Rating: PG - Gen - Humor
Spoilers: General (for all aired episodes)
Disclaimers: SPN & characters are owned by their various creators.
Summary: It's important to keep score. Even when you're not sure what yer playing.
Sam cracked one eye open and readjusted his wadded up jacket that he’d rolled into a decent pillow shape. It had gotten a lot later than he’d been aware of. Bringing his wrist up over his face he wondered if he’d actually managed to fall asleep. Getting some Zs within earshot of the town’s entire toddler population in the park playground nearby didn’t seem all that possible.
“It’s all Connery.” Dean repeated from beside him. “Don’t even get me started on Dalton.”
Sam watched the evening pink streak of clouds for a moment before he shut his eyes again. Crossing his ankles in the uncut grass, he decided to respond.
“Moore.” He retorted. “All the way.”
Dean snorted in contempt, his derision level so high that he didn’t even feel the need to for any further rebuttal on a subject that was clearly irrefutable. Sam didn’t bother defending his position. Some playing fields were stacked so one no would leave the game a winner. It was like waxing and waning about civil rights at a NRA rally or ranting about the value of barrels of crude oil in a vegan bakery. Sam was a great believer in picking your battles.
“Stallone.” Dean said confidently.
Sam opened his eyes again just to roll them in offended disbelief.
The blatant miscall was quickly recognized. He heard Dean swear softly twice in succession as he undeniably was forced to consider ‘Terminator’ and ‘Predator.” But his older brother’s eyes had always glazed happily over whenever an automatic machine gun co-starred with some lunatic in a foreign jungle. If there was little to no dialogue and some dusty sweaty bosom on hand, it was always a hit in their domain.
“Rocky still rules though.” Dean muttered in his defense.
Sam shrugged. His platonic boyhood crushes on action heroes had peaked around the early teen years and never quite returned. But as he lay around recalling all the moments he’d ever actually cheered out loud at a movie screen, he realized they had never really gone away either.
“Willis.” Sam thoughtfully countered.
He wondered if it would be weird to get on line with the ten year olds at that ice cream truck in the parking lot. Watching a Frisbee zip past over his head, his thoughts turned to the doomed actor with the strange clown makeup and clothing with artfully placed black duct tape.
“Bruce or Brandon?”
Dean tossed up a couple handfuls of grass in agitation. He quickly dismissed the qualification with the painfully obvious.
“Gotta go with Chan.”
Dean’s mouth opened to earnestly begin a protest but he shut it almost as fast. No matter how much you loved Bruce there was very little bad to be said for Jackie. Even if you wanted to prevail in a debate it was a little bit blasphemous to even think about trashing any guy that got run over by a live hovercraft and jumped off moving trains just to get a good camera shot.
Looking over at the colorful truck filled with food, Sam started to think that maybe he’d hit that hotdog vendor instead. Maybe get one of those pretzels covered in industrial grade road salt.
“Thurman.” Dean declared.
While he appreciated the concept of a hot chick with a samurai sword, Sam was afraid he had to trump that one too. It felt easy and effortless. As triumphant as knowing your hand in poker was going to piss everyone off when you spread it across the table.
He didn’t have to look over to see his brother’s sure grin crumble in the face of a trilogy dedicated to double pistol action and a girl that could pout in combat boots. Sam raised his eyebrows as he suddenly realized he was winning. He wasn’t sure what the hell they were playing, but he was definitely winning.
There was some silence after that one.
A nice warm breeze had picked up. Sam settled under the pleasant smell of evening grills and the sounds of classic rock out of some far off picnic radio. Sam had almost forgotten about a nice cold boiled hotdog as he started to drift off one more time into a comfortable snooze.
“Ford!” Dean abruptly said.
Brought back to vague alertness, Sam chewed on his lower lip. He rapidly cycled through the very long list of some of the greatest flicks ever seen on the inside of a dark cinema. When he was done he couldn’t think of a name that could beat the set of movies that used the force, a kick ass bullwhip or anything as tragically awesome as replicants.
His brother made a satisfied sigh when no irrefutable rejoinder was forthcoming.
Sam sleepily shoved at his jacket pillow a few more times before giving up entirely. If he had learned anything by vigilantly watching his share of early morning cartoons he knew one thing for sure. The animated military man wasn’t real per say, but he had always assured Sam that ‘knowing was half the battle.’”
Pausing a moment, Sam rolled his head to the side and gave it one more try.
Dean gave out a low whistle.
“Tough call there, Sammy.” He was shaking his head. “But nah.”
Sam was left to ponder who in the male dominated ranks that might be still eligible as a contender.
“You forgot one.” Dean got up and brushed himself off. “The Baroness.”
Sam sat up and checked his wallet for cash.
Those vendors could never break anything bigger than a ten and he was thinking something with everything on it might be perfect right now. Ordering both of his with loads of sauerkraut, he passively guaranteed himself protection from his brother’s inevitable mooch. While the hotdog man got paid he spotted an empty wood bench that would be the next best place to spend the next leisurely 30 minutes.
“Those glasses and that accent?” Dean studied the giant ketchup dispenser distrustfully. “You know she had to be a total freak in the sack—“
“I got one.”
Mildly intrigued, Dean used the wait to shove half a hotdog in his mouth.
Sam felt himself smile in challenge.
“Oh, Christ.” Dean sighed. “Here we go.”
Sam caught sight of a guy with a cooler of frosty beer.
A couple of those and he could call this one a pretty good day.