WifeyMcWiferson is my sistafriend. As a gift for her successfully finishing NaNoWriMo, I wrote her a drabble. She asked for Dean and Bobby, 500 words, and use the words wrench, whiskey, and catgut (an old school word for stitches). Here you go lovey! Congrats!
"Oh for god's sake, Dean! What the hell did you do ya idjit?"
Dean looked up at Bobby, his pupils dilated, eyes unfocussed.
"Damn wrench fell. Hit me in the head."
Bobby quickly knelt beside Dean, sweeping his hands around the back of his head, checking for lumps and cuts. He fingers found a significant bump just behind Dean's left ear, and it was sluggishly leaking blood.
"Damn boy. That's gonna need stitches. Let's get you in the house." He carefully pulled Dean to his feet. Bobby tossed Dean's arm up over his shoulder and hooked his own around his waist. Dean tried to shrug him off.
"'m ok, jeez, gerrof!"
"Fine, idjit, have it your way." Bobby released him, and Dean quickly collapsed into a heap on the dirty ground of the salvage yard.
"How'd I get down here?" he slurred, looking up at Bobby in confusion. "Why's there two of you Bobby? Shit! Is one of you Bobbys a shifter? I gotta kill the shifters," he mumbled drunkenly.
"Balls! You're concussed, ya moron. Now let's get yer ass in the house so I can stitch yer melon up." Bobby got an arm around him again, and half carried Dean into the house, unceremoniously depositing him on the couch, a cloud of dust puffing out of the cushions at the impact.
"Now, stay there dammit!" Making his way out to the kitchen, he dug through the cabinet he kept his medical supplies in, mumbling under his breath about idjits and falling tools and no sense in hard heads as he pulled the stuff out. He grabbed a bottle of Wild Turkey out of another cabinet and headed back to the living room.
Taking a look around, he let out a heavy sigh.
No Dean.
"Dean? Where ya hidin' kid?" Bobby really hated when Dean got a concussion. He got all wiggy and paranoid, and it was difficult to deal with him. Sam was out at the library doing some research, so Bobby would have to handle this alone.
After surveying the first floor, he made his way upstairs and checked in all the bedrooms. No sign of Dean. The attic was next, still no Dean.
That left the panic room and the basement. Bobby hadn't heard the door open, so he didn't believe that Dean had gone back outside.
He found him finally, in a heap in the panic room, small puddle of vomit on the floor nearby.
"Idjit," he said softly, and as gently as possible, got the kid up on the cot. Dean stared at him with glassy eyes.
"Well, when you do it, you do it right," Bobby said as he poured some whiskey over Dean's head. "Now hold still and let me sew ya up with the old catgut here."
"Ok, Bobby," Dean whispered, and held perfectly still while Bobby sewed. He was unconscious before Bobby finished, and the older man smiled, and covered him, then set his watch for two hours.
"Sleep tight, kiddo."