A Moment with My Brother

Prank Wars - Cherry Bomb!

So if I'm honest Sam's retributive counter-strike was eagerly anticipated and widely praised, when it at last came to pass, by my Bunker housemates for it's pure slap-stick genius and, in a way, I too could appreciate it's comedic catharsis.

Well I would have, were it not for the disgustingly distracting slither of ice cold cherry slushie dripping from my hair to slide it's freezing fingers sensually down my neck and soak my favorite, pretty-pink, kitten t-shirt.

Crap, that's cold!

Sam had gone with the 'much loved by frat boys the world over', balance the bucket of water on the top of the door, thing. Only he'd spiced it up with the addition of thick, sticky, icy-cold, cherry slushie.

Oh and of course it was really meant for Dean. Retribution for the whole garlic candy primary battle of our wonderfully silly, utterly childish prank war.

But see Dean is, as we had previously noted, a master practitioner of all things stupid, an icon of irrational triviality, the king of crass obviousness and as such was on his guard for any and every retaliative come back.

And so it was, that without any of we less experienced pranksters becoming aware, Dean ensured he was just that moment behind one or other of us when any possibly booby-trapped package were needing opening, or, when the first spoonful out of the pan if Sam had warmed the soup for our lunch needed sampling, or when, as in this case, a cherry-bombed door needed carelessly passing through.

And thus, I stand and drip. Sticky and slightly annoyed as Kevin stares wide-eyed at Sam's careless audacity and Cas head-tilts his only-newly-human, slight confusion. Dean, for his part is biting his cheek so hard so as not to laugh that I'm sure he can taste copper but he knows better than to laugh especially since this slurpy sweet granita is really his and he knows cherry is soo not my favorite.

"Charlie..."

Sam's voice is weak and shaky, his face pale. Not 'the Trials nearly killed me', pale but more 'oh sh*t, I messed up big style and gooped my baby-sis, pale but my raised, slightly red and sugar-sticky palm halts the pathetically whimpered, start of an apology on his lips.

"Samuel Winchester..."

I seethe as I gather my dignity, which is a challenge, considering the progression of the corn-syrup calamity has now crested my lower back and is sneaking underneath the super-sexy laciness of my pastel panties.

Oopsie, T.M.I! But yuk, uncomfortable to say the least!

"Samuel Winchester. You will regret this."

My voice is measured and calm which is much scarier for Sam than any rage on my part would be and I see in his eyes that he would, at this moment, rather face a whole circus of freaky clowns than endure my apocalyptic and wilily feminine ire.

Chapter ends