Sen Beret's Anniversary Meme!
It's actually been a year and two months since I became involved with the fandom, but hey, who's counting?
Masterlist
rules
Masterlist
rules
- comment on this post with your prompts! all prompts are welcome (be as vague or detailed as you'd like!) as long as they fit with the theme of sneezy/sick/allergic Sam, Dean, Castiel, John, etc.
- reply to prompts with your ( Read more... )
“That’s it?” She asks, “It’s dead?”
“For now,” Dean mutters. “If we don’t want it up and running around with half a face, we’ll need to steak it in its gravesite later.” He kicks at the motionless body where it is sprawled next to Sam on the carpet. “Whaddyouknow? Turns out you don’t need Head Reaper himself to switch the lights out.”
When no-one reacts, Dean sighs, and pulls Becky’s dufflebag from underneath their upended table. “Well, thank you for your entirely individual brand of help, but it’s probably time you were leaving. I assume there are no objections this time,” he adds, looking pointedly at Sam.
Sam shakes his head and looks away, his face creasing. He reaches out for the Kleenex box, now crushed and abandoned on the floor. Pulling out a couple of tissues, he arches back, blinking.
“Huhhh… Uhhh… Huhhh… HHT’ZCHhhHuh! HggKhhTCHYEW! Ow.”
Dean stares at him. “You’re not seriously still sick?”
“Ndo,” Sam grumbles, holding Kleenex against his face. “Bastard zombie broke mby ndose. Pressure was botherindg mbe.”
Becky notices then, what a mess has been left by this whole thing. The motel room looks an absolute wreck, and the boys look worse. Sam has mud and blood smeared across his cheekbone where he’d taken that foot to the face; Dean is limping and holding his arm awkwardly; and the pair of them are moving slow and stiff now that the adrenaline of the fight it wearing off.
“Um… so… I know I’m probably the last person you want around right now, but, you know, you’re gonna need some help clearing this place up…”
“No!” They answer. In Unison. Becky’s not gonna pretend it’s not totally awesome. She turns to Sam.
“At least let me bandage your…”
“Becky,” Sam interrupts, pinching at the bridge of his nose. “I dond’t kndow what you were tryindg to achieve here…” She thinks about explaining, but he cuts her off. “Actually, I dond’t evend wandt to thidnk about it. But believe mbe whedn I tell you that if we see you agaidn, or hear that you’ve beedn withind a hundred feet of a mbagical object, thedn you will be the ndext thindg that we steak ind a graveyard.”
It occurs to Becky that it’s probably not a good idea to argue with a guy on the same day that you see him whack a zombie with a lamp.
Oh well, no shame in knowing when you’re beaten.
She gives them one last (winning - she thinks) smile, and hefts her bag back onto her shoulder. “Well, it’s been nice hunting with you. I hope you feel better.”
“Really?” Dean rounds on her. “You hope we feel better? Maybe next time you could…”
“Leave it.” Sam tells him, getting to his feet with a groan as Becky steps out of the door.
It could have gone worse, she decides, squeezing at Sam’s toothbrush that she’d snuck into her jacket. After all - she totally almost got to drive the Impala.
She’ll just need to come up with a better plan next time.
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