A Hawaiian Hand Grenade - one shot

[amberdreams]

Rating: PG-13 ish
Characters/pairings: Sam & Dean, Gen
Word count: c950
Spoilers: For Season 7, possibly.  Nothing major.
Warnings: The odd swear word. Unbeta'd so probably full of utter tosh as usual.
Summary: A poltergeist gets a bit frisky with fruit.  I bought a pineapple today.  That is my only excuse for this.

When Dean opened his eyes, Sam’s face was nose to nose with him so he was having trouble focussing.  He squinted and Sam pulled back.  Dean thought his little brother was smiling but it was hard to tell, as it became evident that his blurred outlook on life was nothing to do with proximity.

“M..wu..h?” Dean thought that was probably not his most articulate moment, but that was the best he could manage.

Sam was leaning forward again.  Dean thought.  Maybe.  There was certainly something broad and excessively bulky blocking the light.

“How many fingers, Dean?”

Yeah, that was Sammy.  Dean went to close his eyes again, curiosity satisfied, but Sam wasn’t letting up.

Two large hands grasped Dean’s shoulders and hauled him upright.  Dean’s head protested the movement and the world whirled around him in a sickening manner that somewhere at the back of his mind he recognised as familiar. 

Concussion.  Right.

“Dean!  Come on, man.  How many fingers?”

Dean couldn’t ignore Sam, never could.  He tried to obey, make Sam happy, but he wasn’t sure he could even see his brother’s hand, let alone distinguish individual digits.  Still, Sam obviously wasn’t going to be happy until Dean gave him a number, so he just said the first one that came into his jumbled up brain.

“Forty two?”

He felt a puff of breath on his cheek as Sam huffed out a laugh.   “Dude, Hitchhiker’s Guide, really?”

Once he was satisfied he wasn’t going to throw up, Dean cracked a smile.  He had absolutely no idea what was going on, but Sammy was laughing, so there couldn’t be too much wrong with the world.

“Wha’ happ’n?” He asked as Sam helped him to his feet, where he wavered, leaning heavily on the warm brick wall that constituted Sam Winchester. He waited patiently for the world to stop spinning.   He knew the drill.  In a moment he’d be able to put one foot in front of the other and Sam would get him safely back to the Impala.

Oh shit, no Impala.  Baby was still impounded.

Distracted, it took him a few seconds to register what Sam was telling him.

“Hang on, wha’d’you say?”

“I said,” Dean didn’t need to see straight to know Sam was rolling his eyes in bitch face #3 (Dean’s not paying attention again). “I said the poltergeist knocked you out with a pineapple.  You’re gonna have an interesting shaped scar – sorta like scales, really.”

Sam helpfully poked the offending pineapple pattern outlined in blood on Dean’s temple and Dean winced.  “Sorry, dude.” His little brother said, not sounding very apologetic at all, in Dean’s opinion.

Somehow Dean had missed the bit where they’d exited the haunted house, down the porch steps and down to the car.  Large fruit or no, it seemed that pineapple had packed quite a punch, as Dean’s head was as groggy as a bottle of unrefined pirate rum.

He bent his neck under gentle pressure from Sam’s hand as he slumped gracelessly into the shotgun seat of their latest jalopy.  Actually, he resented even thinking of shotguns in association with this sorry excuse for an automobile.  What was it anyway?  A frigging Ford Focus or some-such heap of shit.

He realized belatedly that Sam was talking to him and tried to focus. 

Huh. Focus again, this fucking car was bugging the hell out of him now.  At least his vision had cleared a bit now; enough to see his sasquatch brother was enjoying this far too much as he drove them back to their latest crummy squat.

“Dude, I can’t believe you let a giant berry take you out.  Look at you!  I bet the inside of your brain is just like a fruit salad right now.”  Sam was grinning like an idiot, and Dean could feel a comfortable warmth settling right in the middle of his chest.  Not that he’d admit it, of course.

“You’re not going to let me forget this, are you?” He grumbled, gingerly holding the old t shirt to his broken head.

“Nope,” Sam said with another smile, wide and bright as – as Sammy from before Stanford.  Before Jessica, and Dad, and the cage and…and everything. “Man. I can dine out on this for the rest of the year – just think, every time I order a Hawaiian pizza, you can get your revenge by eating my pineapple topping…”

Dean hid his own growing smile with difficulty.  It was hard to pretend to be badass when Sam was glowing like this and you’d just been flattened by an angry angiosperm.  And no, he had no idea how he knew that was part of the scientific classification for the pineapple family.  Being hit on the head must be making him channel his inner Sam.  Or maybe it was just funny because - you know, sperm.

“Shut up, bitch.”

“Oh, a blow to the head and you turn into such a witty raconteur. Jerk!”

“Hey, you try being as witty as me after you’ve had your noddle rattled by a vicious dangerous poltergeist…”

“A dangerous poltergeist armed only with fruit, Dean.”

“Very heavy, rock hard fruit, Sam.  It’s not called a hand grenade for nothing, y’know.”

“Well pineapple is used for tenderising meat, so I guess your head qualifies…”

“Har, har…”

The to and fro continued as Sam helped Dean out of the car and into the empty house, and in spite of his aching head, Dean’s warm glow never faded.  Sometimes just knowing they had each other’s backs was enough.

When the hallucinations were held at bay, and diving into a whiskey induced haze wasn’t a necessity.

Sometimes Dean fucking loved pineapple.

Fin