i wanna watch you turn into a werewolf (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gorgeousnerd) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
firmament2009-06-01 07:10 pm
gorgeousnerd) wrote in firmament2009-06-01 07:10 pm
Entry tags:
"April Fools' Day", Supernatural, PG, gen.
Title: April Fools' Day
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG for language.
Length: About 2500 words.
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Sam, John.
Summary: Sometimes, prank wars get ugly.
Notes: This was one of the stories I wrote for the Spring 2009 round of Sweet Charity (which is, at this point, the final round of Sweet Charity) at the request ofheidi, the winning bidder. Click here to see it on ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
chomalfoyfics.
April Fools' Day
It started because of a calendar.
Dad was in the bathroom of a gas station about an hour out of Fort Wayne, and Sam was dozing in the backseat. They'd left their latest motel room before dawn, and Sam had been awake and pacing when the alarm woke Dean up. Now, Dean bounced his leg outside the open car door and Sam snored.
He got out of the car and walked toward the the convenience store that was part of the station. He wasn't going to go in – he'd had enough lectures about shoplifting for a lifetime, and he didn't have any cash left from his latest hustle – but he had to do something. Maybe he'd check the attached garage, smell the grease for a little while. There wasn't nothing that fumes couldn't cure.
When Dean passed by a window that led into a back office, he spotted a desk calendar. The latest page had a big “1” on it. He stopped, then squinted; at the top right was the year 1995, and the top left had the word “April” on it.
He held his breath. Was the calendar right? He looked again, saw a “Saturday” beneath the “1”. He nodded slowly. Yeah. It was April 1st.
April Fools' Day.
A thrill shot through Dean, and he dashed to the pumps, making sure to stay out of sight of the store's windows. This would crash and burn if Dad came out early, or if no one pulled up. But a white sedan parked by the pumps just as he reached them, and Dean bent to tie his shoes as the driver went inside. A minute later, Dean fell in behind him, close on his heels but distant enough so the man wouldn't feel crowded. It seemed to work since the guy let the door swing behind him. If Dean hadn't been paying attention, he would have stopped it with his nose, but he caught it without injury.
He stepped inside and crouched beside a soda machine, keeping out of sight of the clerk. He spied a camera on the ceiling that was supposed to catch the clerk's blind spots toward the back, but if all went well, he wouldn't go anywhere near it.
Luckily, the personal hygiene products were right by the door. Probably didn't get a lot of sticky fingers wanting razors and soap in these parts.
It only took him a good thirty seconds to get in and out of the store. Easing into the back of the Impala and preparing Sam took a little longer, but not by much. Dean held his breath as best he could the entire time, willing Sam to stay under, but he couldn't stop the grin plastered on his face. Good thing no one could see it.
Dad made his way back just as Dean sat in his seat again. The doors groaned as both Dean and Dad closed them, and Sam stirred; Dean could see it because he was watching the rear view mirror.
Sam yawned and squeezed his eyes shut, and Dean wondered in a split second of disappointment if Sam was going to go back to sleep. That's when put his right hand to his face, dragging it down from his nose. The pile of shaving cream that Dean had sprayed into his palm went along with it. Sam jerked into a sitting position and looked around as fast as he could.
Dean snickered under his breath, nearly shaking with the effort it took to keep it in.
Sam's head snapped in his direction. In the mirror, Dean could only see the green of Sam's eyes and the white cream that covered his face.
“Dean!”
All Dean could get out was a kind of casual “Hmm?”
Sam's hands, one of which was still covered in shaving cream, reached over the seat. Dean pushed them away and said, “You've got something on your face, Sammy!”
At that, Sam lurched forward, forgetting that he was still belted into the seat. He was thrown back against the upholstery as the belt stopped him, startling him into silence.
Dean lost it. He laughed so hard his sides ached and tears streamed down his face.
Sam snarled and grabbed at the buckle of his seatbelt. Dad looked over his shoulder. He rolled his eyes, then threw a rag he kept by his feet into the back. “Settle down, both of you.”
“But Dad--” Sam started to say, for all the good it would do.
Dad's voice was in command mode. “Sam, do as I say.”
Sam settled back into his seat, scowling so hard that Dean wondered if his face would get stuck. Sam wiped the seat and his hand without looking away from Dean, who chuckled as he leaned back.
–
Sam, for his part, didn't want to get into another stupid prank war. But Dean started it, and Dad never gave a crap, so he wasn't going to let it slide, either. Not on April Fools' Day.
They made it into a nothing town in Ohio just before noon when Dad pulled into another motel and ordered them to stay there. Dean accepted without question, but Sam tried to ask questions: where was he going, when would he be back, what were they going to do for food. Maybe it was in Sam's imagination, but Dad looked guilty for a half-second. Whether or not he was, he snapped that Dean would take care of it, and closed the door very firmly behind him.
Frankly, Dad leaving worked just fine for Sam. The less witnesses, the better.
“I'm hungry,” Sam said not five minutes after Dad left.
Dean was stretched on his queen with a muscle car mag, but Sam could see him roll his eyes. “We ate on the road.”
“I wasn't hungry then.”
“Too bad.”
“Dean...”
“You can wait!”
Sam opened his eyes wide. “Please?”
Dean tossed the magazine on the side table. “I'm going to take a shower.”
“But Dean--”
“Shut up!”
Dean stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door. The walls of the room shook. Sam smothered a laugh, then sat on the floor and did sit-ups as fast as he could.
He'd just broken a sweat when he heard the water turn on. Sam sat up and leaned on his knees for a minute, then stood.
Showtime.
Crossing the room, he knocked on the front door as hard as he could three times. He ignored the stinging of his knuckles, then slid open the chain and swung the door open.
“Trouble,” he said in as deep as voice as he could manage. Then, “What?” in his normal voice, and “Get your brother!” in the not-really-deep voice. It didn't matter if it sounded perfect, since Dean wouldn't be able to hear too well over the water. He probably couldn't hear it at all, but Sam liked to cover his tracks.
He ran to the bathroom and slammed the door open so hard it banged against the tub. Dean shouted. “What the hell?”
“Trouble outside!” he gasped.
Sam turned and dashed out again just as Dean pushed the curtain back. He ran out of the open door, then flattened himself against the wall.
Just in time for Dean to run outside without a stitch of clothing on, dripping water behind him, and carrying his sawed-off shotgun in his right hand.
Dean shielded his eyes and spun around. His feet were bare, and the parking lot needed to be repaved badly, so he would jerk every time he put his weight on loose pebbles. Sam squeezed his lips together and looked to see if anyone was watching. It didn't seem like anyone in the motel was, but there were people gawking by the side of the road.
“Sam?” Dean cried, his voice jagged. Sam felt a guilty pang, then tried to ignore it. Dean had done worse in his time, after all.
Finally, Dean turned and saw Sam against the wall, and his wide eyes and drawn face relaxed.
Sam held up his hands. “False alarm?”
Dean stepped forward, looking a lot taller and more imposing than he usually did. Sam suppressed a squeak and held his quivering smile. Dean's left hand clenched into a fist, and Sam straightened, meeting Dean's gaze full-on.
“You started it,” Sam said. He was pleased that his voice stayed steady.
Without another word, Dean stalked inside. Sam heard a clatter, but his knees weakened, and he braced against the wall. A few minutes later, Dean stalked out of the room fully-clothed, his hands in his jacket pockets.
He didn't look in Sam's direction, and Sam was glad.
You started it, Sam thought, and it was enough to get his legs to hold him up again.
–
Dean stalked around for a good hour before he realized he didn't recognize where he was. The town had given away to empty fields who knows when, and the only thing worth seeing was drivers zooming past, eyeballing him from behind their steering wheels. He scowled back at a douche in a red truck, then flipped up the corner of his jacket.
His hair had dried during the walk, but his collar was still damp. Damp because he hadn't dried his hair.
Damn it, Sam.
Yeah, okay, Dean had started it, but there was a difference between a little shaving cream and making Dean think there was an emergency. That something might...
He shook his head. If Dad had been around, he'd have tanned Sam's hide but good. Hell, he would tell Dad when he got back. He didn't like to get Dad involved in their pranks, and Dad didn't have the time to deal with them, but this? He had to watch Sam, protect him, but how could he, if the damn kid was going to cry wolf like this?
Good job, he thought. You left him alone.
And at that, the doubt set in. Dad would just say that Sam was testing Dean's mettle, making sure he was up to snuff. And he failed. Again. Sam was big enough to take care of himself for a while, sure, but if Dad heard about this, he'd likely get the whipping, not Sam.
He kicked dirt into the air. It drew another stare, but he didn't care. Better the ground than something soft.
There had to be a way. A way for Sam to get what was coming without Dad getting involved. Yelling would do nothing; what eleven-year-old listened when his older brother screamed? But...
He groaned. Of course. It was still April 1st, and there was a whole list of pranks he hadn't even touched.
With a grin, Dean turned back toward town.
–
Sam had the phone's handset to his ear when Dean walked in the door, carrying a plastic bag.
“Dad?” Dean said, putting the back down in a hurry.
“No.” Sam shook his head. “I was trying his pager.”
Dean's eyes moved over Sam's face, and he felt the twinge of guilt again. But it looked like Dean believed him, which was good, since Sam was telling the truth. Dean gave a curt nod and picked up the bag again.
Sam put the handset back in the receiver, then sat forward. “I didn't know where you were.”
“Food,” Dean said, lifting the bag. “Thought you said you were hungry.”
“Yeah.”
He tossed the bag on the bed next to Sam, then bent to untie his shoes. Sam rummaged and found a sandwich and a Coke, and for some reason, the sight made his throat clench.
“Thanks,” he croaked. He unwrapped the sandwich, and the smell of roast beef made his stomach clench. He really was hungry.
“Yeah,” Dean replied, then went into the bathroom and closed the door.
Sam chewed on his sandwich and stared at the light coming from the cracks in the doorframe.
–
They'd been out of school for a couple weeks, so their normal out-of-class pattern had come back: Dean crashed around eleven, since Dad hadn't called back, and Sam took a shower and read in the bathroom until he was tired.
Dean counted on it.
He worried for a little while when Dad didn't call, but that happened sometimes, particularly when Dad was working a job. And it just made everything more believable. Sam didn't push Dean's broody mood and went into the bathroom when Dean settled in. It was hard lying still with the covers over his head, particularly when there was no one to see, but it was better just in case.
It didn't take long, anyway.
Sam burst out of the bathroom some minutes later; Dean wasn't watching the clock, so he didn't know how long it was exactly. And he didn't open his eyes until Sam shook his arm really hard for a few minutes.
“Wha?”
“Dean!” Sam shook him again. “Dean, please!”
He opened an eye. “Whaazit?”
Sam held his hand in front of Dean's hand. A huge clump of brown hair sat in his palm.
“I think my shampoo is...cursed!”
Dean choked and rolled on his side, slapping his hand on his mattress. Sam pushed at him again.
“Dean? Dean!”
“Cursed!” was all Dean managed to get out. The entire bed was shaking now.
“You...you?”
Dean rolled back over and blotted away tears from his eyes. “It's called Nair, bro. Didn't you smell your shampoo?”
Sam was speechless. He looked at Dean, then at his hair, and back at Dean again.
“Hope you like wearing hats!” Dean said, then cracked up again.
“But...”
“What?” Dean sat up. His stomach was hurting from all the laughing.
“But it's not fair.”
Dean smirked. “Oh, I think it's really fair.”
He wondered briefly if Sam was going to explode. His face was bright red and he shook, so it didn't seem impossible. But instead, he said in a very deliberate voice, “I'm telling Dad.”
“Tell him about the monster from earlier, too,” Dean replied, putting his hands behind his head. “I'm sure he'd love to hear about that.”
Sam stopped shaking, but his face stayed as red as a beet. He sat down on his bed carefully, then tossed the clump of hair in the trash bin. Dean wondered how much of the rest of his hair he was going to lose.
“Truce?” Sam asked.
Dean shook his head. “It's the end of April Fools' Day, and I'm one-up.”
“If the cops don't arrest you,” Sam said. “Public nudity.”
“They haven't yet.”
Sam's shoulders slumped. “Fine.”
Dean leaned forward. “A tip?”
Sam looked up.
“If I go in the bathroom with my jacket on? Probably a sign.”
Sam smiled a little. “Got it.”
The clock on the table clicked over to midnight.
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG for language.
Length: About 2500 words.
Characters/Pairings: Dean, Sam, John.
Summary: Sometimes, prank wars get ugly.
Notes: This was one of the stories I wrote for the Spring 2009 round of Sweet Charity (which is, at this point, the final round of Sweet Charity) at the request of
heidi, the winning bidder. Click here to see it on chomalfoyfics.It started because of a calendar.
Dad was in the bathroom of a gas station about an hour out of Fort Wayne, and Sam was dozing in the backseat. They'd left their latest motel room before dawn, and Sam had been awake and pacing when the alarm woke Dean up. Now, Dean bounced his leg outside the open car door and Sam snored.
He got out of the car and walked toward the the convenience store that was part of the station. He wasn't going to go in – he'd had enough lectures about shoplifting for a lifetime, and he didn't have any cash left from his latest hustle – but he had to do something. Maybe he'd check the attached garage, smell the grease for a little while. There wasn't nothing that fumes couldn't cure.
When Dean passed by a window that led into a back office, he spotted a desk calendar. The latest page had a big “1” on it. He stopped, then squinted; at the top right was the year 1995, and the top left had the word “April” on it.
He held his breath. Was the calendar right? He looked again, saw a “Saturday” beneath the “1”. He nodded slowly. Yeah. It was April 1st.
April Fools' Day.
A thrill shot through Dean, and he dashed to the pumps, making sure to stay out of sight of the store's windows. This would crash and burn if Dad came out early, or if no one pulled up. But a white sedan parked by the pumps just as he reached them, and Dean bent to tie his shoes as the driver went inside. A minute later, Dean fell in behind him, close on his heels but distant enough so the man wouldn't feel crowded. It seemed to work since the guy let the door swing behind him. If Dean hadn't been paying attention, he would have stopped it with his nose, but he caught it without injury.
He stepped inside and crouched beside a soda machine, keeping out of sight of the clerk. He spied a camera on the ceiling that was supposed to catch the clerk's blind spots toward the back, but if all went well, he wouldn't go anywhere near it.
Luckily, the personal hygiene products were right by the door. Probably didn't get a lot of sticky fingers wanting razors and soap in these parts.
It only took him a good thirty seconds to get in and out of the store. Easing into the back of the Impala and preparing Sam took a little longer, but not by much. Dean held his breath as best he could the entire time, willing Sam to stay under, but he couldn't stop the grin plastered on his face. Good thing no one could see it.
Dad made his way back just as Dean sat in his seat again. The doors groaned as both Dean and Dad closed them, and Sam stirred; Dean could see it because he was watching the rear view mirror.
Sam yawned and squeezed his eyes shut, and Dean wondered in a split second of disappointment if Sam was going to go back to sleep. That's when put his right hand to his face, dragging it down from his nose. The pile of shaving cream that Dean had sprayed into his palm went along with it. Sam jerked into a sitting position and looked around as fast as he could.
Dean snickered under his breath, nearly shaking with the effort it took to keep it in.
Sam's head snapped in his direction. In the mirror, Dean could only see the green of Sam's eyes and the white cream that covered his face.
“Dean!”
All Dean could get out was a kind of casual “Hmm?”
Sam's hands, one of which was still covered in shaving cream, reached over the seat. Dean pushed them away and said, “You've got something on your face, Sammy!”
At that, Sam lurched forward, forgetting that he was still belted into the seat. He was thrown back against the upholstery as the belt stopped him, startling him into silence.
Dean lost it. He laughed so hard his sides ached and tears streamed down his face.
Sam snarled and grabbed at the buckle of his seatbelt. Dad looked over his shoulder. He rolled his eyes, then threw a rag he kept by his feet into the back. “Settle down, both of you.”
“But Dad--” Sam started to say, for all the good it would do.
Dad's voice was in command mode. “Sam, do as I say.”
Sam settled back into his seat, scowling so hard that Dean wondered if his face would get stuck. Sam wiped the seat and his hand without looking away from Dean, who chuckled as he leaned back.
Sam, for his part, didn't want to get into another stupid prank war. But Dean started it, and Dad never gave a crap, so he wasn't going to let it slide, either. Not on April Fools' Day.
They made it into a nothing town in Ohio just before noon when Dad pulled into another motel and ordered them to stay there. Dean accepted without question, but Sam tried to ask questions: where was he going, when would he be back, what were they going to do for food. Maybe it was in Sam's imagination, but Dad looked guilty for a half-second. Whether or not he was, he snapped that Dean would take care of it, and closed the door very firmly behind him.
Frankly, Dad leaving worked just fine for Sam. The less witnesses, the better.
“I'm hungry,” Sam said not five minutes after Dad left.
Dean was stretched on his queen with a muscle car mag, but Sam could see him roll his eyes. “We ate on the road.”
“I wasn't hungry then.”
“Too bad.”
“Dean...”
“You can wait!”
Sam opened his eyes wide. “Please?”
Dean tossed the magazine on the side table. “I'm going to take a shower.”
“But Dean--”
“Shut up!”
Dean stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door. The walls of the room shook. Sam smothered a laugh, then sat on the floor and did sit-ups as fast as he could.
He'd just broken a sweat when he heard the water turn on. Sam sat up and leaned on his knees for a minute, then stood.
Showtime.
Crossing the room, he knocked on the front door as hard as he could three times. He ignored the stinging of his knuckles, then slid open the chain and swung the door open.
“Trouble,” he said in as deep as voice as he could manage. Then, “What?” in his normal voice, and “Get your brother!” in the not-really-deep voice. It didn't matter if it sounded perfect, since Dean wouldn't be able to hear too well over the water. He probably couldn't hear it at all, but Sam liked to cover his tracks.
He ran to the bathroom and slammed the door open so hard it banged against the tub. Dean shouted. “What the hell?”
“Trouble outside!” he gasped.
Sam turned and dashed out again just as Dean pushed the curtain back. He ran out of the open door, then flattened himself against the wall.
Just in time for Dean to run outside without a stitch of clothing on, dripping water behind him, and carrying his sawed-off shotgun in his right hand.
Dean shielded his eyes and spun around. His feet were bare, and the parking lot needed to be repaved badly, so he would jerk every time he put his weight on loose pebbles. Sam squeezed his lips together and looked to see if anyone was watching. It didn't seem like anyone in the motel was, but there were people gawking by the side of the road.
“Sam?” Dean cried, his voice jagged. Sam felt a guilty pang, then tried to ignore it. Dean had done worse in his time, after all.
Finally, Dean turned and saw Sam against the wall, and his wide eyes and drawn face relaxed.
Sam held up his hands. “False alarm?”
Dean stepped forward, looking a lot taller and more imposing than he usually did. Sam suppressed a squeak and held his quivering smile. Dean's left hand clenched into a fist, and Sam straightened, meeting Dean's gaze full-on.
“You started it,” Sam said. He was pleased that his voice stayed steady.
Without another word, Dean stalked inside. Sam heard a clatter, but his knees weakened, and he braced against the wall. A few minutes later, Dean stalked out of the room fully-clothed, his hands in his jacket pockets.
He didn't look in Sam's direction, and Sam was glad.
You started it, Sam thought, and it was enough to get his legs to hold him up again.
Dean stalked around for a good hour before he realized he didn't recognize where he was. The town had given away to empty fields who knows when, and the only thing worth seeing was drivers zooming past, eyeballing him from behind their steering wheels. He scowled back at a douche in a red truck, then flipped up the corner of his jacket.
His hair had dried during the walk, but his collar was still damp. Damp because he hadn't dried his hair.
Damn it, Sam.
Yeah, okay, Dean had started it, but there was a difference between a little shaving cream and making Dean think there was an emergency. That something might...
He shook his head. If Dad had been around, he'd have tanned Sam's hide but good. Hell, he would tell Dad when he got back. He didn't like to get Dad involved in their pranks, and Dad didn't have the time to deal with them, but this? He had to watch Sam, protect him, but how could he, if the damn kid was going to cry wolf like this?
Good job, he thought. You left him alone.
And at that, the doubt set in. Dad would just say that Sam was testing Dean's mettle, making sure he was up to snuff. And he failed. Again. Sam was big enough to take care of himself for a while, sure, but if Dad heard about this, he'd likely get the whipping, not Sam.
He kicked dirt into the air. It drew another stare, but he didn't care. Better the ground than something soft.
There had to be a way. A way for Sam to get what was coming without Dad getting involved. Yelling would do nothing; what eleven-year-old listened when his older brother screamed? But...
He groaned. Of course. It was still April 1st, and there was a whole list of pranks he hadn't even touched.
With a grin, Dean turned back toward town.
Sam had the phone's handset to his ear when Dean walked in the door, carrying a plastic bag.
“Dad?” Dean said, putting the back down in a hurry.
“No.” Sam shook his head. “I was trying his pager.”
Dean's eyes moved over Sam's face, and he felt the twinge of guilt again. But it looked like Dean believed him, which was good, since Sam was telling the truth. Dean gave a curt nod and picked up the bag again.
Sam put the handset back in the receiver, then sat forward. “I didn't know where you were.”
“Food,” Dean said, lifting the bag. “Thought you said you were hungry.”
“Yeah.”
He tossed the bag on the bed next to Sam, then bent to untie his shoes. Sam rummaged and found a sandwich and a Coke, and for some reason, the sight made his throat clench.
“Thanks,” he croaked. He unwrapped the sandwich, and the smell of roast beef made his stomach clench. He really was hungry.
“Yeah,” Dean replied, then went into the bathroom and closed the door.
Sam chewed on his sandwich and stared at the light coming from the cracks in the doorframe.
They'd been out of school for a couple weeks, so their normal out-of-class pattern had come back: Dean crashed around eleven, since Dad hadn't called back, and Sam took a shower and read in the bathroom until he was tired.
Dean counted on it.
He worried for a little while when Dad didn't call, but that happened sometimes, particularly when Dad was working a job. And it just made everything more believable. Sam didn't push Dean's broody mood and went into the bathroom when Dean settled in. It was hard lying still with the covers over his head, particularly when there was no one to see, but it was better just in case.
It didn't take long, anyway.
Sam burst out of the bathroom some minutes later; Dean wasn't watching the clock, so he didn't know how long it was exactly. And he didn't open his eyes until Sam shook his arm really hard for a few minutes.
“Wha?”
“Dean!” Sam shook him again. “Dean, please!”
He opened an eye. “Whaazit?”
Sam held his hand in front of Dean's hand. A huge clump of brown hair sat in his palm.
“I think my shampoo is...cursed!”
Dean choked and rolled on his side, slapping his hand on his mattress. Sam pushed at him again.
“Dean? Dean!”
“Cursed!” was all Dean managed to get out. The entire bed was shaking now.
“You...you?”
Dean rolled back over and blotted away tears from his eyes. “It's called Nair, bro. Didn't you smell your shampoo?”
Sam was speechless. He looked at Dean, then at his hair, and back at Dean again.
“Hope you like wearing hats!” Dean said, then cracked up again.
“But...”
“What?” Dean sat up. His stomach was hurting from all the laughing.
“But it's not fair.”
Dean smirked. “Oh, I think it's really fair.”
He wondered briefly if Sam was going to explode. His face was bright red and he shook, so it didn't seem impossible. But instead, he said in a very deliberate voice, “I'm telling Dad.”
“Tell him about the monster from earlier, too,” Dean replied, putting his hands behind his head. “I'm sure he'd love to hear about that.”
Sam stopped shaking, but his face stayed as red as a beet. He sat down on his bed carefully, then tossed the clump of hair in the trash bin. Dean wondered how much of the rest of his hair he was going to lose.
“Truce?” Sam asked.
Dean shook his head. “It's the end of April Fools' Day, and I'm one-up.”
“If the cops don't arrest you,” Sam said. “Public nudity.”
“They haven't yet.”
Sam's shoulders slumped. “Fine.”
Dean leaned forward. “A tip?”
Sam looked up.
“If I go in the bathroom with my jacket on? Probably a sign.”
Sam smiled a little. “Got it.”
The clock on the table clicked over to midnight.
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