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"You,” puff, “are both,” puff, “ass wipes,” puff. Your breath is ragged and your legs are burning as you try desperately to reach the highest shelf in the cupboard above the kitchen counter.
“Having trouble, munchkin?” Sam cackles from behind you, feet up on the dining table, newspaper in hand. Dean sits across from him with a cup of coffee, smirking. You give them a dirty look, jumping again to try and reach your prize.
“Don’t be so hard on her Sammy. She’s havin’ a hard time since Sneezy left,” Dean snorts, slamming his hand on the table in amusement.
“Piss off, you gigantor douche canoes.” You mumble, hoisting yourself up onto the counter top, your feet precariously close to the edge. Dean’s rumbling laughter irritates you even more. “Mom was short too, you know!”
“Mom was 5′7, you’re barely over 5 feet!” Sam chides, shaking his head. He’s stood up now and walking towards you. You wave him off and he raises his hands in mock surrender.
“Samuel, I can single-handedly kill a werewolf by stabbing them with the heel of my god damn stiletto. I think I can handle this.” You hear Dean whistle and Sam chuckle, but your eyes are on the small cylinder just within your reach. So close, your fingers are so close…
Your feet slip out from under you but before you can crash to the bunker’s kitchen tile, strong arms catching you like a child. Sam stares down at you, a lazy grin on his face. Dean completely loses it behind you, chortling away like a hyena.
“Nice slip-up, <Y/N>. Used to think you were Grumpy, but maybe you’re more of a Dopey.” Sam snickers, his chest vibrating against your side. You glare at him, shuffling out of his grip until your feet hit the cold floor.
“Fuck you,” you say, turning to flip off Dean, “fuck you,” your attention shifts to Sam, “and fuck the god damn, slippery, bacon grease ass countertop.” You turn, squeezing your eyes shut in frustration, a pounding headache rising up behind your ears. “I just want the friggin’ peanut butter. That’s all I want.” You say, raising your hands up in dismay. Sam clears his throat behind you and you glance in his direction. He’s waving the “Jif” jar teasingly. You snatch it from his grip, stomping away like a toddler, a small smile coaxed onto your lips.