned red. His brother looked ready to pounce and tear him limb from limb, but Sam remained nonchalant, reclining on his bed. "Consider it payback for last night."

Dean gaped at his brother for a few seconds as the words sunk in.

"Last night? Last night was funny! This—THIS isn't funny!" He stood in the middle of the room, arms akimbo.

"Last night was NOT funny, Dean!" Even now Sam shuddered as he thought back to the bar they'd visited so briefly the night before. "You paid a guy in a bar—a complete stranger—to grab my ass and say, 'Hey, cutey, you're sure a long, tall drink of water. Wanna quench my thirst.' I almost choked on a swallow of beer."

Dean paused amidst his righteous indignation to give a laugh of his own. "Best twenty bucks I ever spent. Man, you shoulda seen your face. Too bad my camera phone wouldn't work."

The taller brother sat up straight, his own face now an interesting shade of red. "So NOT funny! He. Patted. My. Ass." Sam's voice grew more horrified. "And he squeezed!"

Dean crossed his arms and glared. "Well, that was payback for the rat you put in my bed the night before."

Sam rolled his eyes. "It wasn't a rat!"

"It had beady eyes, fur, and gigantic teeth. It was a rat."

"It was a hamster, Dean. H-a-m-s-t-e-r. And you screamed like a girl when you pulled back your covers and saw it."

"I DID NOT!"

"You did! And loudly. I'm surprised the cops didn't show up to investigate a report of a damsel in distress."

"I did not scream. I . . . I yelled."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, in a really high-pitched girly kind of way. Then you tried to kill the poor thing by hitting it with your boot. Good thing your aim was shot to hell."

The older hunter eyed the floor suspiciously. "Hey, where DID that ferocious little beast go anyway?"

"I took him back to the pet store down the street."

"Seriously? You're not like . . . kidding around or anything, right?"

"Relax. I took Killer back to the pet store. Anyway, THAT was to get you back for gluing the zipper on my duffel bag shut."

"I only did that in retaliation for the freakin' Monopoly money in my wallet when I went to get us breakfast Monday morning."

"Yeah, well, that was to get back at you for . . . for . . . for whatever the hell it was you did before that."

"The lipstick."

"That's right! The lipstick. You started this particular prank war by putting that super long-wearing lipstick on my lips while I was sleeping. I had to walk around all day with Plum-tastic Passion on my lips and people were looking at me funny."

"Sammy, don't you know by now—people always look at you funny. It's that girlish hair and figure of yours. And how the hell do you know the name of the lipstick anyway?"

Sam's pillow hit him square in the face. "I confiscated it from your bag, jerk."

"You know—I'm still gonna kick your ass for messing with my baby though. You just don't mess with a man's classic car." Dean sank down and sat on the bed. "I gotta . . . I gotta find some place that has black paint. And not just any black paint, you know. It's a special shade of black. I wonder how long—"

"Dean, relax," interrupted the younger man.

"What? No. I can't relax. I've gotta get this fixed." Dean stood and began to pace.

"Dean."

"I am so NOT driving a hippie-mobile."

"Dean."

"I mean she's still a classic '67 Impala, but a man . . . a man just has to have his standards."

"DEAN!"

"WHAT?"

Sam waved his cell phone. "If you agree to a truce, I can have your baby back in about 15 minutes."

"Huh? Whaddaya mean? How—"

Sam grabbed a piece of paper resting on the nightstand and unfolded it. "I'll call one Chester Kelly, the real owner of that day-glo car out there."

Dean stabbed a finger toward the window and the parking lot that lay beyond. "You mean that's not my girl?"

"Nope. That piece of . . . art . . . belongs to Chester B. Kelly. He'll bring your car back as soon as I call him," he again wiggled the phone. "Truce?"

"Yeah, yeah. Truce. Whatever. Just get my car back here!"

The younger Winchester quickly made the phone call.

Practically hopping up and down in one place, Dean muttered, "I'm gonna wait outside."

Sam joined his brother, who was pacing the black-topped parking lot, a few minutes later. He noticed Dean was giving the rainbow sherbet-colored car a wide berth as if it was contaminated, and he shook his head.

"How much longer, Sam?"

"Would you just relax. He'll be here soon."

"Did you tell him to be careful with her?"

"Dean, the Impala will be just fine. It's not like he doesn't know how to drive her."

Another ten long, excruciating minutes passed before they heard the familiar rumble of their vehicle heading in their direction.

"Hey . . . um . . . Sam, we—after we get the car back—we might wanna head some place to . . . um . . . get you some new . . . uh . . . jeans. And . . . hoodies."

"What? Why?"

"You know when I glued your duffel bag zipper closed?"

"Yeah."

"I kinda glued all the zippers on your jeans and hoodies closed too."

Sam punched his brother on the arm—hard. "Jerk!"

The brothers watched as Chester B. Kelly smoothly pulled the black Impala into the parking space next to his multi-hued one.

"Hey, Dean—"

"Yeah?"

"You know that chocolate you keep stashed in the glove compartment?"

"Uh huh."

"Um . . . you . . . you might want to throw it away."

"Why? What did you do to it?"

"You don't want to know. Trust me—you don't wanna know."

(SN) (SN) (SN)

And for a time—a very short time—the latest truce in the ongoing legendary Winchester prank war held and peace once again reigned over the land.

FINI