So I'm home sick.

[schmevil]

I'm not actually sick, but apparently work prefers that I stay home, rather than spread my hypothetical germs. I have no problem with this, because I've been catching up on some much needed sleep. Well, maybe I'm a little sick, because sleeping all night and half the day, every day for a week? Is obviously not of the normal. Anyway. Home tired, if you will.

Which has given me some time to fiddle, and wonder, and plan. One of my primary mental defaults, when I'm home sick/tired/whatever, is fic.

So SPN people, weigh in, should I write the story of college-age Sam Winchester taking a series of part time jobs? It would go like this:

One day, in all his Winchesterian wisdom, Sam decided to get a part time job. Maybe it was a way to feel normal, after an adolescence spent hustling pool and cards. Maybe it was a way to ensure a constant source of beer money. Maybe he did it because all the (not so) cool kids (of which he was one) were doing it. Sam no longer remembered.

Instead, after six months of toiling in retail, food service and shady bars, all he could hold on to was the vague inkling that somewhere, there was light at the end of this tunnel; that someday, he would be free from uniforms, the smell of old grease, and midnight shifts. That in some other life, he hadn't been contractually obliged to accept the abusive whims of customers, clients, and jerks of all shapes and sizes.

He held onto that inkling like it was his very life blood; through being drenched in soda; through being called a 'maniacal yeti $*&%'; through being kicked in the shins by uncountable children; through being pawed by drunk soccer moms; and even through being pawed by drunk soccer dads, too many of whom looked like his actual father figures (namely his dad, and Bobby).

He held onto that inkling so that one day, he could stoke its tiny spark into a blaze of righteous fury; so he could stand up and declare, "I quit! I *$&@ing quit!"

Unfortunately for Robin Brady, today was that day.