But That's All Right, It's Okay, You Can Look the Other Way
Another silly idea that became a ficlet.
But That's All Right, It's Okay, You Can Look the Other Way, PG, Crack, ~300 words
By the time they get unstrap Dean and carry him to safety, he’s barely conscious, and Sam swallows hard. He was alone in the room when they found him, just a broken stereo system and the table he’d been bound to. There are no visible wounds, but he looks pale and wan, and Sam can think of at least twelve different things that could’ve left him like that, unmarked but drawn. Dean mutters something that sounds like “no time to talk,” and Sam tries to respond soothingly, murmuring things like “it’s okay now, Dean, we’ve got you.”
When Dean rouses, Sam is by his side, and doesn’t ask to hear what happened. But soon enough they come around to it, and Sam is expecting anything but what he hears.
“Day in, day out,” Dean manages, barely able to keep from breaking down. “Bee Gees, man. The Bee Gees, twenty-four seven.”
Sam goes for sympathetic but it comes out bitchy. “…What?”
“The Bee Gees, goddammit!” Dean shouts at him, looking awfully manic. “You can tell by the way I use my walk! You should be dancing, yeah! The fucking Bee Gees, dude.
Sam looks at him blankly. “Uh-huh. Bee Gees.”
Dean looks enraged. “You know what? Fuck you, Sam. Let’s see you take that shit for 72 straight hours. Jesus H motherfucking Christ.” He is almost sobbing.
“Hey, hey,” Sam soothes, arms around his brother. “It’s over now, man.” He sends a helpless glance over Dean’s shoulder to Castiel, but holds Dean close just the same. Reluctantly he admits that those demon assholes really knew what they were doing.
Dean quiets, and then rests for awhile, and later he gives off defensive vibes and doesn’t speak of it.
The first time a diner jukebox plays Staying Alive, Dean pulls out a handgun and plugs it from across the room.
But That's All Right, It's Okay, You Can Look the Other Way, PG, Crack, ~300 words
By the time they get unstrap Dean and carry him to safety, he’s barely conscious, and Sam swallows hard. He was alone in the room when they found him, just a broken stereo system and the table he’d been bound to. There are no visible wounds, but he looks pale and wan, and Sam can think of at least twelve different things that could’ve left him like that, unmarked but drawn. Dean mutters something that sounds like “no time to talk,” and Sam tries to respond soothingly, murmuring things like “it’s okay now, Dean, we’ve got you.”
When Dean rouses, Sam is by his side, and doesn’t ask to hear what happened. But soon enough they come around to it, and Sam is expecting anything but what he hears.
“Day in, day out,” Dean manages, barely able to keep from breaking down. “Bee Gees, man. The Bee Gees, twenty-four seven.”
Sam goes for sympathetic but it comes out bitchy. “…What?”
“The Bee Gees, goddammit!” Dean shouts at him, looking awfully manic. “You can tell by the way I use my walk! You should be dancing, yeah! The fucking Bee Gees, dude.
Sam looks at him blankly. “Uh-huh. Bee Gees.”
Dean looks enraged. “You know what? Fuck you, Sam. Let’s see you take that shit for 72 straight hours. Jesus H motherfucking Christ.” He is almost sobbing.
“Hey, hey,” Sam soothes, arms around his brother. “It’s over now, man.” He sends a helpless glance over Dean’s shoulder to Castiel, but holds Dean close just the same. Reluctantly he admits that those demon assholes really knew what they were doing.
Dean quiets, and then rests for awhile, and later he gives off defensive vibes and doesn’t speak of it.
The first time a diner jukebox plays Staying Alive, Dean pulls out a handgun and plugs it from across the room.