CoulrophobiadonutsweeperAugust 28 2009, 20:49:25 UTC
Sammy Winchester was not afraid of monsters. Or the dark. Or what might be living in the closet. Or things under the bed. He laughed at werewolves, black cats and small places. And he thought there was nothing better than a super loud thunderstorm, especially if the lightning was bright enough to see that red flash behind closed eyes.
That said, during the school field trip to the circus, Sam discovered that there was one thing, just one, that he was afraid of. Deathly afraid of. Clowns. Not your happy, friendly, give a little wave kind of clown like Ronald McDonald, these clowns were creepy. They had scary, out of proportion faces with huge smiles and shoes that were WAY too big for their feet. Like ten times to big. Why did they wear shoes so big? What were they trying to hide
( ... )
Re: Coulrophobiakimmer1227August 28 2009, 21:24:44 UTC
They had scary, out of proportion faces with huge smiles and shoes that were WAY too big for their feet. Like ten times to big. Why did they wear shoes so big? What were they trying to hide?
When he knew for sure that it was a 24 hour thing; after he’d made Bobby swear on his dad’s journal and gotten cuffed on the head and called an idiot for his pains, then and only then did Dean figure it was probably going to be one of the best days everHe cranked Metallica up so loud it shook his hands through the steering wheel. And he cracked up every single time he looked across and saw Sam serenely staring out the side window. He sang as loudly and obnoxiously as he knew how, slapping the dash, the seat, even Sam’s shoulder with his palms as he did so. But the latter got him a solid thump back, so he went back to improvising rude words about Sam’s anatomy at the top of his lungs to the lyrics of ‘Lady Evil
( ... )
Big Red Plus from LaLa Land, Part Iwave_obscuraAugust 29 2009, 04:52:36 UTC
A/N: This is probably not what you had in mind, but… delirious!Dean insisted on telling the story, and well… he’s really, really delirious. I’m sorry, I have no idea where this came from :( *hangs head in shame
( ... )
Re: Big Red Plus from LaLa Land, Part IIwave_obscuraAugust 29 2009, 04:53:00 UTC
“Sammy?” He says tentatively. He sees his brother like underwater but the blood is flowing up and over his eyeballs red like at the crossroads.
“TRIED. TO. SCALP. ME. DEAN. GHOST.”
Sammy knows when he needs to speak up nice and slow cause Sammy’s an awfully good boy, not like Jimmy Joe Tommy who said beer bongs were-
Why the fuck…?
Dean searches his body again for his brain. Head. Face.
Fever.
Shit.
“The hunt without!” He blurts, and his arms reach out to his brother. “Me. Wait for ME. C’mere.”
Forests of hair, forests of hair and god his eyes want to shut up but he’s gotta look for the wound and there! There it is.
“Nah. So bad.” His mouth says, fingering forehead-gash Sammy.
“I. CAN’T. SEE. DEAN. FUCK. SORRY.”
“Nhmmgmgg,” Dean’s mouth replies. He’s just gonna lay Sammy back against the Impala like that-rest yer head right there, Impala take care you, and there’s stuff. Somewhere. He needs
( ... )
Re: Big Red Plus from LaLa Land, Part IIchiiyo86August 29 2009, 07:20:15 UTC
Honey, I told you anything you write would make me happy. It was awesome! I love delirious!Dean. And sick!Dean and hurt!Sam is just the way I wanted it though I didn't tell you. You somehow read my mind. Thank you!
I see you've done a bunch of other prompts, so I'll go read them.
Happy Hunter, Part Iwave_obscuraAugust 29 2009, 06:30:57 UTC
AWESOME PROMPT.
Note: The story is from a long out-of-print I Can Read Book called Lucille, by Arnold Lobel. I chopped out unnecessary parts.
Happy Hunter By wave obscura
“Lucille,” Sam says, and that’s how Dean knows the extra Percocet is doing the trick. “Tell me Lucille.”
“Okay, Sammy,” he replies, patting his brother on the head. “Whatever you say.”
Sam scowls blearily up at him. “Dean. I wanna hear Lucille.”
Dean sits at the foot of his brother’s bed. “You’re not six, bro. You’re almost twenty-seven and you’re out of it because some bitch shot you in the shoulder last night.”
“I fuggin know that,” Sam slurs. “Juss tell me a fuggin story.”
“Lucille, Sam? Seriously?”
“Surrrisly.”
“We lost that book ages ago.”
“You mesmorized-memorized it.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
Okay. Maybe he did have it memorized. But- “It’s a picture book, Sam. What good’s a picture book without pictures?”
Sam lets out a single, explosive “HA!” Then his eyes close and Dean crosses his fingers, willing them to just please stay shut
( ... )
Re: Happy Hunter, Part IIwave_obscuraAugust 29 2009, 06:31:15 UTC
“Now Lucille does not work in the fields,” he continues, “she sits in the house in her hat, in her shoes, and in her dress. She drinks tea and listens to the radio with the farmer’s wife. The pink roses on Lucille’s hat tickle her, the shiny shoes hurt her feet, and her beautiful white dress makes her hot. Lucille wishes she were outside working with the farmer.”
“Um notta lady!” Sam cries. “Umma horse!”
“Jesus, Sam, why don’t you just tell the story to yourself if you know it so well?”
Sam’s face falls into an exaggerated frown, and of course Dean feels like the biggest ass in the universe.
“Srry,” Sam says, and then squirms a little. “Hurts.”
“I know, kid. I’m sorry. You’re all maxed out on pain meds, though.”
Little brothers sure know how to stick it in a break it off. Dean can’t stop himself from tousling Sam’s hair a little. “Your throat dry? You want some ice chips?”
Sam shakes his head pitifully. “Juss. Finisstha story, kay?”
“Okay,” Dean says gently, but inside he thinks for the thousandth time I am so going to
( ... )
For the OcelotmaychorianAugust 29 2009, 12:56:00 UTC
Dad wouldn't have left if he knew it was going to get this bad. This is what Sam told himself. Dad wouldn't have left. He wouldn't.
But he had left. He had left. And it had gotten this bad. It had gotten really, really bad.
"Dean, will you drink some water? C'mon, you gotta drink."
Dean tossed his head on the motel pillow, hair pasted to his forehead with sweat. He muttered something about "the gun, Dad, don't let that fucker jam on you," then subsided back into silence, only his harsh pants breaking the hot stillness.
"Dean. Dean, please. It's Sam. You gotta come back from this. I dunno what to do. Dean, please."
At the repeated call of his name, Dean's head slid toward Sam, and his eyes finally cracked open, bright and glazed and watchful. "Sa'mee?"
Sam grinned in relief and held up the water glass. "Drink, Dean. You gotta drink."
"S'it alcoholic?" Dean slurred. "'Cause that, that ud be awe sum.""You have a fever, Dean." Sam rolled his eyes. "Alcohol is a dehydrator. This's water
( ... )
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That said, during the school field trip to the circus, Sam discovered that there was one thing, just one, that he was afraid of. Deathly afraid of. Clowns. Not your happy, friendly, give a little wave kind of clown like Ronald McDonald, these clowns were creepy. They had scary, out of proportion faces with huge smiles and shoes that were WAY too big for their feet. Like ten times to big. Why did they wear shoes so big? What were they trying to hide ( ... )
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I know, right! That Sammy is smart!
Thanks so much.
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When he knew for sure that it was a 24 hour thing; after he’d made Bobby swear on his dad’s journal and gotten cuffed on the head and called an idiot for his pains, then and only then did Dean figure it was probably going to be one of the best days everHe cranked Metallica up so loud it shook his hands through the steering wheel. And he cracked up every single time he looked across and saw Sam serenely staring out the side window. He sang as loudly and obnoxiously as he knew how, slapping the dash, the seat, even Sam’s shoulder with his palms as he did so. But the latter got him a solid thump back, so he went back to improvising rude words about Sam’s anatomy at the top of his lungs to the lyrics of ‘Lady Evil ( ... )
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“TRIED. TO. SCALP. ME. DEAN. GHOST.”
Sammy knows when he needs to speak up nice and slow cause Sammy’s an awfully good boy, not like Jimmy Joe Tommy who said beer bongs were-
Why the fuck…?
Dean searches his body again for his brain. Head. Face.
Fever.
Shit.
“The hunt without!” He blurts, and his arms reach out to his brother. “Me. Wait for ME. C’mere.”
Forests of hair, forests of hair and god his eyes want to shut up but he’s gotta look for the wound and there! There it is.
“Nah. So bad.” His mouth says, fingering forehead-gash Sammy.
“I. CAN’T. SEE. DEAN. FUCK. SORRY.”
“Nhmmgmgg,” Dean’s mouth replies. He’s just gonna lay Sammy back against the Impala like that-rest yer head right there, Impala take care you, and there’s stuff. Somewhere. He needs ( ... )
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I see you've done a bunch of other prompts, so I'll go read them.
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Note: The story is from a long out-of-print I Can Read Book called Lucille, by Arnold Lobel. I chopped out unnecessary parts.
Happy Hunter
By wave obscura
“Lucille,” Sam says, and that’s how Dean knows the extra Percocet is doing the trick. “Tell me Lucille.”
“Okay, Sammy,” he replies, patting his brother on the head. “Whatever you say.”
Sam scowls blearily up at him. “Dean. I wanna hear Lucille.”
Dean sits at the foot of his brother’s bed. “You’re not six, bro. You’re almost twenty-seven and you’re out of it because some bitch shot you in the shoulder last night.”
“I fuggin know that,” Sam slurs. “Juss tell me a fuggin story.”
“Lucille, Sam? Seriously?”
“Surrrisly.”
“We lost that book ages ago.”
“You mesmorized-memorized it.”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
Okay. Maybe he did have it memorized. But- “It’s a picture book, Sam. What good’s a picture book without pictures?”
Sam lets out a single, explosive “HA!” Then his eyes close and Dean crosses his fingers, willing them to just please stay shut ( ... )
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“Um notta lady!” Sam cries. “Umma horse!”
“Jesus, Sam, why don’t you just tell the story to yourself if you know it so well?”
Sam’s face falls into an exaggerated frown, and of course Dean feels like the biggest ass in the universe.
“Srry,” Sam says, and then squirms a little. “Hurts.”
“I know, kid. I’m sorry. You’re all maxed out on pain meds, though.”
Little brothers sure know how to stick it in a break it off. Dean can’t stop himself from tousling Sam’s hair a little. “Your throat dry? You want some ice chips?”
Sam shakes his head pitifully. “Juss. Finisstha story, kay?”
“Okay,” Dean says gently, but inside he thinks for the thousandth time I am so going to ( ... )
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Dean's sick, John's AWOL, and Sam's scared out of his wits; he stays up all night tending to Dean.
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But he had left. He had left. And it had gotten this bad. It had gotten really, really bad.
"Dean, will you drink some water? C'mon, you gotta drink."
Dean tossed his head on the motel pillow, hair pasted to his forehead with sweat. He muttered something about "the gun, Dad, don't let that fucker jam on you," then subsided back into silence, only his harsh pants breaking the hot stillness.
"Dean. Dean, please. It's Sam. You gotta come back from this. I dunno what to do. Dean, please."
At the repeated call of his name, Dean's head slid toward Sam, and his eyes finally cracked open, bright and glazed and watchful. "Sa'mee?"
Sam grinned in relief and held up the water glass. "Drink, Dean. You gotta drink."
"S'it alcoholic?" Dean slurred. "'Cause that, that ud be awe sum.""You have a fever, Dean." Sam rolled his eyes. "Alcohol is a dehydrator. This's water ( ... )
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"Mm'kay." Dean stared at something over Sam's right shoulder, gone again. "We got any strawb'rry jam? Need a sandwich."
"You hungry?" Sam tilted his head, incredulous. Since the fever started Dean hadn't been interested in food at all.
"Nooo," Dean drawled, chuckling breathily at the joke. "Just need a sandwich, s'all. For the ocelot ( ... )
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Right, for the ocelot.
-laughing- I love this!! And poor, desperate Sam! This was so well put together. ♥
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