Title: When I was . . .
Words: 697 words
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: n/a
Rating: general
Warnings: none
Author's Notes: DISCLAIMERS . . . The characters don't belong to me and neither do the actors.
Dean backhanded Sam upside his head.
"Ouch!"
"Do you find some kind of pleasure in constantly hitting me on the head?" Sam said, looking up from the laptop.
"I don't constantly hit you. Only when you do something stupid or when you annoy me," Dean smirked. "Or when I feel like it."
"Oh, Really?"
Dean ran his hand over his face, "I am not getting into this with you."
"When I was five, you clocked me in the nose."
"You were probably being annoying," Dean tried to defend himself as he went back to packing up the weapons he had just cleaned.
"I didn't want a peanut butter and jelly sandwich."
"You probably asked for it and then said you didn't want it. You did that a lot. Got on my last nerve."
"I was five."
Dean jutted his chin out and smirked inwardly, "You still deserved it."
"You punched a five-year-old."
"I was nine," Dean said. "You remember me punching you, but you can't remember the seven-foot monster who tried to eat your soul."
"I like to keep the happy memories and discard the unhappy."
"And me punching you was a happy memory?"
"No, not the punching, the ice cream I got afterward."
"That's right. You little . . . I was so pissed about that."
"Bubble gum."
"Uh?"
"It was bubble gum flavored."
"So, ok, that's one time."
"When I was eight, you pushed me down a flight of stairs."
"That's not hitting. And I was protecting you."
"From what?"
"Dad."
"What?"
"We weren't supposed to be hunting things by ourselves. I was just giving you an excuse."
"So, instead of getting in trouble for hunting, I got a concussion, a broken arm, and in trouble for leaving the hotel room."
"Fair trade."
"Seventh grade. You hit me upside the head with a baseball bat."
"I did not hit you with the . . . "
"Wait, no, you're right. You hit me with the baseball. You tried to hit me with the bat, but I ducked."
"I didn't do it on purpose. You were in the way."
"You looked right at me before you swung."
"I was just checking to see where you were."
"You pointed at me and mouthed 'you'"
"I was just trying to let you be the hero and get me out."
"I was on your team. Why would I catch...?"
"Fine. You probably did something to annoy me. You did that a lot."
Sam just rolled his eyes. If that explanation had come from anyone other than his brother it would never have flown. Somehow, coming from him, it just worked.
Dean rapped on Sam's head, "It amazes me I haven't screwed anything up in there."
They grabbed their bags and headed out to the car.
"When I was . . . "
"I've got one," Dean interrupted. He opened the trunk and threw his bag inside and then sat down on the ledge.
"What? You're supposed to be defending yourself not incriminating yourself."
"When you were nine months old, I dropped you on your head."
Sam unconsciously grabbed at his head, "You what?"
"You didn't cry, so I thought I broke you. We were still living with Mike and Kate. Dad was outside or something, so I went and snuck downstairs and got some Elmer's glue and duct tape, because dad told me you can fix anything with duct tape. I tried to fix you. Hold on."
Dean turned around and pulled at some fabric in the secret compartment in the trunk. He pulled up another hidden door and started sifting through journals.
"Are those journals?"
"Hunting journals. If you go secretly reading them, you won't find any deeper insight into my soul," Dean answered. "So, don't touch them."
Dean found what he was looking for and chuckled, "Here."
He handed Sam a small faded Polaroid of a sleeping baby covered in duct tape, its hair matted down with glue, and an ace bandage wrapped around its head.
"I'd say you tried to fix me."
"Dad said you can't break someone by dropping them on their head," Dean said. "Hey, maybe deep down I've just been trying to prove him wrong. Huh, how about that for some psychoanalysis?"
"Screw you."