A/N: Happy Birthday Vanessa Sgroi!
Sam knew being cautious of clowns wasn't weird. Statistically more clowns turned homicidal than planes went demonic.
Dean had bet Sam that the town's clowns were harmless. Now the last 'harmless' clown had Dean cornered. Its beady eyes gleefully twinkled with malice.
The chalky, gaudily painted monster swung Dean's battered body around as a shield. Its grip on his brother's throat tightened. Sam's grip on the revolver did the same.
The crushing hold strangled Dean's airflow to a desperate rasp. A slight opening and Sam took the shot. He caught his gasping brother.
"I owe you twenty bucks," Dean huffed.