Genre: Humour, Gen
Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester
Word Count: 1,100
Disclaimer: I don't own either of these wonderful guys.
Subject: Dean never fails to surprise Sam; and not necessarily in a good way.
It was a fact of the Winchesters’ everyday life that a good day could easily turn into a not-so-good day in just the blink of an eye.
Admittedly, there was normally some kind of supernatural forces or creeping evil involved on those occasions, but sometimes it was just simply unfortunate circumstances that couldn’t be foreseen or explained.
Apparently, today was totally going to be one of those days.
Sam had only left Dean for a moment to go and buy the local newspaper and, given the bitter cold of the morning, he figured a couple of hot coffees wouldn’t go amiss either.
Standing beside the parked impala, Dean, wearing his favourite black overcoat, speckled with sparse, feather-light snowflakes, was on his phone, his breath curling into the freezing air as he spoke to whichever potential conquest had called him. As he turned and walked away, Sam couldn’t help but smile at the pinking of Dean’s nose and ears in the polar air.
Flowers of frost were blossoming over the Impala’s roof, glistening and twinkling in the low mid-winter sunlight, a perfect complement to Dean’s bright smile as he spoke into the phone.
Sam could smell the delicious aroma of coffee emanating from the coffee-house across the road, and his mouth watered at the thought; heck, he might even treat himself to a doughnut.
Yes, today was a good day …
Sam was just emerging from the coffee-house, the local newspaper under his arm, a cardboard tray containing two coffees in his hand and a paper bag of doughnuts between his teeth, when he heard it.
He stumbled to a halt and just stood, hoping that his eyes were deceiving him, but knowing that this was wishful thinking. The bag of doughnuts dropped the ground as he gaped in disbelief.
“Anyth’m thoon woul’ mhe ghoot…”
Sam closed his eyes. He could feel the fates laughing at him. They were probably pointing too.
Peering helplessly over the Impala at Sam, Dean blinked snowflake-laden lashes beneath a cap of snow which had begun to accumulate on his head. Sam wasn’t sure if the rosy flush now staining his cheeks as well as the tip of his nose was due to the biting cold or richly-deserved embarrassment.
Seriously, what kind of dumbass gets their tongue frozen to the roof of their car?
“Thahm, lhemme ehxplaihn!”
Sam shook his head and sighed. He picked up the bag of doughnuts and walked the last few steps toward his ensnared brother.
“Dean, I don’t want to know,” he groaned.
Dean’s arms flapped around, gesticulating wildly between Sam, and his icebound tongue.
“Shuh th’fuhh uhp Thahm – jus’ he’hp ‘hme!
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “How about if I got in the Impala and drove off? I’m sure your tongue would unstick eventually, a mile or two up the highway.”
Dean glared at his brother, looking both deeply wounded and intensely angry at the same time; a not inconsiderable feat with your tongue stuck to the roof of your car.
Sam couldn’t help an exasperated eyeroll as he set the coffees down on the Impala’s hood, and approached his brother. “you freaking idiot,” he muttered under his breath.
How Dean’s glare didn’t melt the ice and save Sam a job is a scientific mystery to this day.
On the basis that Sam wasn’t going to touch Dean’s tongue under any circumstances, ever, he hesitated a moment as he thought about the logistics of the situation. The light flurries of snow that had been floating around them a moment ago, were turning heavier and wetter as the sky rapidly clouded over. They were both gathering a thick, damp coating of snow which was already chilling Sam to the bone. Whatever Sam was going to do, he needed to do it quickly, and he needed to do it now. Tucking himself up behind Dean far closer than he would ever want to, he leaned over, and gripped Dean’s head in the crook of his right arm in a classic wrestling headlock.
“Okay Dean, I’m going to grip and pull up, you need to try to pry your tongue off when I pull, right?"
“uh-huh…” Dean mumbled uncertainly.
“Right,” Sam tightened his grip around Dean’s head and, cupping Dean's chin in his left hand, flexed his arm, slowly pulling upwards and back.
“Gaaaaaaaaaahh—aaahaahah …” Dean gurgled in panic, as he tried to pry his tongue free from the relentless ice.
Dean’s ears were reddening crimson under the strain of Sam’s grip as he pulled back, stretching Dean’s tongue out to point where it was either going to snap off or condemn him to a diet of termites for the rest of his life.
Sam released Dean’s head and flinched as Dean nutted the Impala’s roof on the recoil.
There was nothing for it. Sam knew what he had to do. He really didn’t want to waste good coffee defrosting his idiot brother’s tongue, but it seemed to be the only option.
Grudgingly, he figured that Dean’s black, double shot, extra hot Americano would be too searingly hot for the task in hand, and so he was going to have to sacrifice his own skinny, half-caff hazelnut latte to the cause instead.
Dean was so going to owe him for this.
Reaching for his coffee, Sam tipped the cup, and drizzled the warm milky drink over Dean’s errant tongue. He watched despondently as the coffee trickled down the Impala’s windows, and splattered onto the kerbside.
Eventually, with a sudden jerk and a yelp, Dean’s tongue disengaged and he stumbled backwards, straightening up with a groan of relief. Nodding his thanks to Sam with a quiet grunt, he clapped his hand over his mouth in a vain attempt to soothe his abused tongue.
“You're welcome,” Sam snorted; “now you can make yourself useful and go and get me another coffee, seeing as I had to tip mine all over the Impala for no better reason than you’re a moron.”
Dean shrugged; "yeah... 'bou' thah' Thahm; gotta hnumthung - hmhigh' be whhile 'fore I'cnh hol' any conhnerthathion 'bhou' cothee'r any'thin elth. Looth like y'ron y'owhn hthere ... thohry!"
Sam scowled as he turned on his heel and marched off through the heavily falling snow toward the coffee-house again.
"Jerk," he snorted.