Disclaimer: Don't own, own sue, don't even like Skittles—they're made with pork jelly or something—and I don't own the concept on which this fic is based, because well, that commercial was, quite frankly, f'ed up and sad.
A/N: Everyone should go read Product Misplacement by CaffieneKitty over on Live Journal, because that's really what got this ball rolling. WARNING: LARGE AMOUNTS OF CRACK, IN-FANDOM POKING, AND BAD LANGUAGE. Read and let me know what you think.
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So it starts one morning when Dean reaches for his toothbrush and ends up with a handful of Skittles instead.
"What the fuck?"
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They've had weird shit happen to them. A lot. Like the time Sam shrank or the time Dean grew wings. They've both regressed and super-aged so much that Sam knows now, without a doubt, he'll have arthritis and that yes, Dean really was a goofy lookin' kid. There was the time in Wisconsin when they could only speak in limericks—not to be confused with the time Dean was cursed to only speak the truth—and of course leave it to Dean to get into a bar fight when he could only speak in meter. Dean's been a girl and Sam's been a carrot, a rabbit and a rifle (just to name a few) and they've both swapped bodies more than a couple of times.
"So, everything you touch turns to Skittles?" Sam has the audacity to look incredulous, as though the bathroom door weren't lying in a rainbow mess all over the floor.
"What if you touch yourself—?"
"If that's your way of asking for a free show, Sammy—"
"Pervert. I mean, like if you scratch your nose, is it gonna get skittlified too?"
"Skittlified?"
"Sorry, my word bank isn't really equipped for this sort of situation."
"Whatever Poindexter. I'm not really in a rush to find out."
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"Dean, what if you have to pee or something?"
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Sam insists they test to what extent Dean's mad Skittle conversion skills run, so he steps up experiments. By the end of it they have a shitload of colorful tooth decay scattered around the room but they know that only Dean's hands are a danger which is cool because suddenly the outcome of any fight has swung in favor of one Dean Winchester. The fact that all his enemies will be turning into candy and not y'know, snakes or stone (or at least something useful like money or gasoline) does kinda cheapen the victory though.
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"Dude, hum the Candy Man one more time and I'm gonna spork you in the eye."
"But you can't—"
"Fine, just a good ole fashion ass kickin' then."
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They end up calling Bobby, as they're wont to do, and after the old guy gawfs, snerks and flat out tells them to stop shitting him: he laughs.
After a good three minutes of that, he finally gets it together enough to ask them what they've been up to. "What do you boys think is the cause of this?"
Sam and Dean have narrowed the culprit down to either the leprechaun Dean inadvertently insulted or the teenage witch they stopped two counties back. God, Dean hates any kind of witch but he especially hates the ones who are just messing around with eternal damnation to get rid of a few pimples and steal homecoming.
"Well, we'll figure this out boys. Look at it this way, it could of been worse. Coulda been like that one time in Delaware when you two got stuck together. Remember how you could only get apart if you—"
Sam and Dean have made a death-pact-pinkie-promise to never speak of the Delaware Incident again, so both quickly agree that, yes, it coulda been worse. But really, sooner or later, Dean's gonna need to use his hands. Sam can't go around always opening doors or spoon feeding him or, y'know, dressing him (Dean's still only wearing what he wore to sleep the night before, which would be boxers and a t-shirt, because he's not about to let Sam dress him. "Fuck that. It's just Skittles. It's not like I'm a toddler. Or an inanimate object.")
"Sorry to say this, but you're gonna have to lay low for a while. I'll look around, see if there's anything that might help in this sort, um, situation."
Sam says thanks in a half-assed sort of way and hangs up. Maybe he would have made more of an effort to sound sincere, or at least hopeful, if Bobby hadn't started giggling again.
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In theory, Dean plus food—especially the kind that isn't really good for you—would equal awesome.
But the truth is that the magic touch got old right around the time Dean figured out that he couldn't do anything—what's worse, he can't even put his own quarters into the magic fingers' box—and that he basically had to keep his hands tucked in his pits if he doesn't want to skittle-fy any of his few possessions.
Or, you know, his brother.
"Man, why couldn't it have at least been M&Ms or something." Or ribs. Or pie.
Sam's trying to sweep all the candy into the center of the room but since they don't actually own a broom, it's kinda difficult (Dean's pretty sure pie wouldn't roll all over the goddamn place like that). "Do you think, if you concentrated while you did it, you could make them all turn one color. Because I really don't like the green ones."
He flips his brother the bird and does not try to see if he can. Nope, the lamp thing is a fluke (and no, he can't make them all red).
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There's a crash in the bathroom followed by the tell-tale scuttle of candy raining down and Dean cursing. After the fifth inventive combination involving sailors, yaks and something that Sam doesn't even know the meaning of but which sounds disgusting, Sam ventures a, "You okay?"
There's another round of curses and then finally, "Um, you know how you were wondering, y'know, whether I was Skittles on the inside too?"
"Uh, you mean the p—?"
"Well, the answer's yes, Virginia, I am."
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Bobby calls them back just as Dean's seriously starting to consider cutting off his own hands—he could totally rock the hook hand thing. Make it practical and bad ass—and the solution's so stupid Dean's pretty sure Bobby's just messing with them. The guy's having way too much fun with this as it is.
"For the last time, I'm not makin' this up. It's right in the book. Only way to be rid of King Midas' touch, short of death or amputation, is washing your hands in snow waters under the new moon."
"Yeah, okay, but Bobby, Midas turned things to gold, not snack foods."
"Well, you two got anything better?" They don't. "That's what I thought. New moon's tonight boys, better make the most of it."
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There's not much snow in August so Sam does his google-fu and finds them the next best thing. They wait until only vagabonds and muggers are out and then drive out to the nearest Dairy Queen. There's nothing much to the plan besides Dean sticking his hands in a bucket of stolen slushy water and scrubbing thoroughly while Sam keeps an eye out for passing cars and cops.
Good news: the cosmic forces at work that pull these kinds of crazy shenanigans don't seem to care that they improvise and Dean's back to touching every single surface within touching distance. That and the one passerby they do encounter is so drunk he doesn't bat an eye at the fact that Dean's barefoot and half way towards naked. He just grins at them both and swaggers away.
"You know, I'm too happy right now to be bothered by the fact that he totally thinks we're together."
"He probably thought you were a bottom."
"In your weird ass dreams. Bitch."
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So, needless to say they both swear never to eat another Skittle (not that Dean doesn't forget in a month's time in Jersey when he grabs a bag off the candy rack while he's stuck in line at a Quick Stop behind some kid who smells like pot and just won't shut up about noggins or nugget or something, and starts eating them. The round-faced clerk is none too happy with his behavior, even after the smarmy fucker with the baseball cap tries to intervene, but it's cool because it just rolls into a heated discussion about customer service and customer etiquette thereof, all of which really just buys Sam more time to try and suck gas out of one of the other cars out front. But that's really a story for another time).
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The End
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