FLOWER POWER

Written for the Spring Fic Exchange on Livejournal

Summary: ... and Dean only wanted something nice for his room - why won't Sam let him have a Goldfish?

Disclaimer: I don't own these wonderful gentlemen.

Chapter 1

xxxxx

Sam looked up from the dusty texts that littered the table in front of him and stretched wearily. A number of recent sightings of a strange creature, a life-sized woman with wings and long talons where her nails should be, had led the brothers to believe a Harpy was on the loose.

These things were about as rare as the supernatural got; in fact the only thing rarer it seemed was a sighting of Dean actually parking his ass down in the Library and giving Sam a hand with some of this impenetrably dry ancient Greek shit he was researching right now.

He knuckled his eyes lethargically and pulled in a laboured breath. That's a point, where was Dean?

Glancing around him, he used the exercise as an excuse to try to work some movement back into his stiff joints.

Last time he'd seen his older brother, Dean had disappeared out of the library like a rat up a drainpipe muttering something about 'seeing if there was any 'harpy-killing stuff' in the vaults.

That had been hours ago, so he guessed that Dean had drawn a blank. Either that, or – more likely - his miniscule attention span had been diverted by something totally non-Harpy related.

Sam got his answer when Dean appeared from the vaults carrying a large earthenware pot full of soil.

Bingo. Miniscule attention span it is.

xxxxx

Sam sighed; "So did you find anything?"

Dean deposited the pot on the table next to Sam with a heavy thud, scattering damp soil across all his papers.

"Yeah," he grinned; "I found these seeds down there, and so I thought – well, I've been wanting to get something nice for my room for ages, and seeing as you won't let me get a goldfish, I thought a plant would be nice, so I planted them and …"

"About the Harpy?" Sam interrupted stony-faced.

"The what? Oh that! Yes, the Harpy, uh … no. Nothing about harpies down there."

Sam dropped his head into his hands and kneaded his forehead.

"Got a headache?" Dean asked; "You need to take a break – everyone knows looking at that crap for too long isn't good for you." He gestured across the table at the myriad dusty scrolls scattered over it, complete with their new coating of damp soil.

Slowly dragging his hands down his face, Sam peered over his fingertips at Dean.

"Having a plant'll be good for us too," Dean added with a nod; "it'll oxygenate the room and make good zen kinda shit!"

Sam knew when to pick his battles, and right now, he knew that talking about the Harpy hunt was a lost cause. Against his better judgement, therefore, he pointed toward the pot and asked the question. "What is it?"

Dean shrugged; "they were just some seeds – you know, like plant seeds."

Sam sighed. Apparently studying Harpy lore was a breeze compared to trying to get any sense out of Dean. "What sort of plant seeds?" He clarified his previous question.

"I dunno," Dean replied; "I found 'em scattered on the floor under a shelving unit. There was a cardboard box, that I think they used to be stored in too, but it was all mouldy and falling apart, all the writing had faded off it."

Sam blinked as he stared at his brother's grinning face. He really wanted to punch it.

"So you planted these seeds – seeds that you found in a vault full of supernatural and magical artefacts - and you have no idea what they are?"

Dean shrugged again; "A plant's a plant, Sammy. Unknot your boxers; we'll figure it out soon enough."

"A plant's not just a plant, Dean," Sam countered; "especially not when it's in our vault; it could be anything; a sunflower, a daisy … or an apple tree, or a potato plant, or it could be something supernatural … what if it's some kind of cursed poison ivy? You know what happened when Dad took us camping in the Appalacians, and you fell into …"

"Shut it Sam," Dean muttered darkly; "you pushed me."

Sam grinned.

Dean's face lit up, "hey, maybe it's weed!"

Sam shook his head, "somehow, I can't imagine those stiffs in the Men of Letters cultivating their own dope," he replied.

Dean deflated slightly; "no, you're probably right, I can't see those boring assholes relaxing with a late night reefer."

A brief pause settled between the two men.

"Dean, plants need sunlight," Sam spoke up; "this is a bunker, there's no sunlight. It's probably the worst environment possible to nurture a plant in."

"Thought of that," Dean grinned proudly; "I'll take Pedro up onto the roof during the day, so that he can get all the sunlight he needs and he might even get a bit of rainwater too."

"Pedro?"

"Pedro the plant," Dean replied, folding his arms as if to indicate the conversation was at an end.

"Well, I hope you and Pedro will be very happy. And when you wake up covered in supernatural hives and scratch your ass off, then don't expect me to apply the calamine," Sam snorted, brushing Pedro's spilled soil off his papers.

"Bitter Sammy, so bitter," Dean grunted.

xxxxx

For three days, Pedro was little more than a pot of earth.

Although, Sam couldn't fault Dean's dedication to Pedro's welfare. Never before had a pot of earth been so thoroughly nurtured to, by Sam's reckoning, a ridiculous degree…

"Dean, what the hell are you doing?"

"What's it sound like?" Dean responded curtly to Sam's quizzical frown; "I'm playing Pedro some music. It's supposed to be good for plants, I read it on the Internet – look, it says so here on ."

"They mean light classics Dean, and easy listening stuff … a bit of Mantovani or Neil Diamond, not freaking thrash metal. That plant's gonna be scared to come up at all with that damn racket blasting at it."

"Bite me," snorted Dean; "Pedro's gonna grow up to appreciate decent sounds!"

"He's gonna grow up stone deaf," Sam muttered grumpily under his breath.

xxxxx

tbc