SPN Gen prompt fic: And I'm Okay 1/1
Feb. 15th, 2009 05:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
superbadgirlI've never actually written a prompt response before, which might explain why this got too long to post over at the Gen Battle hosted by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fox1013. I mostly blame the fact that the story I'm actually working on is mopey as all hell, I'm feeling yucky and needed a laugh.
Written on the fly, so please tell me if you catch major typos. My brain usually outfires my fingers.
Prompt was Sam and Dean - lumberjack.
The smoke was thick, the fire fighting the damp, Pacific Northwest climate. Dean swore the sooty ash was impossible to avoid, following him around no matter where he stood or how far back he moved. It threatened to choke him out more effectively than the now-incinerating (man, the smell was horrendous) sasquatch had. He retched, barely containing the urge to puke his guts out and maintain his cool, I’m-a-man-damnit exterior. Worse than anything was the way Sam stoically gazed into the pyre like the stench of burning flesh and hair wasn’t bothering him at all.
“How long do you think Fluffy here is going to smolder?” he asked, trying not to sound like a candyass about it and failing. It was the gagging choke at the end that did him in.
“You want me to do some body mass calculations or something?” Sam said. “Or is a damned long time sufficient?”
Ah, so Grouchy McPMS was in the house. Not that Dean could blame his brother. Since he’d been the one tossed around like a frigging rag doll all night, he’d totally ignored the I’m-a-man-damnit rule and played the injured card, meaning that Sam had done most of the unpleasant disposal work. Next time Sam could be the one with tree bark burns, and Dean would happily build a fire. He rotated his left shoulder, wincing.
“Yeah, okay.”
It was mostly the hair, Dean decided. There was just so much of it, and it reeked to high heaven. The stench was going to linger in his nostrils for days. He wrinkled his nose, glancing from the ginormous burning body and scanning the mountainous horizon. He and Sam had trekked high enough on the sasquatch hunt that the altitude made him a little dizzy, the dark outline of trees against the starry sky wavering in a slow, nauseating ripple. He returned his gaze to the ground under his own two feet. Which also wavered in a slow, nauseating ripple.
“Uh,” Dean said.
“Hey, you all right?” Sam asked.
“I feel weird all of a sudden.” The admission was out before he could stop it. “Do you feel weird?”
“Not really.”
The smoke swirled around him like a living thing, and Dean was hit with another wave of dizziness and an accompanying urge to laugh. He guessed that laughing was better than puking. Laughter was the best medicine. Puking was only ever a temporary fix.
“Hey, Dean, hey,” Sam said, suddenly right next to him and peering at his eyes. “You look thwacked. Are you … are you high?”
“I dunno, maybe,” Dean said, amused at the very thought. He didn’t much care. He giggled. Giggled. “Head’s floaty.”
“Jesus. Did you take something for the pain?”
“I’m not feeling pain.”
Sam sighed and grumbled something Dean neither heard nor cared about, but was undoubtedly bitchy. Trust Sam to try to harsh his mellow. He glared at his brother, or tried to but his eyes crossed myopically.
“Don’t be a buzzkill, Sam-my,” Dean sing-songed.
In response, Sam did a magical loop-de-loop. Whee. By the time his brother was right side up again, he had a smile on his face. That was much better.
“It mush be one teen inna moke,” Sam said, shaking his head like he was mad, but he laughed. His teeth were shiny, shiny, shiiiiiny.
“Did you wash your teeth?” Dean asked. “They’re pretty.”
“Tank ewwwww.”
Someone oughta tell Sam he was talking funny. Dean looked around, and realized he was the only other one there except burning Bigfoot, who wasn’t going to say rawr anymore. He found that hilarious. He laughed, tilting his head back and admiring the polka-dotted starry sky.
“You look lika lummeryack,” Sam said, slapping him on the shoulder. “You kay?”
“Speak English, Sammmmy,” Dean ordered. He peered at Sam’s soot-smudged face, his checked, flannel shirt, the long-handled axe propped up on a nearby stump. “Takes one to know one.”
Sam nodded, lost his balance for a second and grinned at him with his pretty teeth, and they both turned to stare at the fire. The flames were memser...messmi...mesmersizing. Every once in awhile the sasquatch popped and crackled and, whoop, there went a toe. Dean snickered softly, swaying from side to side just like the fire.
“I’m a lumberjack and I’m okay,” Sam belted out suddenly, heeding Dean’s advice to speak, er, sing in English. He spread his arms wide and spun an unsteady circle. “I sleep all night and I work all dayyyyy.”
Dean giggled, unable to stop the answering, “He’s a lumberjack and he’s okay. He sleeps all night and he works all day.”
“I cut down trees. I eat my lunch. I go to the lavatory.” Sam swirled and twirled like a drunken, flannel-wearing giant ballerina, doing a surprisingly agile plié at the lavatory part. “On Wednesdays I go shoppin' and have buttered scones for tea.”
Before Dean knew it, he'd grabbed Sam’s arms and they started doing a makeshift, wobbly polka around the fire, singing their lungs out. The dizziness he had experienced before quadrupled, everything rapidly becoming a washed-out blur, but he couldn’t seem to stop. Gravity and Sam’s big feet were what ultimately put an end to the fun, a deadly combo even when they both weren’t high as kites. Dean watched Sam ass over teakettle in slow motion, landing on his back, laughing and heaving for breath weakly. As for him, he face-planted into the spongy soil with an arm draped across Sam, sniggering all the way into unconsciousness.
When they both awoke the next morning, sober but with headaches and memories intact, the sasquatch was a pile of ash. It wasn’t difficult for Dean to convince Sam they must never speak of this incident, ever. To anyone.
fox1013. I mostly blame the fact that the story I'm actually working on is mopey as all hell, I'm feeling yucky and needed a laugh.Written on the fly, so please tell me if you catch major typos. My brain usually outfires my fingers.
Prompt was Sam and Dean - lumberjack.
The smoke was thick, the fire fighting the damp, Pacific Northwest climate. Dean swore the sooty ash was impossible to avoid, following him around no matter where he stood or how far back he moved. It threatened to choke him out more effectively than the now-incinerating (man, the smell was horrendous) sasquatch had. He retched, barely containing the urge to puke his guts out and maintain his cool, I’m-a-man-damnit exterior. Worse than anything was the way Sam stoically gazed into the pyre like the stench of burning flesh and hair wasn’t bothering him at all.
“How long do you think Fluffy here is going to smolder?” he asked, trying not to sound like a candyass about it and failing. It was the gagging choke at the end that did him in.
“You want me to do some body mass calculations or something?” Sam said. “Or is a damned long time sufficient?”
Ah, so Grouchy McPMS was in the house. Not that Dean could blame his brother. Since he’d been the one tossed around like a frigging rag doll all night, he’d totally ignored the I’m-a-man-damnit rule and played the injured card, meaning that Sam had done most of the unpleasant disposal work. Next time Sam could be the one with tree bark burns, and Dean would happily build a fire. He rotated his left shoulder, wincing.
“Yeah, okay.”
It was mostly the hair, Dean decided. There was just so much of it, and it reeked to high heaven. The stench was going to linger in his nostrils for days. He wrinkled his nose, glancing from the ginormous burning body and scanning the mountainous horizon. He and Sam had trekked high enough on the sasquatch hunt that the altitude made him a little dizzy, the dark outline of trees against the starry sky wavering in a slow, nauseating ripple. He returned his gaze to the ground under his own two feet. Which also wavered in a slow, nauseating ripple.
“Uh,” Dean said.
“Hey, you all right?” Sam asked.
“I feel weird all of a sudden.” The admission was out before he could stop it. “Do you feel weird?”
“Not really.”
The smoke swirled around him like a living thing, and Dean was hit with another wave of dizziness and an accompanying urge to laugh. He guessed that laughing was better than puking. Laughter was the best medicine. Puking was only ever a temporary fix.
“Hey, Dean, hey,” Sam said, suddenly right next to him and peering at his eyes. “You look thwacked. Are you … are you high?”
“I dunno, maybe,” Dean said, amused at the very thought. He didn’t much care. He giggled. Giggled. “Head’s floaty.”
“Jesus. Did you take something for the pain?”
“I’m not feeling pain.”
Sam sighed and grumbled something Dean neither heard nor cared about, but was undoubtedly bitchy. Trust Sam to try to harsh his mellow. He glared at his brother, or tried to but his eyes crossed myopically.
“Don’t be a buzzkill, Sam-my,” Dean sing-songed.
In response, Sam did a magical loop-de-loop. Whee. By the time his brother was right side up again, he had a smile on his face. That was much better.
“It mush be one teen inna moke,” Sam said, shaking his head like he was mad, but he laughed. His teeth were shiny, shiny, shiiiiiny.
“Did you wash your teeth?” Dean asked. “They’re pretty.”
“Tank ewwwww.”
Someone oughta tell Sam he was talking funny. Dean looked around, and realized he was the only other one there except burning Bigfoot, who wasn’t going to say rawr anymore. He found that hilarious. He laughed, tilting his head back and admiring the polka-dotted starry sky.
“You look lika lummeryack,” Sam said, slapping him on the shoulder. “You kay?”
“Speak English, Sammmmy,” Dean ordered. He peered at Sam’s soot-smudged face, his checked, flannel shirt, the long-handled axe propped up on a nearby stump. “Takes one to know one.”
Sam nodded, lost his balance for a second and grinned at him with his pretty teeth, and they both turned to stare at the fire. The flames were memser...messmi...mesmersizing. Every once in awhile the sasquatch popped and crackled and, whoop, there went a toe. Dean snickered softly, swaying from side to side just like the fire.
“I’m a lumberjack and I’m okay,” Sam belted out suddenly, heeding Dean’s advice to speak, er, sing in English. He spread his arms wide and spun an unsteady circle. “I sleep all night and I work all dayyyyy.”
Dean giggled, unable to stop the answering, “He’s a lumberjack and he’s okay. He sleeps all night and he works all day.”
“I cut down trees. I eat my lunch. I go to the lavatory.” Sam swirled and twirled like a drunken, flannel-wearing giant ballerina, doing a surprisingly agile plié at the lavatory part. “On Wednesdays I go shoppin' and have buttered scones for tea.”
Before Dean knew it, he'd grabbed Sam’s arms and they started doing a makeshift, wobbly polka around the fire, singing their lungs out. The dizziness he had experienced before quadrupled, everything rapidly becoming a washed-out blur, but he couldn’t seem to stop. Gravity and Sam’s big feet were what ultimately put an end to the fun, a deadly combo even when they both weren’t high as kites. Dean watched Sam ass over teakettle in slow motion, landing on his back, laughing and heaving for breath weakly. As for him, he face-planted into the spongy soil with an arm draped across Sam, sniggering all the way into unconsciousness.
When they both awoke the next morning, sober but with headaches and memories intact, the sasquatch was a pile of ash. It wasn’t difficult for Dean to convince Sam they must never speak of this incident, ever. To anyone.
