Headlamp
Written by Samantha Simard, © 2010
Disclaimer: I own nothing. All hail Eric Kripke.
Warnings: A bit of language, perverted undertones, and WAYYY too much crack.
Timeline: Season 1 or 2, probably.
Prompt: Write a story using the words hurricane, flashlight, and lawnmower. (Via creativewritingprompts)
[Author's note: Hey guys! I've kind of been on a writing binge as of late, and I got the idea for this fic after I stumbled across a great website for story prompts. xD This is obvious crack, with just a hint of OOCness, I'm sure, but I liked it! Hope you guys find it to be as funny as I did while writing it! Enjoy, and remember to drop me a review.]
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Her name was Becky. Rebecca Armstrong. And she needed her lawn mowed.
Honestly, it's just as dirty as it sounds.
They had planned on being in the cookie-cutter Midwestern suburb for about a week, trying to track down a roaming berserker that had taken up residence in the forested conservation land that backed a new development of townhouses.
Becky, of course, just happened to be a six-foot brunette bombshell with legs like the Empire State Building, and she just happened to live in one of the homes that were close to where their fur-clad killer had been spotted last. Thanks to her eyewitness statement, the job was basically open-and-shut, done in a couple days.
That left five days for Dean to focus on his main objective: getting in her pants. Or miniskirt. Whatever.
Sam realized a little too late that he should've seen it coming. When they were interviewing Becky—undercover as either state police or National Park Service, he couldn't remember—it was easy to notice that even though her house was relatively new, there were a few… design flaws.
And of course, Dean, being the gentleman he was, took it upon himself to fix them in hopes of making one big "design flaw" out of Becky's fluffy king-sized bed.
When Dean came back to the motel after their first day off, soaking wet with a rusted wrench in one hand—and what looked suspiciously like a hairy drain clog tangled around his amulet—Sam had taken pity on him.
He waited until his brother was in the shower, and then took the keys to the Impala, a man on a mission.
After a quick trip to the local Barnes & Noble, Sam made Dean the proud new owner of a copy of Plumbing For Dummys.
Sam simply smiled at the stubborn frustration in the way Dean tossed the book aside, but when he left the next morning, Sam noticed that the yellow paperback was now dog-eared.
Day two was rewiring the electricity in the dining room; day three was cleaning out her gutters; day four was fixing the her furnace—by day five, Sam was sure he'd spent more on Dummys books than he had on food for the entire month.
Dean left on foot shortly after Sam woke up, leaving his baby behind so that Sam could pack up their junk, although he was told with a grin and a wink not to pick him up until after six.
So Sam spent his day in the company of his journal and his laptop (not to mention his newfound yellow library), with the Food Network in the background as white noise.
He left the motel briefly to buy dinner at the corner store, packed up the Impala, and absently flipped to the Weather Channel; it was getting pretty cloudy, and the last thing they needed was to get caught in a tornado or something.
"We're expecting hurricane-force winds and torrential downpours all through this storm, people, across five counties—hold on to your hats!"
Oh, great—Dean had mentioned mowing Becky's lawn today, with his usual colorful humor. Good weather for it, he'd said. Sam could only imagine what he meant by that.
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Okay, whatever he'd imagined, Sam was pretty sure it wasn't this. In fact, he knew without the barest, tiniest speck of a doubt it was not this.
The Impala rolled to a stop across the street from Becky's house, and Sam quickly put her in "park" when he caught sight of Dean, suddenly overcome with laughter.
Not once had he considered that his pervert of a brother should've been taken literally.
But, sure as shit, Sam knew he wasn't seeing things; there was Dean, outside on Becky's front lawn in the pouring rain and gale-force winds, mowing her grass as if it were the most usual thing in the world for him to be doing.
The lawnmower was gas-powered, and didn't seem to be giving him too much trouble despite the, uh, prevailing conditions.
Even though the storm had created quite a bit of darkness, Dean didn't seem to be having trouble seeing where he was going—now, was that his so-called keen sense of direction, or, no way, was that a—
"Jesus Christ!" Sam exclaimed, only laughing harder when it dawned on him that the puddle of light his Dean was using as a guide was coming from a headlamp.
That's right, folks: Dean Winchester, ready to kill your demons and mow your lawn, complete with an oh-so-fashionable flashlight mounted on his head!
Where'd he get that thing, anyway? They were nowhere near an L.L. Bean store, and you couldn't get something that functional and nerdy anywhere else.
Just when Sam thought it couldn't get any better, Dean lost his footing on the slippery grass, sprawling out flat on his face—huh, apparently cats didn't always land on their feet—while losing his grip on the lawnmower at the same time.
Sam paused in his cackling, waiting to make sure his brother got up again before he resumed anew; because, honestly, the sight of Dean attempting to chase a rabid lawnmower down a hot chick's front lawn was just—
Oh, dear.
As it turned out, this was about to go from hilarious to criminal; as it turned out, Becky's lawn didn't slope the way either brother anticipated. Instead of the lawnmower rolling towards the sidewalk or her driveway, its momentum carried it through the grass, sending it plowing right into her next-door neighbor's brand-spanking-new Porsche.
Dean froze momentarily, cursing loudly when the car's alarm began to blare, accompanied by a symphony of crushed metal and glass, not to mention the dramatic last gasp of Becky's lawnmower.
Luckily, the Porsche's owner didn't seem to be home, but Becky certainly was. She came stomping outside in a bright pink rain slicker, and her profane screeching could be heard clearly over the storm and the car alarm. Wow, that lawnmower must've been like her child.
Dean was backing away as quickly as he could, hands up in a gesture of peace—the next thing Sam knew, his brother was on the ground, clutching at his crotch in a way that made him wince in sympathy.
Sam revved the Impala's engine, flipping on the headlights as Dean stumbled in through the passenger's door, and they peeled out with a screech of rubber on pavement.
"You say anything, and you're dead," Dean half-growled, shifting around on the leather seat, trying in vain to find a position that would be… uh, comfortable.
Sam drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, eyes flicking between Dean and the road. Swallowing a laugh, he managed to ask, "So, you're not gonna be, um… mowing her lawn again?"
Dean shot him a calculating look. "No. In fact, I don't think I'll be mowing any attractive lawns for a while."
"Why not?"
Another shift, then another wince. "I think my mower's been totaled."