Writer's Note: Was playing around with conversation/banter today. These all take place in the Impala en route to one case or another. No idea if it'll have more than one chapter so I'm keeping it as incomplete for now (psst review or comment to let me know if you'd like more chapters!).

Also warning - I drop so many f-bombs in here but it's all quite playful.

Happy reading!

"Um," Dean squinted out the windshield, thinking about it. Finally, he smiled and glanced at his brother. "I got it."

"'kay," Sam capped his pen and angled to face his brother. "Who?"

"Martha Stewart," Dean announced, knowing he'd won but Sam just laughed.

"Martha Stewart? Really?"

"What? She's crafty," Dean defended.

"Well I give you that she'd be a formidable witch-"

"Ew, no-"

"-But a hunter? Really?"

"Yeah," Dean shrugged. "She'd be resourceful."

"With glitter."

"No c'mon she does more than glue glitter to shit," Dean said reasonably.

"Are you really defending Martha Stewart to me right now?"

Dean feigned quiet resentment. He could see Sam grinning in his peripheral vision.

"Actually... didn't she kill a guy?" Sam spoke up after a few beats.

"Oh yeah! Like... with a tractor or something."

They fell into contemplative silence.

"How do you not get out of the way of a tractor?" Sam asked, baffled. Dean gave Sam a wry smile.

"Maybe she had the guy in a Devil's Trap, Sammy," he said. It was a slow build to laughter but they both got there.

"It's not... God damn it, Sam, it's not psychology-" Dean used air quotes while still keeping his hands on the wheel.

"It's textbook, Dean. You are textbook psychology when it comes to that game," Sam yelled back insistently, trying hard not to crack up.

"There is no fucking textbook in psychology - or any other god damn academic field - on rock paper scissors!" Dean shouted, "you piece of bullshit Stanford educated stupid motherfucking piece of shi-"

"Eyes on the road, Dean," Sam snickered.

"Shut up!"

Silence fell except for the sound of Sam's quiet laughter. Hackles raised, Dean gave Sam a double-take.

"Oh you think this is funny, huh?"

"I'm... no... I'm not..."

"Do you?"

"...no..." Sam practically giggled. "I just..."

"If we weren't in the middle of nowhere right now I swear to god I'd kick you out of this car."

"Well."

"Well?"

"Well I'm-"

"Sam," Dean warned.

"... just... glad we're in the middle of nowhere right now."

"Shut the fuck up."

"By how much do you think you're taller than me?"

Sam shrugged.

"I don't know. Like... five inches."

"No."

"No?"

"No - you wear heels."

"Dean, I don't wear heels," Sam replied seriously.

"You do - it puts like two inches on you."

"Lies. Stop lying," Sam dismissed, leaning over the seat back to grab a sweater and aspirin.

"Take off your shoe and look at it, man."

"No I'm not gonna do that," Sam grunted, reaching to find the small bottle that'd probably gotten stuffed in between the backseat cushions. He lifted a knee up against the seat to push himself further back into the car.

"Dude I am looking at your shoes right now," Dean gestured with his hand at the heel of Sam's shoe.

"I don't care," Sam called back.

Dean gave a double-take at the shoe.

"These your slip-on things?"

"What? Yeah," Sam replied, distracted. Dean grabbed the heel of Sam's shoe and pulled it off in one swift motion. "Dean! What the hell!"

"Look at your fucking shoe, dude," Dean said, waving it in front of him. Sam managed to find the aspirin and struggled backwards to sink back into his seat.

"Give me back my shoe."

"Not until you look at it and tell me I'm right."

"Is this what you do with your time when I'm not around? Just stare at my shoes?" Sam shot back, grabbing it out of Dean's hand and throwing it down into the seat well.

"Shit, you figured me out. Yes, Sam, I just stare at your shoes-"

"Well how the hell else do you know so much about my fucking shoes?!" Sam shot back, feigning annoyance.

"Don't pretend you don't know what my shoes look like."

"I literally do not know what your shoes look like," Sam claimed, lying.

They'd reached an impasse. Signs and pastures flew by as they zoomed to their next destination.

"That's too bad," Dean muttered, "I got some nice fuckin' shoes, Sammy," Dean landed the line.

Still smiling, Sam threw his sweater on.

"Leg still bothering you?" He asked, noticing Dean had had a slight limp before they'd gotten on the road that morning.

"'S manageable."

"Here," Sam said and Dean held out his hand. Sam dropped a couple aspirin into it.

"Thanks," Dean muttered, popping them into his mouth and opening his hand again to receive the water bottle Sam had ready for him.

"Dean. Hey Dean. Dean. Dean."

"What?" Dean finally replied, his voice dull.

"Dean."

"Sam."

"Y'errr... you have a funny hat."

"No I don't, Sam. I don't own any hats-"

"No you do."

Dean cinched his mouth to the side, thinking about it.

"What's it look like?"

"S'green."

"Like lime green?"

"No!" Sam replied vehemently. "Ssss... is like... ssswirly greens."

"Like sherbert ice cream?" Dean couldn't help a small smile.

"Yes! Yes! Oh my god can we get some ice cream, Dean?"

"Yep." Dean ticked the signal to get off at the next exit. He'd seen a Baskin Robbins sign earlier and figured Sam could do with a treat. He felt bad for having pulled him out AMA before the drugs could wear off.

"Uhhh youuu are the best ever," Sam sing-songed and started lilting against the window. Dean pulled him back gently by his shoulder. "Huh?" Sam grunted as if he'd just woken up.

"Stay with me, man. Don't lean on that side - you got stitches."

Sam groggily looked down at his side and slowly pulled his t-shirt up.

"Where the fuck did these stitches come from?" Sam gasped and Dean fought hard to contain his laughter. "Dean!" Sam reprimanded like it was Dean's fault.

"What? I didn't do anything. 'Sides, I'm getting you ice cream, shut up."

"You shut up," Sam replied weakly, still studying the stitches. Dean looked to see what his brother was doing.

"Hey-hey-hey Sammy, come on," he said, pulling Sam's hand up so it'd let go of his t-shirt. Sam was limp; giving in to Dean's gestures. "Come on just ignore it for right now okay?" Dean asked lightly, keeping an arm around Sam's shoulders. Sam leaned in, resting his head against his big brother. Normally Dean would call boundaries but the kid was so out of it...

Dean squeezed Sam's shoulders reassuringly as he drove into the parking lot of the Baskin Robbins.

"Okay how do you feel?"

"'M tired."

"Okay ice cream, another hour we cross state lines, and then we get you into a bed, okay?"

Sam grunted.

"Sammy, y'okay?"

"Yeah D," Sam replied sleepily.

When Dean walked back to the car Sam was back on his side of the seat. He stepped in and handed Sam his ice cream but Sam just stared at him.

"Where's your, like, magicalificent hat?" Sam asked. Dean just laughed and started the car up. He had no idea what Sam was talking about.

"What do you think is the sexiest profession in the world?"

"I'm assuming sex workers is automatically out otherwise this wouldn't be a very challenging question," Sam deadpanned, looking through the files they'd collected on a case.

"For me, yeah. I'm expecting you're gonna come up with 'librarian' or some shit."

"Hey don't knock the librarian look," Sam replied, still distracted.

"Okay no but seriously."

"Oh seriously? You're asking me seriously what the sexiest profession in the world is?" Sam countered sarcastically.

"Yeah this is serious," Dean confirmed with conviction.

"Okay," Sam huffed, then looked up from the files out to the horizon to give his eyes a break. He sighed. "Uhh... for men or women?"

The car was comically silent for a second, then Dean gave Sam a double-take with his own patented what the fuck expression.

"Got something to tell me, Sammy?"

Sam rolled his eyes, unable to help a smile.

"Shut up."

"No I mean I'm honored-"

"Shut up," Sam laughed. "Um... I don't know. What do you think is the sexiest profession?"

"I've got one in mind but I don't want to sway you."

"I don't think what you find sexy is what I find sexy," Sam said honestly.

"Seriously are you positive you're not coming out to me right now?" Dean asked, making Sam crack back into laughter. He'd walked right into that.

"How did you not like training? All we did was play with guns and matches and shit-"

"-Oh that's healthy, yeah, a great banner for our childhood: we played with guns and matches 'n shit."

"You liked fireworks," Dean offered pointedly.

"That's... that's not the same thing," Sam hedged.

"How is it not the same thing? It was explosives. We were setting off bombs."

Sam thought about it.

"Yeah but they were pretty bombs," Sam finally said weakly, making Dean laugh.

Dean slammed the car door shut, his pale, sweaty face the picture of misery. Sam was hunched over the steering wheel, watching his brother solicitously.

"Y'all right?" He asked in an undertone.

"No," Dean groaned, curling in again.

"We'll take the next exit and get a room," Sam said quietly, shifting gears to get back onto the road. He'd pulled over in the emergency lane to let Dean throw up.

"Christ," Dean muttered, his stomach obviously killing him. He shifted over from his curled position to lie his head against the bench seat.

"You want to lie down in the back?" Sam asked.

"No. I don' wanna move," Dean grunted, clutching his stomach. Sam winced in sympathy and patted Dean's shoulder. He glanced at the seat back and realized there were a couple blankets in easy reach. He grabbed one and put it next to him halfway on and off his thigh.

"Here - stretch out if you want," Sam murmured. Dean ticked his head up for a second to see the makeshift pillow and without protest just scooted further along the seat until he reached where Sam had bunched the blanket up on his leg.

"Are you cold?" Sam asked gently but had already started feeling Dean's forehead and arms to gauge his body temperature.

"Uh... stop," Dean moaned but he didn't bat his brother away. Two seconds later he felt a blanket flop onto him. Sam used his free hand to unfold the thing and spread it across Dean's body as he drove.

"We'll find a place soon, D," Sam promised, letting his arm rest along Dean's side over the covers.

Okay," Dean replied lamely.

"You packed the weapons right?"

"Yeah."

"Why'd you put them in the backseat?"

"What?"

"I didn't see them in the trunk."

"...I didn't load them into the car."

The car screeched to a halt on the emergency lane. Dean swiveled around to Sam.

"What?"

"You fucking kidding me?"

"Are you?!"

"Dude packing and loading are two different tasks."

"Sam, no. They're the same task. What the fuck did you do - just... just pack the weapons and leave them in the room?"

"Yeah I thought you were gonna load them later."

"Why?!"

"Because... I don't know... you were the last one to finish packing so I thought you'd load everything up when you were done..."

"Where the fuck did you leave it?"

"In... in..." Sam thought about it, his defense sinking, "in the closet where we normally keep it."

"And you thought I'd just see an empty room with all your shit packed up and loaded and assume that, for some reason, my idiot brother who I saw packing the weapons bag had just... left the bag in the closet when he was done?!"

Sam cringed.

"How the fuck did you get into Stanford, Sam?!"

"Hey, no, c'mon, I didn't-"

"You better hope to God the cleaning staff hasn't found it yet-"

"Well."

"Well what?"

"Well I mean we're in this together. They know we both stayed there."

"Thanks, Sam. Real helpful."

"No c'mon we'll just say..."

"What? What could we possibly say to cover this?"

"I... That... We're... part of some kind of Renaissance... fair..." Sam trailed off half-heartedly.

The words "renaissance fair" hung over them as Dean floored it. Finally Dean spoke up.

"Yeah I don't think they're gonna buy that," he said lowly, seething.

Sam licked his lips and tried not to smile. Dean glanced at his brother.

"S'not funny."

"It's a little-"

"No."

Writer's Note: Thank you so much for reading! Please comment/review if you can spare the time! ~ Alex