Misery outtake: Needful Things
Misery (the Bad Medicine remix) epilogue/outtake: Needful Things
A/N: Written especially for the lovely roque_clasique, because she asked so nicely and I have zip-o self control. As in, I used to have some, but I took a Zippo lighter to it, so now I don’t have any left. It only took me FIVE MONTHS to write it for her, too! Please hold your applause.
Also for a hoodie_time meme #5 prompt, also by roque, because apparently all I need to finish writing a ficlet is an actual real prompt. I should apply this to my term papers next semester.
The original story is here, and probably necessary for understanding this scene. :)
“Poke me with that thing one more time. Really, I dare you.”
Dean withdraws his crutch, then opens his mouth to retort, makes a raspy noise, and stops, clutching his throat.
“Still hurts, huh?” Sam asks, and Dean wishes he had a piece of paper and more than one color pen, so that he could render Sam a picture of exactly what his Captain Obvious outfit should look like. Tights, for sure. Possible go-go boots. A detachable codpiece.
“You know,” Sam continues. “I was thinking maybe we should lay low for a while, let you heal up.”
Dean’s really getting pissed at Kathy for making him miss all these prime gay joke opportunities.
“To start, we can go to Bobby’s, and hit the books for a while, figure out if there’s anything else to do about the Horsemen.”
Dean thinks that if Sam’s going to narrate out the rest of his life for him, he should buy a Dictaphone, because it’s sure to be a bestseller and they could really use the money. Either that, or he could kiss his Glock one last time and put himself out of his misery.
“You should stretch out your leg,” Sam advises.
How this turns into a leg massage at the motel later, Dean’s not really sure, but he’s really disappointed that Sam’s not apt enough at charades to guess that his masseuse name is Gustav.
“Why are you laughing?” Sam asks. “I’m just doing what your doctor said.”
Dean shakes his head slightly- no reason, really, except Sam should work on his mime interpretation. Dean would’ve thought that the nurse name at least would be easier to guess, but apparently Sam hasn’t watched quite as much of the John Stamos-era E.R. as Dean had thought.
It’s been a long few days. Sam had put them up in the best motel he could afford, looking almost childishly proud at it. Dean had simply raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t the Overlook, at least.
Hey, Boy Wonder, Dean writes on a notepad. Vicodin. He folds the note into an airplane, hits his brother in the forehead.
“I’m not Harry Potter, Dean. I can’t just make it appear.”
Dean has heard plenty of jokes about wands and other things, but now is not the time.
You remember withdrawal symptoms? His aim is a little lower this time, and Sam scowls as he retrieves the airplane from his lap.
“You know, Bobby’s is close,” Sam says. “I could drop you off there and you could make a go of it. I can call the Intervention crew and they can meet us there.”
Dean gives him the finger. I’M NOT AN ADDICT, he scrawls, and holds it up.
“Huh. And here I am, thinking that you already had your dose this morning,” Sam says. “Must be imagining things.”
Dean pouts, rubbing his leg. He lunges for the remote, but can’t quite reach from his perch on the bed. He glares at his brother, who’s turned away from him, working on his laptop.
Dean tries a grunt. Nothing.
Flapping the covers. Nothing.
Airplane in the nape of the neck. Aha.
“Dean. I will take that away from you.”
OVER MY DEAD BODY.
“Dude, this might be morbid and blasphemous and wrong, but you know? I’ve stood over your body before, and I have to say- I don’t think it was very dexterous.”
REMOTE. NOW.
“Chill. It’ll be okay if you miss the first five minutes of the Golden Girls.” Sam holds out the remote, and Dean takes it with a sardonic expression on his face. He waits until Sam’s settled back at his laptop, and then aims. The remote bounces off the back of Sam’s head. Dean’s always been of the opinion that reality was better than TV, most of the time.
(aaaaand scene.)
A/N: Written especially for the lovely roque_clasique, because she asked so nicely and I have zip-o self control. As in, I used to have some, but I took a Zippo lighter to it, so now I don’t have any left. It only took me FIVE MONTHS to write it for her, too! Please hold your applause.
Also for a hoodie_time meme #5 prompt, also by roque, because apparently all I need to finish writing a ficlet is an actual real prompt. I should apply this to my term papers next semester.
The original story is here, and probably necessary for understanding this scene. :)
“Poke me with that thing one more time. Really, I dare you.”
Dean withdraws his crutch, then opens his mouth to retort, makes a raspy noise, and stops, clutching his throat.
“Still hurts, huh?” Sam asks, and Dean wishes he had a piece of paper and more than one color pen, so that he could render Sam a picture of exactly what his Captain Obvious outfit should look like. Tights, for sure. Possible go-go boots. A detachable codpiece.
“You know,” Sam continues. “I was thinking maybe we should lay low for a while, let you heal up.”
Dean’s really getting pissed at Kathy for making him miss all these prime gay joke opportunities.
“To start, we can go to Bobby’s, and hit the books for a while, figure out if there’s anything else to do about the Horsemen.”
Dean thinks that if Sam’s going to narrate out the rest of his life for him, he should buy a Dictaphone, because it’s sure to be a bestseller and they could really use the money. Either that, or he could kiss his Glock one last time and put himself out of his misery.
“You should stretch out your leg,” Sam advises.
How this turns into a leg massage at the motel later, Dean’s not really sure, but he’s really disappointed that Sam’s not apt enough at charades to guess that his masseuse name is Gustav.
“Why are you laughing?” Sam asks. “I’m just doing what your doctor said.”
Dean shakes his head slightly- no reason, really, except Sam should work on his mime interpretation. Dean would’ve thought that the nurse name at least would be easier to guess, but apparently Sam hasn’t watched quite as much of the John Stamos-era E.R. as Dean had thought.
It’s been a long few days. Sam had put them up in the best motel he could afford, looking almost childishly proud at it. Dean had simply raised his eyebrows. It wasn’t the Overlook, at least.
Hey, Boy Wonder, Dean writes on a notepad. Vicodin. He folds the note into an airplane, hits his brother in the forehead.
“I’m not Harry Potter, Dean. I can’t just make it appear.”
Dean has heard plenty of jokes about wands and other things, but now is not the time.
You remember withdrawal symptoms? His aim is a little lower this time, and Sam scowls as he retrieves the airplane from his lap.
“You know, Bobby’s is close,” Sam says. “I could drop you off there and you could make a go of it. I can call the Intervention crew and they can meet us there.”
Dean gives him the finger. I’M NOT AN ADDICT, he scrawls, and holds it up.
“Huh. And here I am, thinking that you already had your dose this morning,” Sam says. “Must be imagining things.”
Dean pouts, rubbing his leg. He lunges for the remote, but can’t quite reach from his perch on the bed. He glares at his brother, who’s turned away from him, working on his laptop.
Dean tries a grunt. Nothing.
Flapping the covers. Nothing.
Airplane in the nape of the neck. Aha.
“Dean. I will take that away from you.”
OVER MY DEAD BODY.
“Dude, this might be morbid and blasphemous and wrong, but you know? I’ve stood over your body before, and I have to say- I don’t think it was very dexterous.”
REMOTE. NOW.
“Chill. It’ll be okay if you miss the first five minutes of the Golden Girls.” Sam holds out the remote, and Dean takes it with a sardonic expression on his face. He waits until Sam’s settled back at his laptop, and then aims. The remote bounces off the back of Sam’s head. Dean’s always been of the opinion that reality was better than TV, most of the time.
(aaaaand scene.)