I had a song by a certain artist stuck in my head the other night (you'll see it mentioned down the page) and it caused me to start thinking up puns with the name 'Sam'. I have a comic strip entitled 'Sardean Sammich', so I figured I'd tie that in with one little one-shot about one of the more silly drives with the Winchesters.
--
The Name Game
Dean always found a downside to letting Sam drive and that was – aside from the fact it was his car and he'd murder him if he let anything happen to it – the all-encompassing, universal feeling of sheer boredom. Sitting shotgun with a shoulder injury as Sam took advantage of the music rule, hooking his mp3 player up to the stereo by means of some kind of cord he'd picked up somewhere (Dean didn't really care enough to listen to the explanation. He had tapes, they worked, and that was all that mattered) and listening to some guy singing about glass and looking and stars and… well, he didn't give a crap. The point was, sitting there he didn't have that feeling of freedom, control over the gas pedal and steering wheel and sometimes what felt like the whole damn road. He was just along for the ride with his little brother at the helm.
In these cases, Dean liked to make his own fun.
"Sam." Dean's voice was almost inaudible over the purr of the engine, but his younger brother heard it and glanced at him.
"Sammy."
"What?"
"Sammich."
Sam rolled his eyes, returning them to the highway. "Cut it out, Dean."
Dean just smirked, remembering a song by a particular artist on the radio back at the motel. "DJ Sammy."
"Dude, shut up."
"Samuel L. Jackson."
"Dean—"
"I have had it with all these motherfuckin' snakes in this motherfuckin' Impala!"
"Stop—"
"Samantha—" He was cut off when Sam reached over and sent his fist into Dean's arm – luckily his uninjured one –, but regardless the elder Winchester kept grinning deviously. "Sam the Record Man."
Sam kept quiet, as if hoping giving no reaction would make it eventually lose its amusement.
Of course, that never did work with Dean. Oh, he'd keep going until one or both of them were unconscious.
"FlotSam."
"…"
"JetSam."
"..."
"Sammy Davis Junior."
Still nothing.
"Been to the Seven-Eleven lately?"
The silence kept, and Sam glanced at his brother. Was that a trick question?
"Seriously, dude. Have you?"
Sam's answer hid behind his teeth as his eyes shifted between his brother and the road. This was a trick question, he knew it, but if he didn't answer his brother would most likely just keep bugging him. "No," he said cautiously.
"Too bad. I hear they're giving out free – " he leaned across the space between the seats over to his brother, looking up at him innocently, " – Samples."
"Fuck off, Dean. Go to sleep or something." Sam punctuated his 'fuck off' by elbowing Dean in the head, which happened to be in close proximity with his elbow anyway.
Dean rubbed his Sam-inflicted wound, moving his head a safe distance from his brother in case of future attacks. He waited a moment, made Sam think he'd won.
Silence.
"If you were a fish, you'd be a Sammon."
Sam bit back his frustration, gripping the steering wheel tighter as Dean just laughed. "Salmon has an l in it, moron," he corrected as if pointing out Dean's apparent inability to spell would make him feel better.
"Doesn't mean it don't sound the same," Dean parried. "Samonella." Dean could do nothing but laugh at the face Sam made then, either because he was really getting pissed or his brain was breaking with Dean's word butchering. Silly college boy.
"Know what my favourite movie is?"
Sam said nothing, glaring at the road as if it were Dean. Which made him feel a little better, actually, since he was running it over.
"The Sam of All Fears." He lifted a finger as if reconsidering, "Or maybe it was I am Sam."
"Dean, when we get to Nevada I'm going to kick your ass."
"Careful with those threats, my friend. Might get yourself shipped off to a Samitarium." Dean sang the last word in tune to Metallica's Sanitarium, even added the following guitar riff.
"You gonna do this all day?"
Dean shook his head innocently. "No. Just until a) you go nuts, b) you knock me out or c) I get to drive."
Sam spared him a sideways glance. "Shouldn't there be a d) you run out of 'Sam' words?"
"I've been compiling these forever, dude. It's not an issue."
At this, Sam slouched in annoyance as if he were focusing all his attention on the road. Dean didn't exist anymore. Just imagine him out of the seat, Sam.
It was going to be a long drive.
Dean's name game went on for another fifteen minutes, maybe half hour or so – including such plays as 'Richard Sammons', 'AsSamption' and 'Anti-Samitic' – before Sam finally caved and let Dean drive, even with his injured shoulder. They made it to Nevada in time to get a motel room and fall into bed, and that was the end of that.
The next morning Dean awoke alone and was immediately assaulted by some ungodly stench. "Oh, crap," he griped, wishing he could turn his nose off. "What the hell is that?" Quickly he sat up in bed, but not before feeling some slimy objects slide off his bare leg under the covers – and off his head – after his movement. "What the—"
Dean ripped the covers off of him to find fish. Small fish. Small, previously canned fish.
"Sardines," Dean said in a confused gasp of realization. "Sardines… SarDeans." He stopped, everything beginning to make sense. Particularly, why his brother was conveniently nowhere to be found. He tried to smirk but oh man that was fucking disgusting. "Very nice, Sam. Smooth. Nice." He looked around the room as if expecting to find a video camera hidden somewhere (he wouldn't put it past Sam to videotape it and upload it onto YouTube or something. Ha-ha, let's all laugh at the older brother) before kicking the leftover fish off of him, hopping off of the bed just as Sam walked back in the motel room door and Dean shot him a look that said kill. And Sam laughed.
It took four showers to get the smell out – "Ohmansickthey'reinmyhair-" – and Sam, more than content with his revenge, had no problem with laughing the whole time.
END
--
Hope you enjoyed it. ;D R&R.