Size Queen

 

Sam laid one hand on the rifle, about to tuck it under his arm while he extracted ammunition. He stopped short when Dean snorted.

"Most people don't taunt a man who is actively reaching for his gun," said Sam, torn between the little-brother urge to elbow Dean in the ribs and the not-so-brotherly impulse to bite that smirk off Dean's face.

"You're just so -- didn't you study Freud at Stanford, college boy?" Dean chuckled. "You *always* go for the biggest gun in the trunk."

"I do not," Sam retorted in an offended tone, then glanced back down to see that his hand was indeed resting on the biggest gun in the trunk. "Not always," he appended, a little lamely. "Sometimes it's strategic."

"I've seen you naked, little bro," Dean said, snaking one arm around Sam to pick up a revolver. He grinned and lifted one eyebrow at Sam as he spun the chamber open. "And there's something to be said for understating your case." He held up the small revolver in demonstration. "Confidence!" he exclaimed brightly, gesturing with his gun. "See, I don't need to carry around a bazooka because I *know* I'm hung like a horse, whereas what you're saying with that motherfucker?" Dean paused for effect. "You're saying that you have inadequacy issues," he concluded, waving now at Sam's chosen weapon.

"Nah," Sam answered dismissively. "It's just truth in advertising," he smiled, hoisting the rifle up and stroking it suggestively, tongue caught between his front teeth as he returned his brother's smile.

"Size queen," said Dean affectionately, and leaned in for a kiss.