Summary: After John leaves teenage Sam and Dean in a motel to go on a hunt by himself, the brothers get into a spot of trouble….
Damned
„Sammy! You get back here now or I'll kick your ass into next year!"
Halting in your pursuit of him you watch, open mouthed, as he completely ignores your threat and continues to across the motel parking lot and in the direction of the road.
"Come on Dean, we can play soccer over there on that field!"
He didn't even turn around – the cheek. Doesn't anyone have manners these days? *cough, cough*
"You don't even have a ball Sammy!"
Hehe, bet he didn't think of that – amateur.
"Don't worry Dean, I have a plan!"
"Sammy, if history has taught us one thing then it's that those two phrases can never come true at the same time, let alone be used in the same sentence!"
"Come on Dean!"
"Sammy I mean it. If you get run over by a car don't think I'll dispose of your corpse, you can lie there and rot for all I care. That's what happens when you don't listen to your older brother!"
Soccer? Why on earth did he want to play soccer? It's one of the stupidest games on the planet. There's twenty-two wanna be models running around after one ball for ninety minutes with nothing more in their heads than the six figure paycheck their gonna get at the end of the year. There's more excitement watching Oprah interview Tom Cruise.
Realization dawns on you that you are in fact standing in a public place shouting threats at a seemingly innocent young boy. But then again you never could give a toss about what other people think of you, why start now?
"Sammy! Dad put me in charge for the next four days. If you get in trouble I'll be the one hearin' about it, now get your mop headed self back to that motel room, right now!"
Damn that kid for being immune to your threatening Dean Winchester tone. A tone that could make babies cry, stones crumble, kittens forget to land on anything but their heads and give heart attacks to any spirit that may cross your path. All right, cool it. Your startin' to sound like the intro into that awful Hercules series.
I'm going on a hunt, he said. Don't want you two in on this one, he said. Stay at this motel, he said. Look after your brother, he said. I'll come get you in about four days, he said. He never damned well said anything about how to control a teenage boy that is about as predictable as which color sunglasses Elton John is gonna wear next.
The screeching of tires jolts you back to reality in time to witness some truck driver get out of his truck and start shouting and cursing at your little brother for running across the road in front of him.
"What the hell are you playin' at kid? I nearly fucking well ran you over you idiot!"
Idiot?! 'Aint nobody allowed to call your brother an idiot except you! You start to jog towards the truck in order to give the guy what for.
"Oi Grandpa! Who you callin' an idiot?"
Oh whoopsy. Jesus Christ. It's like standing opposite Arnold Schwarzenegger, if he says anything about Sarah Connor you're running in the opposite direction – pride be damned.
"Grandpa?! Why you little prick."
"'Aint nothin' little about me mister. Which is more than can be said for yourself."
You take your eyes off his for the briefest of moments in order to indicate the certain part of his anatomy to which you were referring.
"Or do you think that your bulging beer gut makes up for that?"
Bulging? Ha. The only thing bulging about him are his biceps.
You hold back a slight snigger of laughter at the site of him, he looks like he just jumped out of a cartoon. Legs apart, fists clutched, breathing heavily, his face as red as a tomato making him look ready to explode at any given moment and unless you were seeing things or had simply watched too many cartoons today, then there was smoke coming out of his ears.
"You've got guts, I'll give you that."
"Well thank you very much. I really appreciate that compliment, usually people just call me crazy."
"Crazy?"
"Yeah, you know, insane, a fruit cake, doo lalee, missing' my marbles, a few screws loose, nine kinds of crazy, whacko, not in control of ones own thoughts, mad, on route to the loony bin, straight off the banana boat, three fries short of a happy meal… feel free to jump in any time won't ya."
"I've never hit a kid before but they say there's a first time for everything."
"First off, I'm not a kid and secondly; speaking of 'first times' you ever heard of a shower? Or toothpaste?"
"Oh now you're just askin' for it, kid."
You, Dean Winchester, have been described as many a thing over the years, however suicidal has never been one of them; A fact that you don't want people questioning. Given the height, size, and quite frankly scariness of the man before you any further comment from you would without a doubt lead to your untimely demise.
Hoping beyond hope that Sammy was still standing behind you, as he had been before you entered the staring contest with the giant in front of you, you utter two words that unbeknown to you at that moment you would say many more times in the days to follow.
"Sammy, run!"
