spnwriterlounge had a mini drabble event as part of their writer Olympics. I'm on team gen. I wrote thirteen drabbles. Humor, angst, hurt/comfort, it's all in there, random mix of times and places. (For some reason I went with hurt!Sam for these instead of hurt!Dean. I dunno. Totally not my usual MO.)
I swear these all showed up as 100 words exactly when I wrote them, but when I copied and pasted some said they were 99. ::bitchface:: I hope that doesn't mess up the points for my team.
Some words show up a lot. We got extra points for using those, otherwise I might have made different choices in writing. I don't usually just flat-out TELL the reader that a character is angry, f'rinstance, but for two points I will.
These are in reverse order from how I wrote them--last first, first last.
"Uncle Bobby, Uncle Bobby!"
Bobby stuck his head out the screen door. Dean hurried toward the porch, dragging Sammy by the wrist. The younger boy sniffled, blood running from a gash on his forearm.
"Sammy got hurt!" The whites of Dean's eyes were showing. He was more scared and upset than Sammy.
"Yep." Bobby took the child's arm gently in his hands, studying it. "You got your tetanus shots?" John shouldn't have told them to play in the junkyard just so they'd leave him alone while he studied.
Dean nodded. "Daddy made sure."
At least John had done that right.
"You made supper?"
Sam sniffed it, then looked up at Dean, nose wrinkling with skepticism.
"Yes, I made supper," Dean said firmly. "And you will eat it."
"It's...green." Sam poked it. "And hard."
"It's zucchini from the lady next door, okay? It's all we had! And a tiny bit of oil and salt and pepper. I'm doing what I can, Sammy, okay? Dad didn't leave enough money and I'm doing what I can!"
Sam ducked to avoid Dean's flailing arm, instantly contrite. "Okay, okay! I'll try it. Calm down, Dean, geez."
He didn't like it. He ate it anyway.
Sam sees his brother and starts running.
Then the knife in his back, and he falls to his knees in the mud.
Dean is there, arms around him. Sam can't hear him. Images flash, a hundred memories.
Dad holding his old teddy bear, Pooky. Dean, Dean laughing, teasing, telling stories, rocking him to sleep. Two bananas for breakfast. Pumpkins in the fall, flowers in the spring. Dean happy, angry, miserable, love shining in his eyes. Jess, his need for revenge. Dad's sad dark eyes. Dean.
Dimly, Sam finds it fitting that Dean is the last thing he sees.
Sam tries to breathe through the pain, his back rigid. No good. He is altogether miserable.
Dean's key jangles in the lock, too loud. Sam moans, stuffs his head into his pillow. How can a headache and a...side ache...hurt this bad?
"Hey, baby bro!" Dean's voice booms as he moves toward the bed, shopping bag rustling in his hand.
Sam just groans in response and curls up tighter. It hurts, dammit.
"Got everything you need, honeybunch." Dean lays articles on the nightstand. "A lady at the pharmacy recommended this."
Sam peeks. Midol.
This curse cannot end fast enough.
"You remember Pooky?" Dean lay on his back in the grass, folded hands behind his head, watching the clouds. He chuckled nostalgically. "Man, I love that bear."
"That bear's been gone for twenty years, Dean," Sam said.
"Aw, Sammy, doncha remember? He made you so happy! Why're you so angry now?"
Sam slumped, laying back beside his brother to stare at the sky. "It's just that whenever you reminisce, it's always stuff you've chosen to torment me."
"You were such a cute little kid. You gotta be more flexible, Sam. Let me have my happy time."
Beside them, Bobby snickered.
Sam stared down at the blank paper, trying to find the words. He hated essays. And this one was particularly stupid. What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up. What a load of crap. It didn't matter what Sam wanted. His choices were made for him.
He pushed down too hard, and the lead snapped. Sam flung open the pencil box, searching for another one.
Dean leaned in the door. "Dude. You're supposed to be training. Dad's gonna be mad."
"You gonna tattle on me?" Sam asked, angry.
Dean leaned back. "No," he said quietly, and walked away.
"Since you had that thing for twinkies, I thought maybe you'd like this one, too."
Dean held out his offering with a hopeful little grin.
Castiel eyed it warily. It appeared to be a sandwich. He did not trust appearances. "What is it?"
"Fluffernutter, man. Peanut butter, marshmallow fluff. C'mon, try it!"
Castiel accepted the gift hesitantly. Dean's enthusiasm was impossible to ignore. It was...nice...to see him enthusiastic instead of worried, depressed, or staring at Sam with worried depression.
He took a bite. Dean laughed at his expression.
"Ha, Mikey likes it!"
Oh yes. Fluffernutters were the new twinkie.
"I want wings," Dean said.
Sam stared. He'd expected a lot of things since the whole angels and demons thing had started, but this one had never occurred to him. His head spun sickly, wondering if, for once, Dean was going to leave him instead of the other way around. Maybe Dean wanted another brother, another life. Castiel certainly seemed up for it, always staring after him longingly.
No, Sam thought fiercely. Can't have him. Mine.
"Didja see that Buffalo Bill's back there?" Dean continued. "Man, I can't wait for that hot sauce to burn my tongue."
Oh. Never mind.
"Didn't mean to offend you, dude," the guy said archly, raising one eyebrow. He tipped his beer back to his mouth, unconcerned.
Mark growled. He'd had a miserable day and he was spoiling for a fight. This twerp in his leather jacket and spiky haircut had seemed to fit the bill, but he wasn't going for it.
"I know what you're doing," the jerk said, tossing money down on the bar. "Been in a lot of fights with a lot of...folks. Just not feeling tonight, okay?"
He walked away. Mark jumped him.
Next thing he saw was a hospital ceiling.
Bobby was dimly aware of light somewhere. To the left, maybe? Up. He pushed toward the surface, strong thrusts. As the light neared his head began to pound, revenge of last night's Johnnie Walker, familiar.
Voices now, as dim as the light. He broke the surface and gasped, felt the floor hard beneath him.
"Uncle Bobby?" Dean's young face tilted above him, small finger already callused with too much target practice tapping his forehead. "You gotta stop drinking."
Bobby saw John behind him in the doorway, holding the toddler Sam in his arms, scowling.
"Yeah, kid." Bobby sighed. "I know."
They'd been prepared for all kinds of stuff on these little creatures, but the horns were throwing Dean off. He stood there, knife raised, tilting his head to stare. The horns looked like tree branches and they were...they were cute.
Sam paged frantically through his book. "Dean, it's still an unseelie thing! You gotta kill it!"
"It's cute!" Dean protested.
"It's a glamer! Kill it!"
Dean tried, but... He didn't want to be the hunter that killed Bambi's mom.
"Oh, for..." Sam lowered the book long enough to shoot it in the face.
Dean wasn't sure he'd ever forgive him.
"We need pumpkins," Sam insisted.
Dean stared at him blankly. "Why? They're not as tasty as bananas."
Sammy scowled at him, angry. He was five and he'd been going to school for two months, so he knew everything. "For Halloween, silly. Pumpkins. Decorations. Fall fun! It'll make Dad happy."
Making Dad happy was a big deal. They both wanted to do it, all the time. But reminders of fall didn't make Dad happy. They made him miserable.
"No," Dean said. He didn't explain why, no matter how his little brother whined, the constant little kid torment.
Sammy didn't know everything.
The key jangles in the lock. John stares down at it, trying to remember. He looks up, sees the door through blurry vision. Door...key...storage room. It's one of his storage rooms, one of his stashes, one of his havens.
His boys aren't here. Dean isn't here. If he was, John wouldn't be doing this alone.
Blood, that's blood on his hand, trailing down his arm. Burning numbness in his shoulder. Bite. He was bitten.
The key jangles in the lock, John leans on the door until it opens, falls in. Finds the first aid kit.
He's glad Dean isn't here.