It Wasn't The Nightingale

E/O Drabble challenge, word: balcony.

Summary: Dean is in a poetic mood. Unfortunately, his audience is not. No spoilers, just fun.

A/N: Honestly, this word nearly crushed my lazy brain. First there was only darkness, then there was a hazy image of Abe Lincoln, but it scurried away. And in the end? Only silence. And… that. I apologize ;-)

"Sam, look at that perfectly built balcony."

Dean chuckled, missing his brother's ribs by inches and nearly hitting the bar with his grin.


"Seriously, I could spend all night looking up at it – like, uh, that guy, Romero."

"Dean, you…"

"Or I'd cover it with roses and bury my face in the scent."

A low growl jolted him out of his whisky-laden reveries, followed by a fist that sent him flying into a swirling meteor shower.

"Another glance at my girlfriend's tits and you're mash, you bloody lecher."


His brother dropped right next to him, choking with laughter.