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Wrote a few drabbles for Sam/Dean, J2 Drabble-a-thon hosted here. Thought I'd post those as well as an old commentfic drabble I wrote for a different one. I think I'll even throw in my two one sentence fics I wrote for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
spnforthesane. I'm still working on my other, longer fics, it's just slow going. This medication they have me on has made me really foggy and absent minded lately, it's kinda hard to read, let alone write, but I'm still trying. I'm going to talk to my doctor about switching to a natural rather than synthetic hormone, I'm hoping that will make some difference.
Sam can't sing. It's a fact. One that Dean loved to remind his brother of, in the car when Dean finally picked a song Sam liked enough to sing along with, shooting Dean a dirty look when he'd complain and turn up the volume in order to drown him out.
Hey, he couldn't let anything, not even his brother, ruin his music, okay? And if anyone else had heard Sam's wailing they'd do the same thing. He sounds like a dying cow. Worse, like a dead cow, like a cow brought back from the grave that needed to be put down with a metal stake. If Dean hadn't grown up listening to that so called "singing" coming from the shower every morning he'd swear that whatever was making that sound needed to be hunted down. And fast.
So, Sam can't sing for shit. But Dean's missed it.
Sam hasn't sang in the shower for months. For longer than that, possibly. It's not like Dean had been very observant after his trip down stairs. If he really thinks about it, the last time Dean had heard Sam so much as hum was the night Dean died, sitting in the front seat of the Impala, heading to their last hope of beating the deal, Bon Jovi on the radio and Sam's loud, off key voice filling the empty space between them.
But he doesn't want to think to hard on that.
Now, he leans his back against the bathroom door, listens to his brother's voice over the sound of the shower running. The song is whiny and annoying, nothing he'd ever let near the speakers of his car, but Dean tips his head back and remembers months and months of silent mornings and tense trips in the car, the quiet way Sam would pack everything up, meticulous and almost obsessed with having things neat and organized. He thinks about dark circles under weary eyes, tired, frustrated sighs and hands shaky from desperation and too little sleep, about days where Sam would stare at him suddenly, disbelief and awe stark and ugly on his face, muscles in his arm twitching as if he wanted to reach out and touch Dean, make sure he was real, the words are you really here? barely left unspoken.
Sam can't sing. It's a fact. But Dean listens to his wailing through the door, loud, obnoxious and off key, and feels something relax inside of him. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.
Once the professor dismissed the class Sam turned immediately to Jacob, his lab partner. "So, the sooner we get this thing done, the better. Want to meet up tomorrow night?"
Jacob grimaced slightly and shook his head. "Can't. Sorry. I've got game night."
"Game night?"
"Yeah, you know. Scrabble, Yahtzee, cards, charades..." He trailed off, shrugging as he tucked his notes into his bag. "One of the perils of growing up in the same town you go to college: being close enough for all family events. My mom would throw a shit fit if I missed it."
"Oh." Sam shifted awkwardly, tugging his bag higher on his shoulder. "Seems like a good way to keep the family together."
"Yeah, I guess. It's a little lame though. Your family do stuff like that?"
"What, have a game night?"
"Yeah."
Sam thought about the nights spent with his dad and brother in run down bars, Sam's fake ID and John's "don't fuck with me" stare enough to get him inside. He thought about hustling pool with Dean, playing the cocky but inexperienced younger brother to scam people out of their cash, remembered the sharp taste of the beer on his tongue and the smell of the smoke filled air he breathed in, remembered John's proud gaze and the resentment that ran through his veins at the thought that this is what it took to gain John Winchester's approval.
He thought about sitting in a corner booth afterward, watching his brother flirt with any pretty girl who showed interest, took notice of the smoothness of his smile, the blush on the girls' cheeks, the way Dean's hands looked huge on the girl's hips as he pulled her close for a dance and how Sam had fought back the surge of jealousy and possessiveness, the mass of confusion and need and want that he didn't understand.
Not then anyway.
Sam shook his head and tugged once more on his shoulder strap. He shot Jacob a bitter smile. "Not exactly, no."
His brother found the whole thing hilarious, but Sam didn’t. It wasn’t funny. At all.
Not the bright orange jumpsuits or the bad food or the hour of “rec time” spent looking over his shoulder in the yard, or the rows of cigarettes that now line his pockets because they couldn’t all fit in Dean’s, or the heart attack inducing ghost that could attack them at any point when they were trapped in prison cell without so much as a salt packet to fight it with.
It was all so incredibly not funny that Sam felt like laughing in hysteria.
Goddamn Dean and his stupid, fool plans anyway.
There was a small splat and then a thud and Dean shifted beside him. Sam looked over at his brother just in time to see him straighten up. He flashed Sam a smirk through the spray of the shower and started lathering up his arms. Sam grit his teeth and reminded himself that he needed to stay calm. Over Dean’s shoulder he could see a man staring at them, or rather, at Dean. He was twice the size of Sam with a beer belly, two chipped teeth, a chest full of thick gray hair and a tattoo of Pepé le Pew around one nipple. His eyes skated down Dean’s back and lingered on his ass.
Sam looked away and stared at the wall in front of him. “Seriously, Dean,” he hissed. “Stop dropping the soap.”
And the one sentence fics, which I'm not cutting, 'cause they're short and spoiler-free.
Prompt: Shotgun Wedding.
"Dean," Sam observed as the angry father herded his brother to the chapel doors, "I always thought that your man whore ways might lead to a shotgun wedding, I just never thought it would be your own gun used to force you."
Prompt: Orange
For the third time that night orange neon lights blinked the words no vacancy, but Dean just clenched his jaw and pressed down harder on the gas pedal--they knew, more than anyone, how to continue without rest.
spnforthesane. I'm still working on my other, longer fics, it's just slow going. This medication they have me on has made me really foggy and absent minded lately, it's kinda hard to read, let alone write, but I'm still trying. I'm going to talk to my doctor about switching to a natural rather than synthetic hormone, I'm hoping that will make some difference.Sam can't sing. It's a fact. One that Dean loved to remind his brother of, in the car when Dean finally picked a song Sam liked enough to sing along with, shooting Dean a dirty look when he'd complain and turn up the volume in order to drown him out.
Hey, he couldn't let anything, not even his brother, ruin his music, okay? And if anyone else had heard Sam's wailing they'd do the same thing. He sounds like a dying cow. Worse, like a dead cow, like a cow brought back from the grave that needed to be put down with a metal stake. If Dean hadn't grown up listening to that so called "singing" coming from the shower every morning he'd swear that whatever was making that sound needed to be hunted down. And fast.
So, Sam can't sing for shit. But Dean's missed it.
Sam hasn't sang in the shower for months. For longer than that, possibly. It's not like Dean had been very observant after his trip down stairs. If he really thinks about it, the last time Dean had heard Sam so much as hum was the night Dean died, sitting in the front seat of the Impala, heading to their last hope of beating the deal, Bon Jovi on the radio and Sam's loud, off key voice filling the empty space between them.
But he doesn't want to think to hard on that.
Now, he leans his back against the bathroom door, listens to his brother's voice over the sound of the shower running. The song is whiny and annoying, nothing he'd ever let near the speakers of his car, but Dean tips his head back and remembers months and months of silent mornings and tense trips in the car, the quiet way Sam would pack everything up, meticulous and almost obsessed with having things neat and organized. He thinks about dark circles under weary eyes, tired, frustrated sighs and hands shaky from desperation and too little sleep, about days where Sam would stare at him suddenly, disbelief and awe stark and ugly on his face, muscles in his arm twitching as if he wanted to reach out and touch Dean, make sure he was real, the words are you really here? barely left unspoken.
Sam can't sing. It's a fact. But Dean listens to his wailing through the door, loud, obnoxious and off key, and feels something relax inside of him. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.
Once the professor dismissed the class Sam turned immediately to Jacob, his lab partner. "So, the sooner we get this thing done, the better. Want to meet up tomorrow night?"
Jacob grimaced slightly and shook his head. "Can't. Sorry. I've got game night."
"Game night?"
"Yeah, you know. Scrabble, Yahtzee, cards, charades..." He trailed off, shrugging as he tucked his notes into his bag. "One of the perils of growing up in the same town you go to college: being close enough for all family events. My mom would throw a shit fit if I missed it."
"Oh." Sam shifted awkwardly, tugging his bag higher on his shoulder. "Seems like a good way to keep the family together."
"Yeah, I guess. It's a little lame though. Your family do stuff like that?"
"What, have a game night?"
"Yeah."
Sam thought about the nights spent with his dad and brother in run down bars, Sam's fake ID and John's "don't fuck with me" stare enough to get him inside. He thought about hustling pool with Dean, playing the cocky but inexperienced younger brother to scam people out of their cash, remembered the sharp taste of the beer on his tongue and the smell of the smoke filled air he breathed in, remembered John's proud gaze and the resentment that ran through his veins at the thought that this is what it took to gain John Winchester's approval.
He thought about sitting in a corner booth afterward, watching his brother flirt with any pretty girl who showed interest, took notice of the smoothness of his smile, the blush on the girls' cheeks, the way Dean's hands looked huge on the girl's hips as he pulled her close for a dance and how Sam had fought back the surge of jealousy and possessiveness, the mass of confusion and need and want that he didn't understand.
Not then anyway.
Sam shook his head and tugged once more on his shoulder strap. He shot Jacob a bitter smile. "Not exactly, no."
His brother found the whole thing hilarious, but Sam didn’t. It wasn’t funny. At all.
Not the bright orange jumpsuits or the bad food or the hour of “rec time” spent looking over his shoulder in the yard, or the rows of cigarettes that now line his pockets because they couldn’t all fit in Dean’s, or the heart attack inducing ghost that could attack them at any point when they were trapped in prison cell without so much as a salt packet to fight it with.
It was all so incredibly not funny that Sam felt like laughing in hysteria.
Goddamn Dean and his stupid, fool plans anyway.
There was a small splat and then a thud and Dean shifted beside him. Sam looked over at his brother just in time to see him straighten up. He flashed Sam a smirk through the spray of the shower and started lathering up his arms. Sam grit his teeth and reminded himself that he needed to stay calm. Over Dean’s shoulder he could see a man staring at them, or rather, at Dean. He was twice the size of Sam with a beer belly, two chipped teeth, a chest full of thick gray hair and a tattoo of Pepé le Pew around one nipple. His eyes skated down Dean’s back and lingered on his ass.
Sam looked away and stared at the wall in front of him. “Seriously, Dean,” he hissed. “Stop dropping the soap.”
And the one sentence fics, which I'm not cutting, 'cause they're short and spoiler-free.
Prompt: Shotgun Wedding.
"Dean," Sam observed as the angry father herded his brother to the chapel doors, "I always thought that your man whore ways might lead to a shotgun wedding, I just never thought it would be your own gun used to force you."
Prompt: Orange
For the third time that night orange neon lights blinked the words no vacancy, but Dean just clenched his jaw and pressed down harder on the gas pedal--they knew, more than anyone, how to continue without rest.
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