Group Interview From Hell
Title: Group Interview From Hell
Author: yami_faerie
Rating: PG (some swearing, but mild)
Genre/pairing: gen, um h/c?
Characters: Sam, Dean, random OC teachers
Word count: like 700
Summary: Sam isn't suffering from his hayfever. It’s some stupid person who overdosed on their perfume/cologne/shit. Cue Detective Dean.
Author's Note: Another fill from the Sneezy Sam meme. This prompt comes from shangrilada: "They're interviewing witnesses. There are a lot of them, and Sam is crazy allergic to someone's perfume but damn if he knows whose. Dean is surreptitiously trying to figure out which one and engineer some space between her and his brother, but they're supposed to be, like, professional and shit. Because they're being FBI agents. In the suits. And ties. Yeah."
Disclaimer: The boys will never be mine. Ever.
“Heh… Heh… he’CHHHOOOOO!” Sam blows his nose and blinks watery eyes.
Dean grimaces and looks around the room. They’re currently posing as the FBI, asking this group of teachers in the high school’s faculty room about some of the recent accidents in the north wing of the school. Sam suspects they’re being caused by a ghost, but they need to get access to the student records to try and figure out if anyone died recently in that particular part of the school or if it’s something older that got woken up by all the recent renovations. Unfortunately, Sam started sneezing less than a minute after they gathered the teachers together and he hasn’t stopped since.
“Hayfever?” asks one of the older women sympathetically, patting Sam’s arm. “Springtime here in Provo can be pretty rough sometimes.”
Sam nods and blows his nose again, and Dean’s getting pissed, because it isn’t hayfever, Sam was doing okay before they got here (for once in his life), it’s some stupid person who overdosed on their perfume/cologne/shit.
“So,” Dean says, “what else can you tell us about last week’s accident?”
One of the men starts telling the ‘thrilling’ tale with waaaaay more detail than is really necessary (seriously, who needs to know that the guy has been teaching wonderful and shiny new lectures that interest his students so fucking much?), and Dean stands up under the pretext of grabbing some more tissues from the other side of the room. He weaves his way through the chairs slowly, taking careful, not-too-deep-to-be-noticeable breaths to try and figure out who’s to blame. “Sorry,” he mumbles to one woman when he trips on her purse. She gives him a slightly strange look, but nods and returns her attention to the ongoing story.
Dammit, Dean can’t figure out who it is! He grabs the entire box of tissues, silently cursing over the fact that they’re the really cheap, rough ones because now Sam’s nose is gonna turn into a red, sore mess of ow. He silently returns to Sam, fuming over how much this sucks. Can they just be done with this group interview, already?
“Ahh-PPHHHMMMT!” goes Sam into his wad of tissues. Ugh.
Then he smells it, the hated perfume that’s causing so much trouble. It’s the old woman who was being all sympathetic about Sam’s so-called hayfever! Worse, she’s sitting right next to Dean’s kid, handing him tissues from her bag and giving Sam sad smiles when he sneezes even more and starts rubbing his face like he’s breaking out into hives. Fuck, he probably is.
“Here,” Dean says, handing the box to Sam. “Scoot over, would ya?”
Sam blinks up at him. “Bwhy?” Great, now he’s sounding all stuffed up, too, eyes watering even more and face going splotchy all over.
Dean can’t do this subtly, he just can’t. He looks over his shoulder and nods at the man to continue talking about the accident before giving his brother a pointed look. Sam scowls, sneezes three times in quick succession and scoots over into the chair Dean had been sitting in.
“Is he gonna be okay?” the woman asks Dean when he sits down next to her. Dean watches as Sam blows his nose and starts spending a little more time breathing, even managing to ask the man some questions about the ‘strange form’ he’d spotted before the poor victim tumbled down the long flight of stairs.
Dean nods in satisfaction. “Yeah, he is.” No thanks to you, bitch.
***
“Why’d you make me move over?” Sam asks when they leave the room, and Dean is glad to hear him talking so much more normally now that they’re completely away from the old woman and her fucking perfume.
“That old lady was the one making you sneeze, Sammy,” Dean says in disbelief, “how the fuck did you not even notice it?”
Sam frowns and rubs at his nose. Dean smacks his hand away.
“I didn’t,” Sam replies, still frowning. “I guess it just came on too fast.”
Dean sighs loudly and directs Sam to the bathroom to wash his hands and face. “You need benadryl, bitch.”
“Mmmhm.”
“Let’s go.”
“We still need to look at those records,” Sam says, brows furrowing as he follows Dean outside to the Impala.
“Fuck the records,” Dean says with finality. “We’ll save people tomorrow.”
END
Author: yami_faerie
Rating: PG (some swearing, but mild)
Genre/pairing: gen, um h/c?
Characters: Sam, Dean, random OC teachers
Word count: like 700
Summary: Sam isn't suffering from his hayfever. It’s some stupid person who overdosed on their perfume/cologne/shit. Cue Detective Dean.
Author's Note: Another fill from the Sneezy Sam meme. This prompt comes from shangrilada: "They're interviewing witnesses. There are a lot of them, and Sam is crazy allergic to someone's perfume but damn if he knows whose. Dean is surreptitiously trying to figure out which one and engineer some space between her and his brother, but they're supposed to be, like, professional and shit. Because they're being FBI agents. In the suits. And ties. Yeah."
Disclaimer: The boys will never be mine. Ever.
“Heh… Heh… he’CHHHOOOOO!” Sam blows his nose and blinks watery eyes.
Dean grimaces and looks around the room. They’re currently posing as the FBI, asking this group of teachers in the high school’s faculty room about some of the recent accidents in the north wing of the school. Sam suspects they’re being caused by a ghost, but they need to get access to the student records to try and figure out if anyone died recently in that particular part of the school or if it’s something older that got woken up by all the recent renovations. Unfortunately, Sam started sneezing less than a minute after they gathered the teachers together and he hasn’t stopped since.
“Hayfever?” asks one of the older women sympathetically, patting Sam’s arm. “Springtime here in Provo can be pretty rough sometimes.”
Sam nods and blows his nose again, and Dean’s getting pissed, because it isn’t hayfever, Sam was doing okay before they got here (for once in his life), it’s some stupid person who overdosed on their perfume/cologne/shit.
“So,” Dean says, “what else can you tell us about last week’s accident?”
One of the men starts telling the ‘thrilling’ tale with waaaaay more detail than is really necessary (seriously, who needs to know that the guy has been teaching wonderful and shiny new lectures that interest his students so fucking much?), and Dean stands up under the pretext of grabbing some more tissues from the other side of the room. He weaves his way through the chairs slowly, taking careful, not-too-deep-to-be-noticeable breaths to try and figure out who’s to blame. “Sorry,” he mumbles to one woman when he trips on her purse. She gives him a slightly strange look, but nods and returns her attention to the ongoing story.
Dammit, Dean can’t figure out who it is! He grabs the entire box of tissues, silently cursing over the fact that they’re the really cheap, rough ones because now Sam’s nose is gonna turn into a red, sore mess of ow. He silently returns to Sam, fuming over how much this sucks. Can they just be done with this group interview, already?
“Ahh-PPHHHMMMT!” goes Sam into his wad of tissues. Ugh.
Then he smells it, the hated perfume that’s causing so much trouble. It’s the old woman who was being all sympathetic about Sam’s so-called hayfever! Worse, she’s sitting right next to Dean’s kid, handing him tissues from her bag and giving Sam sad smiles when he sneezes even more and starts rubbing his face like he’s breaking out into hives. Fuck, he probably is.
“Here,” Dean says, handing the box to Sam. “Scoot over, would ya?”
Sam blinks up at him. “Bwhy?” Great, now he’s sounding all stuffed up, too, eyes watering even more and face going splotchy all over.
Dean can’t do this subtly, he just can’t. He looks over his shoulder and nods at the man to continue talking about the accident before giving his brother a pointed look. Sam scowls, sneezes three times in quick succession and scoots over into the chair Dean had been sitting in.
“Is he gonna be okay?” the woman asks Dean when he sits down next to her. Dean watches as Sam blows his nose and starts spending a little more time breathing, even managing to ask the man some questions about the ‘strange form’ he’d spotted before the poor victim tumbled down the long flight of stairs.
Dean nods in satisfaction. “Yeah, he is.” No thanks to you, bitch.
***
“Why’d you make me move over?” Sam asks when they leave the room, and Dean is glad to hear him talking so much more normally now that they’re completely away from the old woman and her fucking perfume.
“That old lady was the one making you sneeze, Sammy,” Dean says in disbelief, “how the fuck did you not even notice it?”
Sam frowns and rubs at his nose. Dean smacks his hand away.
“I didn’t,” Sam replies, still frowning. “I guess it just came on too fast.”
Dean sighs loudly and directs Sam to the bathroom to wash his hands and face. “You need benadryl, bitch.”
“Mmmhm.”
“Let’s go.”
“We still need to look at those records,” Sam says, brows furrowing as he follows Dean outside to the Impala.
“Fuck the records,” Dean says with finality. “We’ll save people tomorrow.”
END