A/N: Day... uh three, I think it is. Haha, this is fun-- I don't have to do much work right now because all these one shots are already completed! Ok, a few things; one, is a reminder that everything that is not in the story is not spell checked; I do it in a different program; no funky little spell check here (frowns). Haha, because I will be the first to admit I suck at spelling... Ok, secondly is for all who are not sure, a drabble-- though not a technical term means, in the 'vauge writing world', a short story or a one shot. Me, I've always pictured drabbles as really short stories; often a challenge where someone will say 'a drabble of 200 words or less' . I hope I helped.
So this next story, yes, I had to do it. It's my own rendition of the origin of the codeword 'funkytown'... enjoy!
Title: Funkytown
Genre: Humm... yeah... I'll go with angst; my specialty!
Summary: What happened to 'cause Sam and Dean to want a codeword for when they're in trouble? --and better yet, why Funkytown?
'If Dean ever suggests splitting up again, I'm going to punch him,' Sam thought to himself, his heart pounding, '"It'll be easier," he'd said, "Much faster," Dean had promised. Yeah well he doesn't have some bastard pointing a shotgun at him right now I bet.'
As if reading his thoughts, the man in front of him stuck the twelve gauge shot gun at Sam's forehead. The smell of the recently fired gun seeped into his nose, and the burning of the hot barrel caused Sam's eyes to water.
"Bet ya never saw this comin' did ya boy?" the man grinned a nearly toothless smile that reminded him sinkingly of the Bender's.
Sam stared at the man a moment, "I can honestly say that this wasn't on my list of things I wanted to do today."
The man laughed a wheezing laugh, "It's always a good day when ya meet Hickle Albert."
Sam would have laughed at the name if it weren't for the fact that the man had just moved the barrel from his face, and he didn't particularly want it put back. Instead he decided to question him on the reasoning for him being held captive.
"All of this because I was walking in the woods?"
"You was trespassing boy," Hickle grinned again; Sam really wished he would stop doing that, "An' I don't like trespassers."
Sam looked around the room that he was in. It was old and smelled of cobwebs and mothballs. The room was lit solely by a single bulb hanging above them and a small fire off in the corner. Nearly an hour earlier the Winchester brothers took off on a hunt for a Wendigo cave that was reported in the woods. Dean suggested the split so as to easier find the place. Sam had been walking for only around ten minutes before he heard a gun shot go off right by his head. He didn't have time to take out his gun before Hickle had approached. It took a solid crack to Sam's temple to enable him to be tied up in a chair in the old, rundown place, and though the blood had dried up on the young Winchester's skin, his head still throbbed painfully. Added to that the tortuous burns from the gun and from other implements in the small room, Sam was about ready to stop playing dumb.
He didn't buy that this was all about trespassing.
"What's this really all about?" Sam asked.
Hickle eyed his prisoner a moment, "You a cop or a fed?"
"A what?" Sam was taken aback by the question.
"You deaf boy? Are ya a cop or a fed?"
"I'm neither," Sam shook his head, "I'm just-- I'm a student at the University in town."
Now was no time to bring out the Ghostbusters truth.
"Yeah," Hickle laughed, "I heard that one before."
Sam remained silent. What else could he say? Hickle wasn't exactly someone who Sam wanted to mess with. His shifting eyes and constant gripping of the gun made Sam nervous. The silence was just getting to be long when a sudden noise made Hickle jump; shooting the shotgun mere inches from Sam's head. The younger Winchester yelled and flinched, and regaining his composure quickly, looked around for what made the noise.
It was his phone.
"A phone!" Hickle yelled out, realizing it at the same time, "That one of your FBI buddies?!"
"N-No," Sam's voice stuttered out.
Hickle moved over and took the phone out of Sam's pocket, "It says Dean. That a code word?"
Sam silently shook his head.
"You're gonna answer it boy," Hickle spoke threateningly calm, "And you're gonna make it sound like everythin' is fine. That ya got a flat tire or somethin', got it?"
Sam nodded, and Hickle open up the phone to Sam's ear.
"Sam," Dean's voice rung through, "What took you so long to answer?"
"Sorry Dean," Sam cleared his throat of the fear that was trying to leak out, "I couldn't find my phone."
There was a pause on the other end, "Sammy… are you ok?"
"Yeah," Sam forced a light laugh, "Yeah, I'm fine."
"You know we were supposed to meet back at the lot fifteen minutes ago. Where the hell are you?" Dean's voice was laced with worry.
Hickle was close enough to hear the conversation, and now held the hot barrel to his cheek; the burning instantly causing tears to come down Sam's face.
"I-I--" Sam was forced to take a deep breath to calm himself, "I got a flat Dean. Sorry."
Again a long pause came, and Sam closed his eyes tight, praying that Dean wouldn't say anything to give his lie away, "Alright Sammy. Uhh-- I guess you're going to have to replace those tires huh?"
A relieved sigh came out of Sam, "Yeah. Uhh-- I am."
"Are you gonna pack tonight?" Dean asked, a slight quiver in his voice.
"No," Sam knew his next metaphor would never work, but decided to give it a try nonetheless, "No, I lost my suitcase, but my friend's got one."
"Damn," the words came from Dean, and immediately Sam knew he understood what he was saying.
Without any warning, Hickle grabbed the phone away, "That's enough," he said after turning it off, "Wouldn't want you to get too involved with your friend there."
The stinging on his cheek was bad, and Sam knew that a blister was going to appear. The next hour was the longest hour Sam had ever endured. It was filled with accusations of Sam being some sort of authority, and mindless torture every time he said otherwise.
"What are you?!" Hickle was getting more angry as time went by.
Blood rolled down from Sam's nose and lip, "I'm a cop," he stated bluntly, "From in town."
"Ah ha!" Hickle grinned and leaned in close; Sam could smell rum coming from his pores, "See, was that so hard boy?"
Sam remained silent. He didn't have much hope at that point of getting out of the situation. Dean had no doubt figured out that something was wrong. Especially since Hickle shut off the phone. But there was no way of Dean knowing what kind of trouble or where he was. Maybe if he played along with the man's deranged accusations, he'd make it quick.
"So who's gonna come here?" Hickle asked, "Who knows about it?"
"Not many people," Sam shook his head, answering the questions lamely.
"How long you recon it'll be before someone finds yer body boy?" Hickle taunted.
"It's Sam," Sam corrected, anger bubbling up in him; the taste of blood seeping down his throat.
"Sammy," Sam flinched as the man spoke the name that he only allowed his big brother to call him, "it looks like you're gonna die alone."
At once, Hickle had the gun cocked again and pointed directly at Sam's face. His heart pounding furiously, he squeezed his eyes shut.
'At least it will be quick!' Sam thought desperately, waiting for the sound that would never reach his ears.
A shot rang out, and Sam held his breath, waiting for the pain to spread through his body. It never did, and after a split second he found it safe to open his eyes. What he saw startled him as half a dozen FBI's crashed into the room.
"Just stay still sir!" one of them shouted to Sam.
He wasn't about to argue.
The men quickly scoured the area; three of them leaving to other rooms. One of them; a tall man with blond hair, walked over to Hickle and felt his neck. With the small, satisfied look on the man's face, Sam guessed his torturer was dead. The man then walked over to Sam and began to untie his hands from the chair.
"What's your name Son?" he asked kindly.
"Sam," Sam felt no need to lie about his name, "Sam Simon," -- his first name at least.
"I'm Captain Allan Murray, Sam," Allan smiled, "How badly hurt are you?"
"I'll be ok," Sam rubbed his raw wrists as Allan quickly undid his ankles, "What happened?"
"We got a call from someone that there was a man who was being held captive in this area," Allan explained as the rest of his men continued to scour around the place, "This man Hickle has been under our watch for a while for illegal marijuana growing. But we could never find his field. When we got the call, we started scouting the place, and sure enough, about two hundred yards north we found a couple of good acres growing. You're lucky we got the call Sam."
Sam smiled, knowing exactly who put the call in, "Yeah, I am."
"We have an ambulance outside, I think you should be taken in to have a look at," Allan looked at some of the markings on Sam's face, "You got some nasty burns on there."
"I'm fine," Sam shook his head, desperately just wanting to get away and find Dean.
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist," Allan frowned, "We also need to get some statements from you."
"Statements?" Sam repeated.
"Don't worry," Allan quickly said, "We know that you weren't involved. We've been tracking this guy since you were about ten I'm guessing. We just need a run through of everything that happened."
Sam knew that he really didn't want to do that; in fear of not only incriminating himself on past events, but also his brother, "Alright. I'll go out to the ambulance, and you can meet me there?"
"Sure thing," Allan patted Sam on the back.
With a smile Sam left through the front door. The second he got outside, however, he moved to the side of the house, and took off towards the woods of which he once came from. There was no doubt in his mind that the police were going to be looking for him. Well, at least looking for a Sam Simon. And there was also no doubt that Dean would be pretty frantic by that time. Which was why Sam was glad that he thought to grab his phone.
It rang once before Dean answered it, "Sammy?!"
Sam smiled, "Good job with the feds Dean."
"Oh thank God," Dean's relieved sigh came over the phone, "Sam, where the hell are you? Are you hurt?"
"I am--" Sam looked around, "In the middle of a bunch of trees. And I'll be ok."
Sam could sense the panic in his brother's voice as he spoke, "Ok, well I gotta find you. Do you know if you're near any road or anything?"
Irony struck in a good way in as soon as Dean asked the question Sam stepped onto a paved road, "Just found one. Sign nearby says that I'm about fifty miles from Oakland."
"I'll be there in two minutes," Dean's voice rung over and then a click sounded of him hanging up.
Sam stood by the sign, and watched the stars above him. The sky was clear and the air was warm; a perfect night in theory. A night which he wouldn't soon forget, and wished never to repeat. He shivered as the thought that it could have been Dean being held captive. Sam didn't know if he'd have been smart enough to call the feds or not. The thoughts were cut off, however as the distant sound of the Impala entered his ears.
A smile came to Sam's face as the car came to a halt and Dean got out of the car.
"Sammy?" he spoke tentatively.
"Hey Dean," Sam smiled up at him.
A long breath came out of Dean as he walked over and placed a hand on the side of his little brother's face, "Are you ok?"
"I'll be fine," Sam insisted.
Dean tilted Sam's face towards the light being given off from the car. The burns and marks looked bad and Dean found a lump forming in the back of his throat. Sam waited a moment before placing his own hand on the side of Dean's face; the closest they usually came to a hug.
"Dude, I'm alright," Sam smiled, "You saved my ass… again."
Dean laughed and let go of his brother, "Man, you scared the crap out of me."
"That sounds potentially dirty," Sam joked.
Dean grinned, "You're such a jerk."
"Aww, you know you love it," Sam smiled.
Dean paused, "Most of the time."
The elder brother took a large deep breath again and sat on the trunk of his car. For a long moment he sat there staring out into the highway.
Sam walked over, "Are you ok Dean?"
"I'm alright," Dean nodded, still staring into the abyss, "I just fricken hate not knowing if your ass is in trouble."
"Well I'm surprised that you were able to pick up on my luggage thing," Sam joined his brother at the front of the car.
Dean laughed, "Yeah, that was weak man. You're lucky I'm on the ball."
Sam smirked and looked down at his feet.
"Oh grow up dude!" Dean laughed.
"Ok," Sam forced himself serious, "We need to figure out what to do if this ever happens again."
"That's for sure. No way in hell do I want to go through that again," Dean muttered, "We need a code word."
Sam eyed his brother, "Ok Sherlock Holmes."
"I'm serious," Dean insisted, "A word that we can give each other to know if one another is ok. Tonight was too close."
"And what word are you thinking of?" Sam mockingly asked.
"Ok Watson," Dean shot, "You got any better ideas?"
Silence fell between the brothers which was interrupted by the sound of music coming from within the car; 'Won't you take me to Funkytown. Won't you take me to Funkytown…'.
A large smile came to Dean's face, "Funkytown."
"What?" Sam was beginning to question his brothers sanity at that point.
"Code word funkytown," Dean explained, "If either of us are in trouble, use that word."
Sam paused a moment before laughing and getting up, "Alright, c'mon Sherlock."
"After you Watson."