Compilation of Snippets

.sam.
“Hey!” someone yells, and Sammy can’t tell who, because the band room is way too small for the number of people moving around inside. A few seconds elapse, and then Sammy’s getting a face full of blond hair as Jo Harvelle, mellophone and causer of general havoc, throws her arms around him.
“H- hey, Jo—“
“I missed you, Sam,” she says, pulling back and grinning with one side of her mouth. “Is your useless brother somewhere in here too?” One eyebrow quirks up.
“Yeah, probably still out by the Impala.” His brother has had senioritis since he was born, and hasn’t been engaged in band for the entire four years he’s been in the program. Jo strolls out, mellophone under one arm, while a red-headed trombone, Charlie Bradbury, chases after her. Sam smiles. It’s good to be back.
The sun is hot on his legs as he walks out to the parking lot, dot book and neck strap already on. Band camp takes place two weeks before school starts, and the air is still filled with humidity and bugs, and now the shouts of band kids who haven’t seen each other all summer. Some trombone is already playing the fight song, loud and blatty, out near the back where the parking lot turns to weeds, and the drum majors, Michael and Lucifer (so nicknamed because “Luis is too boring for such a rad troublemaker”) are setting up their podiums on the 50 and 40 yard lines. Sammy yawns, deep and contagious, and licks his reed a few times, setting his water bottle down on the sidewalk. Behind him, the sounds of Garth Fitzgerald (oboe, but playing trumpet to march and equally bad at both) and Meg Masters (clarinet, not very friendly) snarking at each other grow louder as more and more of the band filters out to the lot.
Someone taps Sam on the shoulder, and he turns to see Jo and Charlie.
“Your nerd brother’s gonna be late,” Jo informs him. Sam sighs.
“Whatever. He doesn’t listen to me anyway. How was your summer?” He addresses the question to both, since they seem to be inseparable anyway.
“Pretty great,” Charlie responds, an arm slung around Jo. “I started dating this totally hot blonde, and she’s like, awesome at kissing.” Jo punches Charlie in the shoulder, a huge smile plastered across her face. “Anyway,” says Charlie, “How was your summer?”
“Boring,” Sam replies. “We didn’t go anywhere, and Dean just watched movies and ate the entire time. I mean, literally the entire time. I don’t know how he can stand it.”
As they talk, the parking lot slowly fills up with groups of people standing around and chatting, some warming up or stretching.
“Hey, everyone get in a circle!” shouts Jody Mills, the band captain. Stretch circle proceeds pretty normally, until halfway through when Dean decides to finally show up. Sam grimaces.
“Winchester!” shouts Jody. “Run to your spot, you’re late!” Dean ambles over to the baritone section, winking at Lisa Braeden as he passes by the flutes. Sam rolls his eyes. Jody opens her mouth to shout something a bit stronger at Dean, but then something weird happens. Two new kids walk onto the parking lot, later than Dean. Nobody is later than Dean, ever. This should be interesting.
Sammy cranes his neck to get a view of them. They’re two boys, brothers by the looks of it, a trombone and a clarinet. The clarinet is wearing tan slacks (what is this, a courtroom? It’s 85 degrees outside) and a squint to see through the sunlight. The trombone, though, is wearing a lazy grin and even before he opens his mouth, Sam knows this can’t be good.
“Hey, Lawrence High band geekaroos!” he says loudly, spreading his arms wide as if to give them all a hug. At least half the band visibly winces.
“Novak?” Jody ask-shouts from the center of the circle.
“Live and in the flesh,” replies the trombone kid, sauntering casually over. The clarinet trails after him, looking slightly annoyed.
“You’re late,” Jody adds. “Since you’re new, I’ll forgive you. Today. Come late tomorrow, and you’ll be cleaning up the field after practice.” The kid quirks a grin up, acknowledging the comment without actually apologizing. “Everyone, this is Gabriel and Castiel Novak. Go stand with your instrument. We’re doing fundamentals.” Groans echo around the circle, but the band reshuffles into something resembling a fundamental bloc.
“Come on, you guys, hustle!” yells Jody, clapping her hands. Sam, already on a spot, quietly rolls his eyes. It’s too hot for this. Behind him, someone giggles. Sam turns his head to see Gabriel Novak, standing amid trumpets, with a wacked-out grin still smacked across his mug.
“Dude,” says the trombone, “she’s like, sooo perky.” Perky is not a word Sam would use to describe the band captain. Intimidating, perhaps.