sounds like as good a reason as any to celebrate; so here I go with a pizza, a bottle of wine and some sick Dean ... ah, life is good!
Disclaimers: don't own anything Supernatural ... want, but can't have!
PMT (POST MAULING TANTRUM)
Word count: approx 100
Dean's been carved up good and he's having a right little foot-stamper ...
Patching up after a tough hunt wasn't easy; and harder still when Dean was in 'one of those moods'.
Sulkily nursing a deep gash across his flank, he'd dismissed Sam's offer to stitch the wound with a pouty snort of "I c'n do it."
Unable to watch the twisting, flinching, fumbling spectacle that followed, Sam walked away from the frustrated contortions listening in amusement to huffy gasps, grunts and muttered oaths.
Eventually Dean slumped in dejected defeat, hem of his T-shirt gripped between his teeth. It was beyond pathetic.
Sam gently pried the needle from Dean's clenched fingers.
"Hate you …"
"Sure you do …"
'S' IS FOR SICK
Word Count: Approx 200
It's also for Sly, Sneaky, Scheming Scoundrel Sammy
Oh, yeah and for Sucker!
"No'm not." huk-huk...
"Dude; I can hear you."
Tight-lipped, Dean sat hunched on the bed shaking his head petulantly.
Folding his arms, Sam glared angrily at Dean's rapidly-reddening face.
"No good trying to hold it in; I can see you twitching."
huk-huk... " d-don' need friggin' doctor."
"You do, you coughed all night; you're worrying me, man!"
Dean slyly knuckled his sternum, suppressed another grating cough.
"I saw that." Sam snapped, switching on the bitchface.
"huk-huk... had an itch."
Sam sighed, watching Dean rub his sore throat.
"Throat itch too?"
"Bite huk-huk... me." A pitiful croak.
Sam stomped away, then hesitated; eyes narrowing shiftily ...
Curious eyes followed him across the room. huk-huk... "Wha…?"
"Well, I saw the new doctor in town yesterday." Sam turned to Dean.
"about thirty; blonde, slim, long legs; I mean, wow, hot, dude!"
huk-huk... "hot? How hot?"
"uh, seriously hot!" Sam pursed his lips knowingly, "think Una Thurman meets Cameron Diaz; only curvier!"
"Well, huk-huk... maybe I, um ..."
Dean fumed, stewing moodily behind a murderous scowl, as sixty eight year old Doctor Beryl Finnegan (grey bun, lazy eye, cold hands) sternly informed him he could put his shirt back on.
Sam was so friggin' DEAD!