Disclaimer: The only thing I own are the ridiculous situations in which I've placed these boys.
By the time Dean gets his cast sufficiently de-douched, he's due to get the cast changed out for a walking boot. A conclusion Sam had come to long ago – having calculated the rate at which Dean and Steven were working and the date of Dean's next post-op visit – but conveniently kept to himself, figuring that at least it was keeping his brother occupied and out of his hair.
Needless to say, the same medical assistant who had put Dean's cast on was just as intrigued by the end-product, the hot pink showing through in sparse patches in some places while in others it looks like a legitimate black cast. Kind of like a kindergarten art project gone horribly awry.
But Dean's just happy to be out of the damned cast, even if the walking boot is almost the exact same thing. Because his new boot (the previous one having 'mysteriously' gone up in flames several weeks back) means that he's that much closer to being allowed back out on the road.
It also allows him to begin to use his right leg for balance, which at least means that it's not quite so tiresome for him to be upright, having to keep his foot off the ground every second of the day.
And even though he still has to be ultra-cautious, he can at least take the boot off to get a bath. Which is huge. Because he doesn't have to prop his casted leg up on the ledge of the tub anymore, trying to keep his hip from spasming on him while he's trying to get clean. Or dirty, as the case may be.
The change to the boot is also accompanied by a significant improvement in his pain levels, which, combined with his ability to be upright more often and for longer periods of time, gets him more active around the house as well.
He takes on the role of head chef, taking no small amount of satisfaction in being able to do something, even if it is still frustrating, given his limited mobility, difficulty carrying things, and his continued reliance on the crutches and/or countertop to keep himself upright.
But Bobby and Sam are more than happy to help, especially since Dean's cooking far surpasses anything the other two hunters can manage combined.
And it's while Dean's engaged in pulling together the makings for his chili that he begins to implement his plan. Because his time spent glued to Bobby's couch did little more than give him endless hours in which to plot Sam's comeuppance, his retribution for his little brother's sneaky double dog dare "To Do" list.
When he's sure the other hunters are otherwise engaged, having crutched his way into Bobby's study and gotten little more than a couple of grunts in response to his announcement that dinner would be ready in about twenty minutes, he puts his plan into action.
He's carefully laid out several place settings on the kitchen counter, unable to take them over to the table on his own, figuring that each hunter will serve himself from the pot bubbling happily on the stove.
He takes one of the soup spoons, the only one with an "S" stamped onto the handle (probably for "Singer" but just for tonight Dean will designate it for "Sam"), and dips it into the hot pepper tincture he'd managed to procure online a while back, having set it aside for a rainy day.
And if the product lives up to its hype, Sam's about to be caught in a deluge. Hopefully of sweat and tears.
When the other two hunters finally make their way into the kitchen, Dean having bellowed several times in order to gain their attention, the elder Winchester stands aside and hands them each their place setting, his eyes sharply focused on Sam as he serves himself a heaping bowl of chili.
Watching carefully to ensure Sam keeps the correct silverware, he then serves himself, letting Bobby carry his meal over to the table for him.
Once settled, Bobby lets out a couple of impressed "damn boy"s, while Sam greedily slurps down several spoonfuls himself, his initial enthusiasm waning as the heat on his tongue gradually builds.
Dean keeps his face neutral, careful to keep watch out of the corner of his eye without appearing to be too overly-interested in his little brother's activities.
"Holy crap," Sam mutters before taking a few healthy swigs from his water glass (the rim of which Dean has also dotted with the tincture), sweat popping out on his forehead in clusters as he gets yet another dose of heat.
"You okay over there?" Dean asks innocently, continuing to work his way through his own bowl of chili.
"Hot," Sam manages, wiping his forehead with his napkin.
"This ain't hot," says Bobby, throwing Sam a "what the hell's the matter with you" look.
"Seriously?" Sam asks, his eyebrows raised to the ceiling. "My whole esophagus is on fire right now." He looks at the other two hunters who are clearly not having the same issue and decides to give it another try, spooning more of the chili into his mouth only to have to rush over to the sink and spit it out. He takes a couple of gulps of water straight from the faucet, then turns back and gives Dean a hard look.
"What the hell man?"
"What? Don't look at me because you can't handle a little spice in your life," Dean says.
"Spice? I'm gonna have an ulcer from where that stuff burned through my stomach. What'd you do to my food?" he asks, his eyes narrowed in suspicion as a thought begins to take hold.
Thoughts of paybacks. And his brother having too much downtime.
"Dammit," he mumbles to himself, now sure that Dean's done something to his try to pay him back for his list.
"Here Sammy," Dean says with a roll of his eyes. "Take mine. I didn't do anything to your food."
Dean keeps a straight face, his words not technically a lie, since he'd doctored Sam's spoon and cup and not his food. For just such an occasion…
He watches as Sam smugly switches their bowls, taking another mouthful of what was previously Dean's chili, barely swallowing before his eyes get even rounder, the sheen of sweat getting slightly heavier, as the heat hits again, collecting at the back of his throat and traveling south.
Meanwhile, Dean continues to work his way through what was previously Sam's bowl, suffering no undue effects, while Bobby continues to shovel the chili down his gullet, his gaze traveling blandly between the two Winchesters.
Because even though he's not quite sure exactly what's going on, he has no doubt that Dean is, in fact, exacting some form of vengeance on his brother. And while he's curious to see how it turns out, he wants no part in their crazy revenge schemes, having more than once witnessed the lengths the boys will go to.
Not to mention the fact that when they're so focused on slowly torturing each other it's a pretty sure bet they stay out of his hair.
Not that he's not enjoying having them around. He really does enjoy the boys; enjoys Sam's inquisitiveness and love of research, enjoys Dean's sense of humor and cooking skills. Even if he has considered murdering the elder Winchester on more than one occasion over the past few weeks.
But he gets it, gets Dean's inability to sit still, to just rest and heal. Because that's exactly how John was. And how Bobby gets when he's been injured on a hunt. Hell, if you polled the majority of the hunters out there, most of them would choose to gnaw off the offending limb rather than be cooped up for weeks on end trying to recover from surgery.
So Bobby just sits there, enjoys watching Sam continue to figure out what the hell Dean did to him while Dean continues to play the innocent card, considering himself lucky that he's managed to stay out of the crossfire altogether.
()o()o()o()o()
In addition to making inroads with the healing process and his efforts at exacting revenge on Sam, Dean's also been making decent headway with the terms of his bogus contract.
He's working through the book with Steven (which, as it turns out, isn't as horrible as he'd been expecting), he's suffered Sam's choice of cast color, and he's even been getting his Sam-recommended daily allotment of fruits and veggies. Of course, only because Sam's been making a smoothie for him every day and practically forcing it down his throat, but whatever.
But the week that Dean tries to avoid high fructose corn syrup may very well be the worst of his life.
And that's saying something. Because he's been stabbed, shot, tortured, and clawed. Not to mention having quite literally been dragged to hell and back.
Even Sam starts to second guess the wisdom at having included that particular item in the list by the second day. Because it seems like his brother may have a slight addiction problem, if the withdrawal symptoms are anything to go by. He's tired, snippy (well, snippier than Dean usually is when he's doing something against his will), his usual voracious appetite is AWOL, and it seems like his leg is bothering him more than usual.
And at first, Dean's increased pain levels had raised a red flag, had made Sam contemplate taking his brother back to the surgeon for a re-evaluation, but a careful inspection of his leg and a quick online search revealed that all of his symptoms were quite typical for someone trying to detox from sugar.
And it doesn't take much longer until Bobby pulls the plug on that particular item on Sam's list, the elder hunter finally rendering his decision after having listened to Dean complain for several hours straight about everything from the pain in his leg to the loose bowels Sam's smoothies were causing to the general insanity of someone writing seven whole books on the topic of witches and magic.
So it's with a sense of relief that Dean resumes his high fructose corn syrup intake, although he's loathe to admit that he can't quite tolerate the previous amounts of crap he'd been used to. He figures it's kind of like drinking – he's lost his tolerance.
Good thing he can work on slowly building it back up.
A man's got to have goals in life, after all.
Speaking of which…
Dean takes great care in separating the dirty laundry that's been his main goal for today, Bobby having also added household chores to his daily activities calendar now that he's up and about more.
And while he's usually not quite so militant about separating his whites from his darks, their money situation more often than not necessitating more of a "throw in however much crap will fit in there" approach, today's task calls for extreme caution.
His diligence is rewarded later that evening, Sam's bellowed "Dean!" letting him know that his little brother has found his clean underwear.
All four pairs of which are now pastel pink, Dean's bright red sock having once again exacted a little revenge of its own.
To Be Continued…
A/N: So the Muse seems to have wandered away - will update when she comes back. Perhaps some prompts might entice her to return (although I can't promise anything) …
