Paint It Black and Take It Back

It took all of three seconds for Dean to realize he wanted to die. Come and get it, mister reaper. Okay. Maybe not die; but be dead.

Wal Mart.

He was in a fucking Wal Mart.

Dean didn't so much have an aversion to Wal Mart itself as he had an aversion to being with Sam in a Wal Mart. Ever since bratty little seven-year-old Sammy had decided it would be fun to wrangle a bicycle off of the bottom shelf and ride it around the toys section while Dean was a few aisles over looking at comic books and Dad was across the store buying a few days' worth of groceries. He rode it right into the base of a ladder, causing a young employee to take quite a fall while she was in the middle of restocking stuffed gorillas.

Dean had been creamed like corn after the manager had found their dad to pick them up from the security office. He hadn't been able to sit for a week. Not one of his fondest memories.

And besides that little fun trip, Wal Mart was just so...Wal Mart. With the...and the...

Sam was so paying for whatever he bought here. He should have to pay for it; it was his fault they were here.

A security guard shot them a tired glance as they entered the store. He stood with spread legs and locked knees over what appeared to be a small smear of blood waiting to be mopped up off of the dirty linoleum floor. A fight? In Wal Mart? Never.

Dean shook his head. A spot of blood that small couldn't have possibly come from a legitimate fight. Dean knew what the aftermath of a fight should look like.

The chick manning the Express Lane – and what a wonder the Express Lane was; could no one count to twenty? – accidentally charged someone twice for the same box of Nutty Bars as Dean and Sam passed the checkout lanes. Well, as Dean passed the checkout lanes.

Sam ducked his head and laughed very obviously into his shoulder.

The balls on this one. If they weren't in a public place...oh, he'd be laid out.

Where Sam got the nerve to say what he did next, especially considering why they were here, Dean would never know.

"She was hot."

Sam had never been one to approve, let alone encourage Dean's late night hobbies, but he was one to goad Dean if he thought he could get even the slightest rise out of him.

And Dean was still ticked just enough about the car that it worked.

He shot a backwards glare at his little brother, not for the first time in his life wishing he had some kind of special power that would allow him to shoot laser beams out of his eyes and burn Sammy into a pile of smoking ash where his stood with that smirk on his face. Like Cyclops. He even squinted, on the off-chance that it would actually happen. It did not.

Dean was forced to settle and whacked Sam in the arm. He moved a few paces ahead and stomped through the store, chucking glances at the signs to find what he needed so he could get it and get the hell out.

Sam let out another small laugh as he jogged to catch up. Dean was satisfied to see him rubbing his arm. "What? You like redheads."

Oh, Sammy was on a roll.

Laugh a fucking minute.

"Dean."

"Mmm."

"Dean."

"Mmm."

Sam's denim-cloaked crotchular region suddenly materialized in Dean's field of vision and he jerked back violently. "Dude!" He looked up from where he was crouching in the automotive section and glared up at his brother.

Sam glared right back. "Do you know how long we've been standing here? Do you?"

Dean shrugged and jabbed Sam's leg with his left elbow, shoving him out of the way. "Couple minutes. If you're so bored, go look for a new hair dryer or something. Jesus."

"Forty minutes."

Dean rolled his eyes and resumed studying the various tubes and spray cans of touch-up in front of him. Sam could whine all he wanted. "You're the one who had to go and fuck up my car."

"The car's black, Dean."

"I had noticed that."

"Do you know how many shades of black there are, Dean?"

"What, are you an art major now?"

"There's black!" Sam reached down and grabbed a can off of the shelf, flinging it at Dean. "There's one shade! Black."

A quick look, and Dean smirked. "This," Dean said, holding up the spray can without looking at Sam, "is blue."

Sam took the can back with an indignant frown. "It's not black?"

"It's blue."

Deepwater Blue, the label read.

"Did hitting that sign knock out some brain cells or something? I'm not so sure you have enough to spare."

Sam crossed his arms defensively. His lip twitched. "It looks black." He squinted and pointed at another spray can on the shelf.

Dean glanced up at it and rolled his eyes. "Green."

Sam leaned in to check. Dean already had. Goodwood Green. Sam huffed and moved his finger again.

"Aw, come on now, Sammy. That one's purple." Dean grinned. "Your favorite."

Royal Plum. Sam gave another prissy little exhale and moved across the aisle, bumping into a still-crouching Dean as he passed with a tad more force that was necessary, considering it wasn't necessary at all. Dean only grinned. What goes around, little brother.

His attention was refocused on selecting just the right brand and type of touch-up (he knew the car was black, thank you very much), but he still heard Sam's impatient sighs behind him coming at random intervals.

He knew it was coming. Sam wasn't one to go down without a fight. Dean could win fight after argument after spat and Sam would always come back with a cheap shot later.

After ten minutes, Sam moved back to Dean's side of the aisle and ripped another can off of the shelf.

"What's this?" he asked, challenging Dean and thrusting the paint in his face.

Dean kept a straight face. "It's black."

With clenched teeth and a faintly shaking fist Sam ground out, "Then take it."

Dean didn't take it, but scanned the front of the can as Sam continued to hold it in his face, noting the off-brand name. He shook his head. "Not this cheap shit. It won't match right. My girl's special." He sighed dramatically. "Not that everyone appreciates her for what she is."

"Look, Dean, I'm sorry about the car, but it's just cruel and unusual punishment making me stand here like this. I'm not five."

Dean just blinked at him.

Sam's hand jerked. "Take it. It's black."

Calmly, "Yes, we've been over this. But it'll be different."

Sam threw his arms up, apparently forgetting that he was holding the spray can and flinging it down the aisle. Dean choked back a laugh as Sam exploded. "Okay, so what if it is? No one's going to notice! It took you five days to notice and it's your freaking car!"

Dean raised his eyebrows, looking around Sam's legs at the thrown can of paint, now lidless and dripping onto the linoleum. "You need to switch to decaf, man."

The motel room didn't get cable. Which really wouldn't have been a big deal to Sam if it wasn't a Wednesday. At three o' clock in the afternoon. His entertainment choices were pretty much limited to talk shows, soap operas, and watching Dean touch-up the car. The latter was not too high on the list after having already been told multiple times to "stop fuckin' staring at me," which was a large part of the reason he was now lying on his bed, arms crossed huffily with hands tucked under opposite pits, watching a few months old edition of Who's the Daddy on Maury. Or something like that.

Just as Maury was getting ready to open the envelope, the room's door jerked inward, and Sam was summoned with a gruff "Come 'ere."

Sam's eyes ticked over and back to the television. "In a minute."

"Sam." And a door slam. Sam sighed. He groped for the remote and clicked off the TV, never to know whether Tyrone or Miguel was the father of Tiffanee's baby.

Because this wasn't about just anything. Oh, no. This was about the car. The Almighty Impala.

Sam grabbed his hoodie off of the back of a chair on the way out, pulling it over his head as his closed the door behind him. This could take awhile.

Dean was standing in front of the car, bouncing on his heels, an accomplished though uncertain look on his face. He cocked his head, much like when he had first spotted the mark on his precious car, and inspected his work with the cheap spray paint.

Sam stood by silently, waiting for the nod.

It came after only a minute or two. Dean glanced over at Sam with raised eyebrows. Well?

Sam swallowed and crouched in front of car. Dean should really have known better by now. Especially after the theatrics back at the store.

After having been made to stand in an aisle for nearly an hour, Sam was in no hurry to now to set Dean's mind at ease. He took his sweet time.

He studied the painted-over area from all possible angles. Rubbed his chin. Scratched at his cheek. Bit his lip to keep from laughing when Dean sighed impatiently. Because he picked up on the anxiety in the exhale. The whiny inner 'man, even Sammy can tell.'

Sam reached out to touch the glistening paint and his hand was smacked away before his fingers got anywhere close. Dean's reflexes were insane.

Sam sighed and straightened, absently rubbing his hands on his legs. "You missed a spot." He didn't dare look at his brother as he moved past him, entering the motel room silently.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, he whirled and pulled the curtain open just a few inches, just enough to see Dean already bent over in front of the car, his muted muttering ("missed a spot, my ass") audible through the cheap walls and windows.

Yes, the title is from "Welcome to the Black Parade". Thank you, My Chemical Romance.