Lisamarie (phebemarie) wrote in spn_bigpretzel,
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phebemarie
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The Product of Boredom 4/? "You cannot make an omelet without breaking some eggs"

Title:  The Product of Boredom 4/?
Author:  Phebemarie
Genre:  Gen
Rating:  PG-13
Word count:  1,217
Summary:  Part 4 in Prank Wars, The Product of Boredom


 
Dean bumped the bathroom door open and leaned carelessly against its frame.  “Damn shame about the ‘burns, Sammy.”  He brushed a hand across his face to deflect attention from his inadequately restrained smirk. 

Bracing himself for the teasing to follow, Sam put on a patented bitch-face and attempted to ignore the one-hundred and seventy pound gorilla in the room.  

“Thought those ‘burns were going to eat your face off, anyway.”

“Don’t you have something better to do?” Sam muttered and grabbed his razor. “Like, get a life?”

“Remember when Pastor Jim took us to see the Jolly Green Giant in Blue Earth?”

Sam sighed and closed his eyes, bracing himself for the punch-line.

“Fifty-five feet of fiberglass in a Peter Pan outfit,” Dean chuckled.  “You cried ‘cause you wanted a picture of the two of you together.”

“I did not, Dean.”  Damn it, Sam knew he shouldn’t take the bait.   

“Pastor Jim had to go back to the church and get his Polaroid.”

“Get to the point.”

Dean pushed himself off the door frame and put his fists on his hips.  “Come on, Sammy.  For old time’s sake, do the pose.  I’ll get my phone and snap a picture.  Record it for the grandkids!”

“Ha. Ha. Ha.” Sam dunked his razor into the pee green water flooding the bathroom sink. 

“Don’t you mean ‘Ho.  Ho.  Ho’!” Dean chortled. 

Sam rounded to confront his tormentor, splattering clumps of dripping grass-green hair in his wake.  “Bite me!” he huffed waving the disposable razor under Dean’s nose.

 “Dude!” Dean held up his hands in surrender. “Don’t get your niblets in a bunch!” 

“Funny, Dean.  Very funny.”  Sam faced the mirror, hoping Dean would take the hint and get out of Dodge.  All he wanted to do was hop in the shower and run the tank dry:  lather-rinse-repeat ad nauseum.   Instead Dean’s smile broadened as he distracted himself pulling clumps of hair from his Henley. 

It had taken forty minutes to scrub the toxic green from the shower.  Dean had, of course, refused to help inaccurately citing the “right of conquest” as his excuse to inflict the job on the vanquished.   Jerk had also taken pains to contaminate the bathroom sink fixture with an equally toxic brand of fuchsia Kool-Aid, rendering it unusable.  While Sam scoured the bathroom fixtures, the lime green sugary crap transformed his hair and sideburns into a Halloween fright wig.  The longer it saturated his hair, the harder it was to scrub out.  

“Man, I’m not the one who kept this stupid prank war going.  If you’d just conceded to my awesomeness, you wouldn’t be standing here looking like Jolly Green’s Mini-Me, and your ‘burns wouldn’t have had to take one for the team.” Dean chucked a wad of matted hair into the garbage with deadly accuracy.   “Speaking of the dearly departed, toss me my shaving kit, Kermie.”

“What for?” Sam growled. “And don’t call me Kermie!”

“Consolation prize!” Dean pulled out the clippers and flicked them on.  “A badass buzz-cut like I used to give you when we were kids.    It’s the least I can do.”

“You’re not getting anywhere near my hair!” Sam brandished his razor ineffectually, and Dean held up his hands.

“Man, somebody got up on the wrong side of the pea patch this morning.”  

“God!  Shut up, Dean!”  Sam shoved his brother into the next room and clipped the door closed with his foot.

“Hey!” Dean gave the door a resounding thwack. “Take your time, princess.  I’ll just pee in whatever I can find out here!”

Sam clenched his teeth, mentally checking off the soft targets in the next room.     Water bottle.  Check.  Duffel bag.  Check.  Work boots.  Check.   There’s no way Dean would stoop that low…

“I’ll be out in a minute!” Sam shouted. “Hold your horses!”

When Dean didn’t respond, Sam pressed his ear to the bathroom door.   He sighed when all he heard from the other side was dialogue from a cheesy movie Dean watched whenever it was on AMC.   

Fifteen minutes later, squeaky clean and hopeful, Sam wiped the fog from the bathroom mirror and held his breath.

 “Crap!”

Although his skin had lost its emerald luster, traces of green highlights still fingered through his damp hair.  A smart man would concede defeat, throw in the proverbial whoopee cushion, and declare Dean the winner. 

“I give up,” he muttered, wondering if Dean was right about the buzz cut.  Probably wouldn’t save him teasing.  Dean would just call him baldy or Demi or something equally unoriginal.   Mentally preparing himself to eat humble pie, he dressed and gathered his patience, ready for the next round of Dean’s attempts at stand up comedy.  He picked up a white washcloth and held it in front of him as he opened the door, hoping his brother was ready to accept an unconditional surrender.

What he didn’t expect was an empty room.

“Huh,” Sam shrugged and grabbed the note Dean had propped against the television screen which was still tuned to Clue, the movie version.  He was momentarily distracted by Mrs. Peacock and Colonel Mustard and Professor Plum and that British guy who smirked his way through a lot of movies in the 80s.   

“Going out for chow and hair dye,” he read the note aloud. “Back in sixty.“ 

Sam crumpled the note and flopped onto his bed.  It would serve the jerk right if the FBI caught up with him.   Feeling justifiably sulky, Sam closed his eyes and ran through variations of his concession speech, something designed to stroke Dean’s ego and put a quick end to the bloodshed .   

“Argh!” A moment later he sat up and glared at the television.  Hard to concentrate on brokering peace when Colonel Mustard was ranting in the background.  Groaning, he lifted himself from the bed and reached for the remote.  

“This is war, Peacock!  Casualties are inevitable.” Colonel Mustard barked as Sam’s trigger finger stalled on the off button.  “You cannot make an omelet without breaking some eggs; every cook will tell you that.”   

“He’s right,” Sam whispered. “ Mustard is right!  Game on, Dean!”    

He didn’t have long to plan his next gambit; Dean and his epic ego would be back in record time.  Sam’s gaze darted around the room until he found his own soft target:  Dean’s shaving kit, left vulnerable and unattended on the nightstand.  He hurdled the end of the bed and grabbed the kit, digging inside for Dean’s toothbrush. 

“I’ve got you now!”  If he had a moustache, Sam thought, he would twirl it and “Mwah-Ha-Ha” in self-congratulations. 

He gave his boots a thorough cleaning, satisfied when the bristles of the brush went from snowy white to muddy brown.  To top it off, he sprinkled on a garnish of green sideburn hair.   Satisfied, he returned the tooth brush to the kit and put it back on the nightstand.  Mission accomplished. 

But it was too easy.

 As Sam pulled out his lap top, the glow of victory began to fade.  Kid stuff, Dean would say.  “Didn’t you pull this when you were nine, Sammy?”  Dean’s mockery was almost as hard to endure as his abominable pranks. Dean would find the brush, mock him into next Monday, and declare himself the winner.

It was the perfect set-up for the mother of all payback. 

Sam grabbed the shaving kit again, flinching when he pulled out the clippers.  He could hide them, throw out the blades, mess with the settings so Dean wasn’t getting the quarter-inch length he preferred.  He shuddered and put the clippers aside.  Better not give his brother any reason to focus on hair when the conflict escalated.   

 His hand fell on a bottle of sunscreen, SPF 50.  Prone to sunburn and freckles, Dean slathered on sunscreen several times a day when they were doing a job somewhere sunny.  It was part of his morning routine.  He brushed off teasing by saying, “Melanoma is a bitch, Sammy” or pointing to one of Bobby’s grizzled hunter friends whose complexion was nothing to write home about.  He had the whole line of Cetaphil products:  facial cleanser, moisturizer, and body wash.  It was the one vanity that Dean allowed himself.   Something he used every day.  A perfect target. 

Sam remembered a Rite-Aid a block or so away.   Grabbing his wallet, he hoped he’d be back in time to enact his evil plan. 

****

“Think fast!” Dean exclaimed when he opened the door forty minutes later.  “Don’t say I never got you anything.”

Sam glared at the small bag his brother had tossed him.  “What’s this?”

“Manic Panic in Electric Lizard,” Dean said as he sorted through the groceries.  “Just in case the Kool-Aid didn’t take.”

“Dick,” Sam muttered and set aside the bag. 

“Takes one to know one.”  

“What are you, twelve?” Sam shook his head and turned back to the laptop.

Dean tossed a foot-long Subway bag on the keyboard in front of his brother. “Thought you might like some greens.”

“You’re hysterical.”

“Don’t I know it?” Dean strutted toward the bathroom, and Sam braced himself for phase one of his plan to unfold.  He smirked when he heard the shower water come on full-force and reached for his sandwich.   It was one of his favorites:  turkey on wheat with double vegetables and cheese.  He’d just taken a bite when the bathroom door was thrown open.

“What’s this?” Dean demanded, holding up his desecrated property.

“Looks like a tooth brush, Dean.”

“Is this all you’ve got?” Dean shook his head.  “Man, I can’t believe we’re related.”

Sam shrugged.  “Sorry I’m a disappointment to you, Dean.”

Dean glared and threw the toothbrush in the garbage. “Enjoy your dinner,” he barked as he stalked back to the bathroom. 

Sam stopped mid-bite experiencing a sudden loss of appetite.  He anxiously pulled the sandwich apart looking for evidence of tampering but found nothing unusual, not even a dusting of banana peppers.  Feeling paranoid and a bit embarrassed, he hastily reassembled the sandwich and grinned as he heard Dean’s baritone ring out, “It’s Not Easy Being Green”. 

His appetite fully restored, Sam took a big bite of his sandwich and waited for phase two of his plan to play out.

***

Dean grabbed a dress shirt from the laundry bag and pulled down the in-house ironing board. 

Despite the possibility of the FBI on his tail, he had insisted on going out to interview witnesses.  Nothing Sam could say could convince him to stay inside.   Truth was, they were both getting stir-crazy and needed the diversion. 

“You going to use that dye before we go?” Dean questioned as he turned on the iron.  “I don’t know many G-men with green highlights.”

Sam snorted and reached for the abandoned bag. “Why would I want to use this crap on my hair?”

“Nice ‘N Easy in Natural Dark Chestnut?” Dean shrugged and laid his dress shirt on the board. “I couldn’t imagine.”

Sam opened the bag and pulled out the box inside.  Nice ‘N Easy in Natural Dark Chestnut.  “Shit!” he muttered.  Leave it to Dean to do something perversely thoughtful in the midst of prank wars.    

“The hell?” Dean said, and Sam looked up.  His brother was holding his dress shirt, inspecting it closely.   From across the room, Sam could see dark smudges of coppery color.  Dean turned to him, eyes narrowing.

“You didn’t!”

“I did,” Sam acknowledged with a chin bob to Dean’s hands. “Check it out.”

“What’s this crap?” Dean rubbed his palms together viciously, his lips curled in disgust. “I look like an Oompa Loompa!”

“Yeah, you do!” Sam fought to contain the laugh that threatened to pop his lungs when Dean’s eyes widened.  

“Wait a minute!” Dean charged into the bathroom and let out an aggrieved shout.   Sam followed a step behind, any momentary feelings of brotherly sympathy washed away by his triumphant victory. “What is this?” Dean snarled, his teeth suddenly very white against his orange face.

“Just a little Fake Bake,” Sam chortled and leaned against the door frame. “But don’t worry, Mr. Hamilton.  Box says it washes off in a month or two.”

  


Tags: dean, fic: gen, prank wars, rating: pg, round robin, sam, season 2
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