Obi Wan'd

Note: This is the fifth story in the "Demon Blood" 'verse. Read "Purpose", "Demon Blood", "Supernatural vs. Evil" and "Your Latest Trick" first.

"So, should I try a simple command?"

Sam and Dean were in a laundromat in Columbia, Missouri and it was late enough that the place was empty except for them. Dean continued to sort out his darks from not-darks as he shrugged.

"I guess so," he said, "it's as good an idea as anything else."

"Right," Sam said. He was silent for a moment. "Spin in a circle."

Dean paused, but seeing as how he wasn't very interested in doing something lame like that, he merely shook his head. "Didn't work."

So Sam tried again. And again. Twelve tries later, he still wasn't getting it, and he was starting to develop a monster of a headache from the effort. Slumping down onto the nearest chair, he said, "Do my stupid laundry, Dean," fully expecting Dean to refuse.

"Okay," Dean replied and turned away to shove Sam's darks into the washer. Sam looked up in surprise, the growing headache suddenly fading into the background.

"You did it," he said dumbly as Dean put in the laundry detergent and necessary change to get the washer going.

"Huh?" Dean said, turning back to him.

"You never do my laundry willingly," Sam said in a louder voice, pointing at the washer.

Dean turned back to the washer for a moment before looking at Sam again. "Huh," he said. "Weird."

"How'd it feel?" Sam asked, instantly curious.

"I dunno," Dean said after a moment. He frowned. "I just… I didn't even think about it, I just did it."

"Wow," Sam said, leaning back in the chair. He thought about how it'd felt when he had successfully commanded Dean and tried again. "Give me your wallet."

Dean was instantly scrounging in his pockets to find it, holding it out for Sam to grab moments later. "Funny," Sam said, "I think I might be getting it. You can keep your wallet."

"Oh, good," said Dean, and the fact that he actually sounded relieved made Sam stare incredulously. "What?"

"Sorry, it's just that this whole thing is… weird," Sam finally said. "I wonder if I can make you tell me anything."

Dean's shoulders stiffened so slightly that Sam almost missed it. He knew Dean was keeping a secret, even suspected that it had to do with him, and he realized he could make Dean tell him what it was, right here, right now. It was tempting…

"Who gave you the best sex of your life?" he asked instead, focusing on that feeling of wanting control and using it to fuel the command.

"Lisa Braeden," Dean answered at once. "She's a yoga instructor I met in Cicero, Indiana about… seven-ish years back."

"When were you in Cicero?" Sam asked with a frown.

Dean paused, before shrugging and answering anyway. "It was when you and Dad were taking care of that banshee in Orlando and I took that road trip."

"Oh," Sam said, "I remember that." He grinned, curious. "So Lisa…"

"Oh, no, you've heard enough, little brother," Dean said, putting Sam's remaining clothes into the next washer over. "It already sucks enough that I'm doing your oversized laundry. I'm done with your Jedi thing for today, got it?"

Sam nodded and winced, his headache suddenly reminding him that it existed. "Headache?" Dean asked sympathetically.

"It'll pass eventually," Sam shrugged. When their laundry was finished drying two hours later, they were back in the Impala and leaving Columbia behind them.

It wasn't until lunchtime the next day that Sam thought of the next command he wanted to try. "Order healthy food," he said without warning as the waitress at the diner they were in approached, and next thing he knew, Dean was eating a salad with cranberries and chicken, and drinking water instead of soda. It was amazing.

"That was pretty good," Dean commented as they approached the Impala. "I never woulda ordered that —" He broke off and turned to stare at Sam.

"What?" Sam said as innocently as he could.

Dean wanted to go to a bar that night, hustle some pool and have a few beers. "You wanna order those girly cocktails," Sam said, and you know what, that sounded like a great idea!

When the guys at the pool table started making fun of his drinks, Dean knew that Sam had used his mojo on him. Interestingly enough, though, Sam stepped in and told the guys that Dean had lost a bet and this was his punishment. "I swear he's a normal, beer-drinking guy.'

That may have cleared that issue up, but Dean still didn't speak to Sam the rest of that night. When Sam asked to drive the car all day the next morning, Dean couldn't stop himself from handing the keys over. Then Sam found the nearest country music station.

"We're not listening to that!" Dean exclaimed, already reaching for his box of cassette tapes.

"Driver picks the music, Dean," Sam reminded him, "and shotgun shuts his cakehole."

Dean fumed in silence for the next hundred miles until Sam told him to sing along.

"I am Rosemary's granddaughter," he belted grudgingly, "the spitting image of my father, and when the day is done my mom is still my biggest fan!"

Sam had laughed himself silly at Dean's horrible singing voice and had refused to let up until they found a motel for the night. It wasn't until they were almost ready for bed that Dean realized that, of all the things Sam could have done to him, he had never once asked Dean to tell him his secret.

It would have been all too easy, Dean knew that. Hell, the kid could have made him spill his emotions 'til he was blue in the face, but he hadn't. It was in that moment that Dean realized just how much respect his little brother had for him, how much he trusted Dean to tell him things in his own due time. Sure, Sam had pushed him when he felt Dean was out of line, but in the end, he really did respect Dean's privacy.

That night, when Sam woke him up because of another nightmare, Dean did the only thing he could do.

"D'you wanna talk about it?" he asked, and when Sam shook his head with the tiniest of smiles, Dean knew he had found a way to let his little brother know he was still there for him, no matter what, and that he would listen when Sam was finally ready to talk. After all, they could both play the waiting game, right? With that thought in mind, Dean curled up under his covers once more and allowed the quiet sound of the TV Sam had turned on to lull him back to sleep.

There were a few more minor pranks over the next two days as Sam continued to master his newest ability. His personal favorite had been when he got Dean to flirt with an old widow in a diner in Nebraska who had responded way too well to his advances. In the end, Sam had to pull Dean out and away from those wrinkled, groping hands and spent the next hour laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

"It wasn't funny!" Dean groused as they drove toward Harvelle's Roadhouse. "And why are we heading over to Ellen's again?"

Sam sucked in a deep breath and managed to calm down enough to say, "I wanna talk to Ash about finding more psychic kids" before the laughter bubbled up again and he was lost.

"We can't find them all, Sam," Dean said.

"I know," gasped Sam as he wiped at his streaming eyes. "That… whew!" He cleared his throat and took a few more breaths. "That's why we start with the ones that had house fires," he finally finished.

"Fine," sighed Dean after a moment, "but no goin' Obi-Wan on anyone in there, got it?"

"Of course," Sam said incredulously. "I'm not an idiot, Dean."

Coulda fooled me. "Good," Dean said aloud. "Also, if you ever try to make me flirt with an old woman ever again, I will drop your ass in the middle of nowhere, so help me God."

Sam chuckled, but nodded, anyway. "Understood," he said.

"Good," Dean said again. "Bitch."

"Jerk," Sam replied, grinning.

Song is "Who I Am" by Jessica Andrews.

I don't think comedy is one of my strong points as a writer; I'm amazing with sarcasm, but plain-out comedy, for me, is pretty hard. Anyway, I still felt like writing something a little lighter than my previous works before we start to delve into the darker stuff I have planned ahead. Up next is my retelling of "Simon Says", entitled "What Makes a Killer".

-Yami Faerie