Rating: PG - Gen
Disclaimers: SPN & characters are owned by their various creators.
Summary: Some chores aren't so bad. In fact, some duties are down right enjoyable.
Dean understood the difference between duty and tedium.
He didn't usually mind as he had no fantasy about some kind of life that didn't involve copious amounts of both. They didn't call it work for nothing and all that crap that people who toiled liked to say. But he had a different take on the old adage. In a way he found it was relaxing to settle into a task that took you over and swallowed your days one after another.
When he got into a rhythm of whatever current job he had to accomplish he felt like he was moving. He felt like he was on the highway letting the tires eat mile after mile. The end of each chore was like the pleasure of finally seeing that state border you'd been fighting to stay awake to cross. Even if you knew that'd it be a good long while before you got another one behind you, it at least felt pretty nice at the moment.
Duty wasn't all bad. And tedium? He'd learned to live with that a long time ago. More often than not, they came right along together, hand in hand.
Like right now for example. A Friday night spent mixing up some chemicals with names you couldn't pronounce. A load of some occultist herbs that reeked worse than the pile of laundry that they had been avoiding in the corner. Times like this, man, your mind really started to wander.
He sighed at the table cluttered with the countless old empty cold medicine bottles that still needed filling. Apparently after some of his younger brother's research, this was exactly what they needed to oust their latest and most vexing gig that was harassing the night time staff of a morgue. And more importantly, messing around with any of the slab factory's fresh corpses. His brother was sitting opposite of him bent low over his own careful work, studying the amount of fluid he was depositing into a bottle with the concentration of a neurosurgeon.
From the smell of the eye burning crap, Dean assumed that it could chase away anything if their perpetrator had any sense at all. Hopefully, if Sam was correct, this stuff might even kill the damn thing. If you could kill a possessed body that was already dead in the first place.
Dean dabbed a little bit of the liquid on the tip of his finger and tapped it on his tongue.
"This tastes like liquid cotton candy with gasoline in it."
Sam looked up from his own eye dropper and bottles.
"I-I take that back..." Dean coughed and wiped his tongue on the cuff of his shirt. "Gasoline and a dash of ass."
"It's recycled embalming fluid." Sam informed him.
Dean sighed again.
Duty had often forced Dean to try very hard not to think about what the hell he was doing most of the time. Analyzation and acknowledgment of someone's reanimated half rotted grandma walking into walls did nothing but give him a headache. So, when push came to shove, he figured sometimes you just had to go ahead and create your own distractions.
"Hey, if you could bang any famous dead chick, who would it be?"
"Lemme think, um, oh yeah, wait... none?"
Dean sat back in annoyed exasperation. "Not after they're dead you moron. When they were alive. And hot."
"Pauline Frederick." Sam said without hesitation.
Dean let the name roll back and forth in his head for a few moments before he gave up. "Don't know her. What's she, some animal activist or like, some crusty old cello player?"
Sam didn't reward him with an answer.
"You wanna know who'd I bang? I'd bang Marilyn Monroe." Dean told him even though Sam hadn't asked. "Man, those lips and hips.
"No way." Sam countered. "Rita Hayworth."
"Oh yeah, now that gal? She was the real cat's meow."
Sam paused in his work.
"The cat's meow?"
Dean looked up in the familiar tilt of his brother's voice when he knew he was being mocked.
"Gee willikers Dean, was she the cat's pajamas too?"
"What about the bee's knees? I bet she was totally the bee's knees."
"Do you want me to come over there because I will--"
"By golly and shucks Dean..." Sam continued his litany of 1950s white suburban euphemisms. "I'd be pleased as punch--"
"Yeah, punch is gonna have a whole lot to do with it."
Dean looked at him evenly in warning and poised himself to lunge.
Sam considered his older brother carefully and cleared his throat.
"Are you going to go cattywampus on me?"
"That's it." Dean's chair flew backwards as he swiftly stood up.
"Shit." Sam breathed in a laugh as he scrambled out of his seat.
Out the motel door in record time, Dean took off after Sam who was hauling ass across the parking lot. Sometimes, he thought, his duty included other things. Things as unavoidable as what comprised many things in his life.
And this one would not be tedious at all.