Drabble requests part 4
With no new requests, this will be the final installment for now. These are the ones for people who had a request filled already. I felt inspired and wrote a new one for Girlfan, which fulfills her request much better than the last one did. For Grey's second request... well, I'm not sure I'm happy with it, in the end. Its not the way I normally write, and it might not have worked. And for Unhobbityhobbit, its a continuation from Tei's drabble.
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For girlfan1979: Supernatural, Sam and Dean, "gen h/c, one has to hurt the other" (R for language)
And On My Shoulder:
Dean bites his lip and tries not to flinch. Damn poltergeist had thrown a whole fucking table at him, which pisses him off to no end, even now that the bastard's bones are salted and burned to dust. He'd managed to dodge it, mostly, except that it dislocated his shoulder and cut a gash down his back.
The problem is Sam keeps acting like the table had flattened him into the wall. And he doesn't even know about Dean's shoulder. At least, not until he tries to help Dean up.
“God fucking damn it all straight to fucking hell,” Sam shouts at the ceiling.
Dean finds his own way to his feet. “Jesus Christ, Sam, its just dislocat-”
Sam spins, harsh and fast, and in a flurry of movements Dean totally isn't ready for he pins Dean to the wall. A push and a pull and Dean's shoulder pops. He really wants to say thanks and get the hell out of Dodge, but Sam's still got him pinned to the wall. Between Sam getting in his face and the pain lancing up his back, Dean finds it a little too hard to breathe.
“The hell is wrong with you,” Sam growls. It isn't a question. He's so angry his eyes are crossing to look Dean in the face and his jaw is twitching like its electrified.
“Sam?” Dean asks. Because for him, this is kind of out of left field. There was a time when he could see this shit coming, could see Sam's mood twisting. Hell, sometimes he'd egged it on, itching for a fight with something that'd hit back. (And hey, what else are brothers for, right?) But ever since Dad had...
“Are you trying to die?” Sam's voice shatters against the floor. This close Dean can see him trying to hang onto it, can see it melting into tears. He doesn't let go. Just falls open and caves down until his head is resting against Dean's shoulder. “You can't... I can't...”
“Sammy...” Dean doesn't know what to say, what to do. He doesn't seem to know how to be around Sam anymore. So he does what he used to do, when they were little enough to share a bed with room to spare. He wraps his arms around Sam's shoulders and holds on tight. “It'll be alright,” he whispers. Dean doesn't know if that's true, maybe even thinks it isn't, but that doesn't matter. Not right now. “Sammy, we'll be alright.”
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For greyrider: Lost/RL, Ben Linus, "he visits your store"
You Know What Happens When We Make Assumptions?:
I'm not psychic or anything. I don't think I'm some superb judge of character. I mean, hell, I'm a clerk. A comic shop clerk. It takes me an hour to pick up on the fact that the socially inept nerds are hitting on me. (You'd think I'd get used to it - I think I might possibly be the only college aged woman working as a comic clerk in the whole of North Texas.)
So yeah. I'm pretty laid back. I try to be friendly with everybody, especially if I'm behind the counter.
But this guy...
Ok, I should point out now that I've had some creepy assholes in my store before. I've had customers that are retarded (and I'm being serious, here, not insulting) that freak me out because they barely function well enough to come into the store alone and I worry, I worry about what I would do if they became upset. I've had drunks wander in with open bottles and accuse me of peddling Satan's personal agenda.
This guy terrified me. He looked unassuming enough. He was shorter than most guys I know. And he dressed like he meant to disappear into the masses of students on campus not two blocks away. He even had a messenger bag that he kept one hand on at all times.
“Hi! How's it going today?” I said.
And then he looked me in the eye. He smiled, but really, that only made it worse. He said something, asked for something. I don't even remember what anymore. There was a list... But I jumped like he had snapped his fingers. He was very specific, so I didn't ask questions. I don't think I said anything at all the rest of the time he was there.
I didn't have everything he wanted. Some issues were just too old; some of the books were out of print.
“It's alright,” he said when I tried to make my voice work long enough to apologize. He smiled again, and it took a concerted effort not to hide under the counter. I thanked Christ, Buddha, and anyone else that might be listening that he wasn't angry. Somehow I knew that would be a Very Bad Thing. “The people I got these for will be very pleased to receive them.”
He paid and left.
I know it sounds crazy. Nothing happened. He wasn't rude. He didn't even complain. That's better than most customers I get.
Even his name was innocuous. I mean, how creepy can a guy be when he's got the same name as the kid with the blanket in Charlie Brown?
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For unhobbityhobbit: Supernatural, Sam and Dean, "Sam's hair gets left on the pillow" (PG13 for language)
Stealthy As Ninja:
Sam is mopey for the rest of the day. And yeah, ok, Dean teasing him totally didn't help. Maybe actually buying a bottle of Nair was a little much. The kid totally reverted to thirteen, when he was still small and scrawny and was just starting to be interested in girls; some chick told him his hair hanging in his eyes was cute, and Dad didn't give a damn. As usual.
Unfortunately (well, fortunately now) Dad had started making Dean cut Sam's hair some time after Dean was old enough to be trusted with scissors near his brother's head and Sam was old enough not to wriggle around. Which was earlier than anyone would expect, when it comes down to it. Not that Sam didn't whine like a three year old. Every. Single. Time.
So Dean waits. He waits til after Sam stops talking about it. He waits til after Sam lays down in bed. Dean should win a fucking reward for his patience, because he even waits til after Sam has shifted into that deep sleep that only comes when they're in between hunts and Dean is still awake in the other bed. He didn't need to - he's totally capable of pinning Sam down for this sort of shit.
But he doesn't. Because Dean? Is a fucking ninja.
So. He waits. And when he finally gets to working, Sam only stirs once. And that's only because Dean needed him to roll over a little bit. By the time he's done, he even has enough time to manage a couple hours of sleep.
Waking up before Sam does is vital. Sometimes that's harder than it sounds. When they were kids Dean was always the last to sleep and the first to wake up. These days...
In any case, Dean manages it, though not by much. Sam is wiggling his toes under the covers. He does that just before he flips over and buries his face in his pillow in one last vain attempt to cling to sleep. And that? That would be bad.
“I'm so glad I slept in my clothes,” Dean mutters to himself. He isn't really. Except that it means all he wants to do before bolting out the door is gargle.
“Hm?” Sam hums.
Shit. “Nothin'. Gettin' breakfast.” Dean pulls his boots on like his life depends on it. Gargling just isn't worth the risk. Which was a good choice, because just before he climbs into the Impala he can hear Sam bellowing his name.
Waking up in a pile of his own hair will do that to a man.
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Comments and critiques are love. Love me?
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For girlfan1979: Supernatural, Sam and Dean, "gen h/c, one has to hurt the other" (R for language)
And On My Shoulder:
Dean bites his lip and tries not to flinch. Damn poltergeist had thrown a whole fucking table at him, which pisses him off to no end, even now that the bastard's bones are salted and burned to dust. He'd managed to dodge it, mostly, except that it dislocated his shoulder and cut a gash down his back.
The problem is Sam keeps acting like the table had flattened him into the wall. And he doesn't even know about Dean's shoulder. At least, not until he tries to help Dean up.
“God fucking damn it all straight to fucking hell,” Sam shouts at the ceiling.
Dean finds his own way to his feet. “Jesus Christ, Sam, its just dislocat-”
Sam spins, harsh and fast, and in a flurry of movements Dean totally isn't ready for he pins Dean to the wall. A push and a pull and Dean's shoulder pops. He really wants to say thanks and get the hell out of Dodge, but Sam's still got him pinned to the wall. Between Sam getting in his face and the pain lancing up his back, Dean finds it a little too hard to breathe.
“The hell is wrong with you,” Sam growls. It isn't a question. He's so angry his eyes are crossing to look Dean in the face and his jaw is twitching like its electrified.
“Sam?” Dean asks. Because for him, this is kind of out of left field. There was a time when he could see this shit coming, could see Sam's mood twisting. Hell, sometimes he'd egged it on, itching for a fight with something that'd hit back. (And hey, what else are brothers for, right?) But ever since Dad had...
“Are you trying to die?” Sam's voice shatters against the floor. This close Dean can see him trying to hang onto it, can see it melting into tears. He doesn't let go. Just falls open and caves down until his head is resting against Dean's shoulder. “You can't... I can't...”
“Sammy...” Dean doesn't know what to say, what to do. He doesn't seem to know how to be around Sam anymore. So he does what he used to do, when they were little enough to share a bed with room to spare. He wraps his arms around Sam's shoulders and holds on tight. “It'll be alright,” he whispers. Dean doesn't know if that's true, maybe even thinks it isn't, but that doesn't matter. Not right now. “Sammy, we'll be alright.”
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For greyrider: Lost/RL, Ben Linus, "he visits your store"
You Know What Happens When We Make Assumptions?:
I'm not psychic or anything. I don't think I'm some superb judge of character. I mean, hell, I'm a clerk. A comic shop clerk. It takes me an hour to pick up on the fact that the socially inept nerds are hitting on me. (You'd think I'd get used to it - I think I might possibly be the only college aged woman working as a comic clerk in the whole of North Texas.)
So yeah. I'm pretty laid back. I try to be friendly with everybody, especially if I'm behind the counter.
But this guy...
Ok, I should point out now that I've had some creepy assholes in my store before. I've had customers that are retarded (and I'm being serious, here, not insulting) that freak me out because they barely function well enough to come into the store alone and I worry, I worry about what I would do if they became upset. I've had drunks wander in with open bottles and accuse me of peddling Satan's personal agenda.
This guy terrified me. He looked unassuming enough. He was shorter than most guys I know. And he dressed like he meant to disappear into the masses of students on campus not two blocks away. He even had a messenger bag that he kept one hand on at all times.
“Hi! How's it going today?” I said.
And then he looked me in the eye. He smiled, but really, that only made it worse. He said something, asked for something. I don't even remember what anymore. There was a list... But I jumped like he had snapped his fingers. He was very specific, so I didn't ask questions. I don't think I said anything at all the rest of the time he was there.
I didn't have everything he wanted. Some issues were just too old; some of the books were out of print.
“It's alright,” he said when I tried to make my voice work long enough to apologize. He smiled again, and it took a concerted effort not to hide under the counter. I thanked Christ, Buddha, and anyone else that might be listening that he wasn't angry. Somehow I knew that would be a Very Bad Thing. “The people I got these for will be very pleased to receive them.”
He paid and left.
I know it sounds crazy. Nothing happened. He wasn't rude. He didn't even complain. That's better than most customers I get.
Even his name was innocuous. I mean, how creepy can a guy be when he's got the same name as the kid with the blanket in Charlie Brown?
_____
For unhobbityhobbit: Supernatural, Sam and Dean, "Sam's hair gets left on the pillow" (PG13 for language)
Stealthy As Ninja:
Sam is mopey for the rest of the day. And yeah, ok, Dean teasing him totally didn't help. Maybe actually buying a bottle of Nair was a little much. The kid totally reverted to thirteen, when he was still small and scrawny and was just starting to be interested in girls; some chick told him his hair hanging in his eyes was cute, and Dad didn't give a damn. As usual.
Unfortunately (well, fortunately now) Dad had started making Dean cut Sam's hair some time after Dean was old enough to be trusted with scissors near his brother's head and Sam was old enough not to wriggle around. Which was earlier than anyone would expect, when it comes down to it. Not that Sam didn't whine like a three year old. Every. Single. Time.
So Dean waits. He waits til after Sam stops talking about it. He waits til after Sam lays down in bed. Dean should win a fucking reward for his patience, because he even waits til after Sam has shifted into that deep sleep that only comes when they're in between hunts and Dean is still awake in the other bed. He didn't need to - he's totally capable of pinning Sam down for this sort of shit.
But he doesn't. Because Dean? Is a fucking ninja.
So. He waits. And when he finally gets to working, Sam only stirs once. And that's only because Dean needed him to roll over a little bit. By the time he's done, he even has enough time to manage a couple hours of sleep.
Waking up before Sam does is vital. Sometimes that's harder than it sounds. When they were kids Dean was always the last to sleep and the first to wake up. These days...
In any case, Dean manages it, though not by much. Sam is wiggling his toes under the covers. He does that just before he flips over and buries his face in his pillow in one last vain attempt to cling to sleep. And that? That would be bad.
“I'm so glad I slept in my clothes,” Dean mutters to himself. He isn't really. Except that it means all he wants to do before bolting out the door is gargle.
“Hm?” Sam hums.
Shit. “Nothin'. Gettin' breakfast.” Dean pulls his boots on like his life depends on it. Gargling just isn't worth the risk. Which was a good choice, because just before he climbs into the Impala he can hear Sam bellowing his name.
Waking up in a pile of his own hair will do that to a man.
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Comments and critiques are love. Love me?