Says it all, really.
Characters: Sam and Dean
Word Count: 100
Disclaimer: Don't own them
FINGERS AND THUMBS
If only Dean were as good at DIY as he was at hunting.
Sam sighed and wearily kneaded his temples; he could feel a migraine brewing.
He wanted to shoot the asshole who donated a set of twelve matching framed classic car prints to the thrift store, and strangle the worker who put them in the window, right where Dean, boggle-eyed and salivating with joy, spotted them.
And now he had to listen to Dean hammering goddamn nails into his goddamn bedroom wall half the goddamn day to hang the goddamn things.
Suddenly, it looked like Sam's evening was about to get a whole lot quieter.
Dean's injured, Sam's concerned …
Sam watched as Dean emerged from the bathroom.
"Holy crap, … Dean?"
Sam stared at Dean's bare back; "where'd you get those scratches on your back?"
Dean flinched; "nowhere, it's nothing," he mumbled, hastily tugging on his T-shirt.
"Bullshit," Sam snorted; "something's got their nails into you; your back's freakin' tiger-striped; let me look."
"No way," Dean grunted; "get your pervy urges someplace else."
"Dean, it could be infected; was it that chupacabra in Boulder?"
Dean shook his head.
"The black Dog in Maine?"
Sam gasped; "not the werewolf?"
"Well, what then?"
"Remember the waitress from the diner last week …"