A HEAD FOR TROUBLE

Chapter 4

xxxxx

Dean glared up at Sam insofar as the position of his trapped head would allow him to.

"No Sam, you are not smearing that shit all over me," he growled.

Sam shrugged; "we've gotta do what we' ve gotta do, Dean; It might help."

"It might not," snapped Dean belligerently.

"Well if it doesn't then we're no worse off than we are now," Sam replied glibly, turning to discuss the options with the tall cop who had remained at the scene, thus indicating that the matter, so far as he was concerned, was closed.

"Why can't they just cut the friggin railings," Dean pleaded; "who cares if the stupid park was inaugurated in stupid twelve million BC? My head's more important than some freakin' bit of gra … WHAT THE HELL?

Dean flinched wildly at the sensation of warm water sprinkling over his hand and arm, and stared in disbelief at a jack russell, which having seemingly appeared out of nowhere, now stood before him, leg lavishly cocked, marking Dean as his own.

"NOW I'M GETTING PISSED ON BY …" his words tailed off as a small boy scampered over toward the errant, weak-bladdered dog.

"Benji, don't you go runnin' away like tha … huh?"

The blond child froze, eyes widening as he stared at the trapped figure in front of him.

Eventually he found his voice. "What-cha doin' Mister?" he asked.

"I'm playing the goddamn violin," Dean grunted sourly, his trapped head swivelling between the bewildered child and his own dripping hand.

The boy stared vacantly back at him, Dean's sarcasm sailing over his close-cropped head at a safe distance.

"How?" He asked; "I can't see no violin. How you gonna play it with your head stuck in the railin's.

"Well, now, that's obviously where I'm going wrong," Dean grumbled humourlessly, shaking the last warm drops off of his hand.

"Did Benji do that?" the boy asked, finally noticing the golden droplets as they flew off Dean's wet fingers.

"Well it sure as hell wasn't me," Dean snapped, wishing with all his heart that this dumb kid would find some other poor sap to share his rapier intellect with.

"You should get your head out of them railin's," the boy suggested, his finger rooting enthusiastically up his nose as he spoke; "it's gonna get dark soon, and you might get eaten by a cougar or a bear or somethin'."

"Yeah, thanks for the advice," Dean groaned; "I don't know why I hadn't thought of th … Oh jeez, Sam, thank God."

Sam's timely return momentarily distracted the child, much to Dean's relief.

"Hey Mister, what'ya doin' with all that butter? My mom says butter ain't good for ya. It's full of them overrated fats."

Sam's brief smile at the kid was a step up from ignoring him as he knelt down beside Dean.

"Uh, you might not be so pleased to see me in a minute – sorry," he apologised briefly and Dean tensed when he realised what was going to happen.

"Sammy, I forbid you to do this. No don't you … uuugh!"

Dean squirmed furiously as he felt Sam's hand circle his neck, and the warm squish of the butter against his flushed skin. Sam's hand's worked its way upwards, spreading another glob of the warm goo around his jaw and up over his face and ears, working thoroughly and carefully despite Dean's testy wriggling, head shaking and attempts to bite his fingers.

"Na-ah … guh … Oh, I am so going to … splu-uhh-uhht …"

Evntually, job done, Sam wiped his butter-smeared fingers on his jeans and stood back to admire his work.

I guess that's about as slippery as we can make him," he muttered to the two cops who had stepped up alongside him, and were making no attempt to hide their amusement.

"Hey Mister, why ya wearing all that butter?" The kid asked, his finger roothing lavishly in his ear now, having clearly finished its business with his nose; "ain't'cha supposed to eat butter? My mom says ya shoul'nt waste good food."

Dean's head drooped in abject defeat, despite the attentions of Benji who was busy licking butter off Dean's chin as if all his birthdays had come at once.

"Make him go away," he pleaded in a tiny voice to whoever may be listening.

xxxxx

"Okay, right, here's how we're gonna do this," the tall cop announced, rubbing his hands together in determination; "you, he gestured to Sam; you go round the other side of the fence and work his head back through the railings."

"You," he gestured to his spherical companion,"grab him round the body and help him pull backwards."

"And I'm gonna get a crowbar out of the trunk and slip it between the railings, see if I can't force them apart a bit."

All three men nodded and went in their separate directions.

xxxxx

Dean gripped the railing as best he could, his butter-slicked hands making the job much more difficult than it should be as the cop stood over him checking the best place to apply the crowbar between the railings. In front of him, and on the other side of the fence Sam, having shoo-ed the world's most annoying kid and his equally annoying dog away, was crouching, ready to manipulate Dean's head, and most importantly his disobliging ears back through the railings.

Behind him, he could hear the fat cop grumbling, whining about personal injury and having Dean arrested for assault.

Dean had no sympathy. No self-respecting guy goes up behind another guy, especially one bent over in a vulnerable position, and wraps their arms around his midriff without expecting a backward kick in the jewels for their trouble.

xxxxx

Eventually everyone was in place, and tall cop called 'ready?' as he slid the crowbar in place.

"Ready," Sam replied with a nod.

"Ready," croaked the fat cop through a haze of tears.

"Ready," groaned Dean, praying that this whole farce would be over soon.

As the strain was taken up with the crowbar, Dean felt the railings bow either side of him, and he took up his own strain, digging his heels into the gravel behind him. He also felt wideboy behind him gripping him hard around the waist; very hard. That guy was gonna find out exactly how much Dean needed a piss if he didn't ease up soon.

Before him Sam was pushing, bending and twisting, trying to manoeuvre Dean's slippery and protesting head through the bars, fingertips clamped protectively over his brother's ears as he worked.

Their first attempt ended in failure. However, once everyone had recovered from their efforts, and after another liberal coating of butter, which Dean was convinced was only done to piss him off, rather than for any practical reasons, they set to work again again, ignoring the small crowd which suddenly seemed to have gathered – primarily to gawk, it seemed, rather than help.

This time, their efforts succeeded.

With the crowbar bending the railings aside, just an extra inch and with his own efforts combined with Sam's patient manoeuvring and the persistent tugging behind him, Dean's head suddenly slipped through the railing with a wet slurp and he tumbled backwards from the violent force of his rapid freedom, further injuring the unfortunate cop behind him in the process.

He had no time for niceties and concern however, as his first act on regaining his footing was to scurry backwards behind a nearby bush and empty his bursting bladder.

As he stepped out moments later, from behind said bush, shaking his left foot which had met with an unfortunate accident in his haste, his huge sense of relief came crashing down around him.

"Sam?"

Sam gripped the railings and scowled. "As you slipped backwards, I lost my footing, and fell forward, and …"

Dean's butter-coated head drooped into his hands, as he looked toward the waiting cops, and the growing crowd in the park behind Sam's crouching form.

"Have we got any more of that butter?" he sighed.

xxxxx

end