A/N: Happy birthday, Dizzo. ^^
Prompt: Rub
Word Count: 100
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The Thing About Prank Wars
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Dean was pissed, jaw clenched and grip white-knuckled on the steering wheel. It was obvious he was making a conscious effort to not rub his forehead.
"I said I was sorry, Dean," Sam repeated, though a quaver of amusement colored his tone, compromising his sincerity.
"Don't even talk to me," Dean growled. He shot Sam a glare, eyebrows drawn together – or rather, the reddened skin where his eyebrows had been before they were singed off were drawn together.
Sam couldn't help it. He laughed.
"Fuck you."
"Like I said – it always escalates," smirked Sam.
Dean reached over and smacked him.
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End.
