10 WORD CHALLENGE

Otorisosa-kan's Writing Challenge

I am lucky enough to have the chance to be involved in yet another prompt challenge, thanks to Otorisosa-kan! For this month, we had to write a story that included these ten words: healing, gushing, gift, urban, beggar, buffet, sideways, sound, flatness, diplomacy. Here's my crack at it (a little early because I'm procrastinating/feel like I haven't posted in a while). Enjoy!

Dean walks like he's on fire and is afraid to burn anyone else.

He moves through the crowded urban street with enduring purpose, steps calculated and perfectly timed so that he slides in between the bodies of other people like a ghost, barely brushing against them with the flaps of his open jacket or the slight bump of his one swinging arm. The other is wrapped tight around his middle, trying to slow the steadily gushing wound on his lower abdomen.

The city is alive but dead at the same time. People are sprawled all along its streets: everyone from the snappy businessman with a briefcase in one hand and a cellphone in the other, to the beggar pressed up against the side of a building that was once an all-you-can-eat buffet. He wears ripped jeans and a bright orange hat pulled down over his ears, and he holds a sign that reads Tell me your story scrawled out in large black letters. Dean drops a handful of change into the cup at the man's feet with his free hand, but doesn't break stride, continuing to weave in and out; a fine needlepoint stitch. All around him, cars breeze past green lights while others screech to a halt at reds and yellows; a cacophony of honks and squealing tires and swishing fabric floating into the open city air like balloons with their strings cut and released. Dean's never much liked cities. Too many people and not enough cover if something goes sideways.

Like right now. Like today.

Dean walks on, stride puttering out every once in a while as he loses his rhythm and has to restart the song in his head. It's a habit of his. Whenever he gets injured or distracted enough that thinking becomes difficult, he picks a song to focus on instead- one with a steady beat that will keep him moving, keep him going until he can collapse onto a springy motel bed or sink into the familiar leather of his car's front seat. Today's song is not the classic rock associated with the usually stoic, leather-clad Dean Winchester. He's not sure why a Cheap Trick song would be the first thing he'd think of at a time like this, but "Surrender" is currently playing on a loop inside his head. It's wildly inappropriate for the situation, and Dean can't help thinking that this is what he gets for his attempted diplomacy in letting Sam pick the music more often nowadays.

Vision blurring, he stumbles blearily over the next curb and into the street, only to be pulled backward by an impressive force a second later, his back slamming into something solid as he struggles to stay on his feet, one hand still curled protectively around his stomach. Dean feels rather than sees the car that speeds directly through the spot he had just been standing in; a thick surge of air rushing right past his nose, bristling his hair. Dean freezes for an extra second, registering the close call, and then his instincts kick in and he is struggling to pull free from whatever grabbed him, limbs flailing somewhat pathetically.

"Hey. Hey, knock it off," a voice says. Dean feels the steady hum of the man's words against his back and immediately stops moving. There's only one person who can pull off that distinct combination of flatness and worry in his voice at the same time, only one person who can hold onto him with such force; equal parts anger and relief. Dean lets himself be dragged back another step and then does his best to spin towards the person still holding him without his eyes rolling all the way into the back of his head.

"Sammy," he grins the second he's caught sight of the familiar mop of hair and the equally familiar expression of exasperation plastered on his little brother's face. In the back of his mind, Dean can still hear the distinct sound of the city as people shuffle swiftly past them where they stand together on the curb. Dean is still using Sam as his support, free hand grasping the sleeve of the taller man's jacket as he wobbles unsteadily.

"Jesus Dean, what the hell happened?" Sam demands, eyes scanning his brother until they land on the thick slathering of red that has soaked straight through Dean's shirt. "Dammit, I told you to wait for me. I told you I was almost done and we would go kill it together!"

Sam keeps his voice low, his hand hovering worriedly over Dean's side, but it probably wouldn't matter anyway. No one in the thick throng of people seems to be paying enough attention, nor sticking around long enough to pick up on much of what he's saying. They don't even take notice of the bloody man he's conversing with. The one who's swaying on his feet and on the verge of taking a nosedive. Sam seems to realize this, pulling Dean in closer to him until they are standing hip to hip. Or rather, hip to waist with the height difference.

"Okay, let's get you outta here, huh?" Sam urges, his tone much softer now. Priority one is standing in front of him, and there isn't time for anger or a game of twenty questions. That will all come later. Dean nods.

"You got it Sammy. Let the healing begin," he smiles back, eyes glinting with a combination of playfulness and the disorientation brought on by blood-loss. Sam rolls his eyes and wraps an arm more securely around his brother.

They cross the street together this time.

Thanks for reading! If you're interested in participating in future challenges, feel free to PM Otorisosa-kan for more information.