Rating: PG - Gen - Humor
Disclaimers: SPN & characters are owned by their various creators.
Summary: Some jobs are better than others.
"Hey, guess what the three top most dangerous jobs are."
"Come on, just guess."
"Dean, I'm trying to concentrate--"
"And don't guess 'piranha feeder' cuz that wasn't on there."
"It wasn't even on the top ten if you can believe that shit."
Sam cursed under his breath as the very long and very backwards sentence of Sanskrit he had been trying to keep together in his head promptly vanished. It dematerialized instead into an image of some toothy fish sitting in a charming Italian bistro with a napkin around its neck.
"Maybe its not a job." Dean pondered but then quickly reconsidered. "But it kinda has to be someone's job right? I mean no one is just gonna feed those dudes for free."
It had been almost six hours since they had carefully chosen a place to lay in wait for their newest and latest pain in the ass.
Sam flashed the small glow light on his watch.
5 hours, 58 minutes, and 14 seconds to be exact.
There weren't many places to hide yourself in a century old cellar that had pretty much nothing in it. Besides one large dank musty wardrobe that some long gone owner of the house had left down there to rot, their only other option was to hang like some gravity defying ninja up in the rafters.
On closer inspection, the sagging aged cabinet was indeed just large enough for both of them to stand in. It was also fairly certain that something of a rodent like nature had very recently expired within its confines. They had warily climbed in and prepared to get uncomfortable for the cramped wait. Sam used the dark silence to rehearse the complex litany of words and names that had to be said in a very precise and exact manner for them to work.
In fact, if he didn't do it just so, he and his brother's hides would be most likely turned into a pair of matching lampshades. The rest would go into a maybe nice paté. And that would be all before they had even had the pleasure of dying yet.
"Boobs or legs?"
"I dunno... legs."
"Eyes or hair?"
"Good head or good cook?"
"Tough call, I know..."
"Dean, I need some quiet time over here--"
"Did you hear that?" His brother whispered tensely.
Sam held his breath, straining his ears to listen for the beast that would be surely now stepping lightly and cautiously just beyond the thin fragile barrier of wood. Moving through the darkness like a half formed phantom, maybe even now sniffing their presence out like the predator it was created to be.
"Oh man." Dean whistled lowly. "That's weird."
"My stomach totally just sounded like it said something, like 'now' or 'meow'... maybe 'cow'."
Sam growled and flexed his fists on the thighs of his jeans. Even though he couldn't see his brother standing across from him in the stifling black, he knew there was a smile on his face.
"Logging." Dean announced.
"Most dangerous job in the world is being a logger." He explained. "You know, cuttin' down trees?"
"What are the other two?"
"Uh oh, um, airplane pilots and fishing."
"Fishing for piranha?" Sam guessed.
Dean laughed softly in the musty dark. "At least we'll always know what the most boring job in the world is."
"Oh yeah, what's that?"
It was Sam's turn to smile unseen in the gloom. Perspective and context were indeed amazing things he supposed. Probability and statistics. Hours spent behind an old book opposed to the minutes behind a raised pistol with blessed ammo. The nights driving along unlit back roads and the days of meticulous tracking.
His body tensed when he heard Dean suddenly go silent and quietly pump his shot gun.
The job had finally shown up late to its own party.
The words Sam had been struggling with in his mind all night long fell neatly and automatically in place. Without seeing he knew they had both placed their hands in readiness on the wardrobe doors to move as one.
Boring or not, it always came down to these several startling seconds that lay just at the end of each tediously long sought conclusion.
"Ready?" Dean barely whispered.
As he'd ever be.