Title: Just Your Average Hunt…
A/N: This has to be some kind of record for me.
Or proof that I need severe help.
Or both, I dunno.
There I was, all set to write a lovely angst-filled drabble, when my plot Bunny Roscoe
(Wave hello to the nice people, Roscoe… *Roscoe waves*)
brought me this intensely silly idea and clamped his cute little razor-sharp teeth into my ankle until I wrote it down.
So I present you with this: a triple Drabble (300 words, counted 'em twice, two are quite naughty, some are quite nice…)
*Roscoe promptly bites author in her healing ankle*
Sorry, where was I? Anyway, enjoy, leave feedback, keep watching the skies, whatever colors your world. (Virtual cookie to the person that spots the classic movie reference.)
Disclaimer: Don't own Sam or Dean. I guess Santa lost my letter… again.
Language Warning: Didn't you get the "naughty/nice" bit earlier? There's a couple of bad words, and if you've read anything else I've written this should come as no shock.
Spoilers: None.
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Every once in a while, you get a hunt like this. Nothing earth-shattering; a house with cold spots, lights flickering, stuff showing up in the kitchen that the owner swore had been in the living room. No big deal.
Turns out some ghosts are just, well, weirder than others.
He notices Sam flinch out of the corner of his eye as they enter the living room.
"Sam? You okay?" The last spirit had nearly chucked Sam through a plate-glass window. No way was Dean letting something like that happen again.
"Y-yeah." A muffled something in that answer makes Dean turn around. Sam's eyes are a little wider than usual, and he doesn't seem to be able to keep his lips still. His chest is hitching, like he's trying to hold in a cough and the flinching has given away to an all-out twitch.
And then it happens.
With no warning, Sam drops to his knees, hands wrapped around his middle, head bowed. In a millisecond, Dean is beside him, grabbing him, heart thudding.
"Sam?! Sammy, what is it?!" Sam shakes his head, hair whipping Dean in the face. "Is it a vision? Are you hurt? What the fuck is wrong?!"
He brings his head up, turns and looks at Dean with staring, pleading eyes. "D-Dean, it's…" The words suddenly are overrun, washed away.
By giggling.
Dean's so startled by the response he lets go. Sam pitches forward, still clutching his sides, and the giggling blossoms into full, uproarious laughter. He falls onto his right side, curls into as tight a ball as someone his size can get, shaking with hilarity.
Dean is at a total and utter loss. Ghosts that want to kick the shit out of you he could deal with.
Ghosts that tickle?
That just wasn't playing fair.