SPN ficlets (gen)
Apr. 25th, 2006 07:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gilascaveVarious ficlets and drabblishes written by request.
for deannie
Also, Dean (much Dean! ALL DEAN! *ahem* Sorry.), "overtime," and... mood... um... indecisive. *snerk*
~~~
Dean didn't want to look at his watch, didn't really want to know how long he'd been sitting here. Hours, at least, and sometimes he wished he got paid so he could get paid overtime. What was it, time and a half? Something like that, only when you got paid nothing, one and a half times zero was crappy wages.
He probably had a bunch of vacation time saved up, too, though he'd probably have spent it all on sick leave by now. He rubbed his shoulder, still feeling the twinge from the arrow three weeks ago.
Sometimes he could understand his brother's desire to get away from all this, and have something normal. But what scared Dean was that for everything he had seen, and done, and knew about the world -- he could never decide which was better.
~~~~~
for dawyndiesel
I would like John and Mommy, light and hopeful. Before they knew what was out there, maybe suspected but didn't know.
John stood by his son's crib, looking down at the tiny, peaceful figure. Sleeping now, and he knew enough to treasure the brief silence. Soon enough his son would wake, crying for a meal and to be rocked back to sleep.
He wanted to reach down and touch that face, feel the impossibly smooth skin. But he didn't want to risk waking his son -- Mary needed her sleep, and the slightest sound from the nursery always brought her instantly awake. Instead, he stood and watched, wondering again -- as he had every day and every night since the nurse had placed his boy in his arms for the first time -- just how extraordinary, how impossible it was. That this tiny, fragile-looking thing could be a person. That he could feel something that threatened to consume his very being, a love so overwhelming that he could barely understand how he had ever thought he'd loved, before.
His son shifted in his sleep, tiny hand balling into a fist and raising a thumb to his mouth. John dared reach down, then, and traced a light finger along his son's head. His one finger, nearly the size of the baby's arm. And all he had to do was hold him. Hold, and love, and raise a child.
John shivered, and prayed that he would be worthy of the job ahead.
"Goodnight, Dean," he whispered, and tiptoed out of the room.
~~~~
for elfbystarlight
Shoes and... hyper (no character request)
He knew the last cup was a mistake but he couldn't risk falling asleep. To important -- and wasn't it funny how his priorities had shifted? 'Important' used to mean life, death, and Dean. Now it meant professors' ire and remembering to spellcheck a paper before handing it in.
Like most college students, Sam had every intention of not waiting until the last minute, but somehow things just always cropped up until, one week before the deadline he would start to panic.
And wasn't that funny, as well. That his heart would race and his hands would tremble because of something so...harmless. His dad would scoff. Dean would fall over, laughing.
Sam didn't know if he could have explained just how real it was, even if it wasn't evil, and even if it couldn't be seen. 'Deadlines' more invisible than any spirit he'd hunted, yet just deadly.
Sam snickered at the word dead, and told himself the last two cups were a huge mistake, because was he really sure he wanted to write a paper in this condition? But he didn't have a choice, and he had to get it done tonight so Jess could read it over tomorrow and he could finalise it the following day.
He kicked off his shoes, and watched as they arced towards the bed, one at a time. Gathering himself, he leaped, following their trajectory but aiming slightly higher. Bouncing on the mattress, he laughed as Jess rolled over, hitting him with his pillow.
He could always write the paper tomorrow morning.
Right?
~~~~
for tittakv
I guess I'll go with Sam, hammer and stubborn.
Sometimes, Sam thought, his brother really pissed him off.
He raised the hammer and struck again.
Times like this -- Dean really, really, *really* pissed him off.
The hammer struck dead center, and Sam gritted his teeth. Pulled back his arm and let the hammer fly.
"Goddammit, Dean!" he muttered, then one more strike and he was screaming, shouting out all the anger and frustration and fear. Once, twice, three more times the hammer falling with as much power as he could muster. Shoulders going to ache like hell tomorrow, but small prices for large risks, and he couldn't stop even if his bones broke.
Sam brought the hammer down, exact same spot, watching as the blood, flowing so freely since that first strike, began to taper off.
Sam paused, then, panting for breath and feeling his hands tingling.
"Dean, I should have fucking strangled you when I was nine," he said, glaring down at the twisted mess below him.
Then he raised the hammer in both hands, grip slippery with the drying blood from broken blisters and the glass he'd punched through to get the hammer in the first place. One, two, three more strikes and the concrete shattered, and the first thing he heard as the mortar crumbled was the gasping intake of air of his brothers' lungs.
~~~
for mpoetess the evil one
Dean. "Taller." And... surprised.
"Dean, Dean!"
Sam's shouts were plenty of warning; Dean dropped his magazine and braced himself. Two seconds later the flying form of his little brother landed on him; Dean let out a not-so-restrained 'oof!'
"What do you want, shrimp?" Dean asked, trying not to grin -- just yet -- at the expression on Sammy's face.
"DEAN!" Sam shouted even louder, as though Dean's ears weren't just five inches away. Dean winced, and shoved his brother back, a little.
"What, already?"
Sam bounced -- on Dean's legs, and damn but his brother was getting too big to do that without jamming bony knees into places Dean didn't want damaged. Dean knew better than to try holding him still, though. He shifted on the chair, letting Sammy fall between his legs to bounce safely on the chair's cushion.
"Dean guess what!"
"Tell me, already." Dean grinned, not even sure what was going on, but Sammy's excitement was -- had always been -- infectious.
"I'm TALLER!" Sammy shouted, then leapt backwards off the chair and Dean's legs, grabbing his brother's hand. "Come look!"
Dean let his brother drag him down the hallway towards the kitchen, and watched as Sammy demonstrated. Standing on tiptoes, his outstretched fingers could just barely reach the bottom edge of the cupboard.
'Crap,' Dean thought. Out loud he said, "That's great, Sammy! Pretty soon you'll be as tall as me." He grinned, knowing full well *that* would never happen.
~~~~
for wildcard_sej
Dean, Oprah, and sleepless please.
It was the middle of the day, and Dean knew he should be sleeping. It wouldn't have been difficult if he'd just laid down and closed his eyes -- he'd learned years ago how to sleep whenever and wherever he could.
But the images in his mind wouldn't go away. The spirit was gone, vanquished, but not before it had literally shredded--
Dean forced himself to stop, and angrily picked up the tv remote. He stabbed the buttons, not even caring what was on. The tiny motel, cheap-ass tv, and barely three channels to choose from, if you didn't mind that one station was in Spanish and the other half-static.
The third was clear, and the commercials in English, so Dean left it there and sat back on the bed. Stared at the tv, even when Oprah welcomed her audience back from the break.
He watched and listened, concentrating as fiercely as he could as she spoke with some guy about a book on finances. The words washed through him, meaning little to someone who lived his life with cons and lying and scams, but their faces where alive, their voices bright with interest.
No screaming. No contortions of pain.
Dean closed his eyes and let their voices lull him into forgetting, for just a little while, that there was anything to fear.
~~~~
for gwendolen
Options:
Dean and vapires *eg*
Dean and a rubberduckie
Sam and First Kiss
Dean and Stanford
Sam or Dean and Alternat Reality
Dean held up the vampire rubber duckie, and grinned at Sam.
Sam rolled his eyes. "Grow up," he muttered, though Dean knew he didn't actually mean it. What was the fun in growing up, anyhow?
"You need something to give this girl," Dean said. "Your first kiss ever, I'm so proud."
Sam hit him in the shoulder, hard. "It's not my first kiss. My first kiss was Linda, when I was twelve, as you damn well know."
"Your first as a grown up," Dean explained, gesturing at the Stanford Bookstore, to demonstrate what he meant. Sam hit him again, which really didn't surprise him.
"Piss off, Dean," Sam said. He walked away from Dean, who followed -- still carrying the rubber duck.
"Come on, Sam. It's cute. She'll love it, and she'll kiss you again." He waggled his eyebrows. "Don't you want this Meg chick to kiss you again? Take you to dinner, a movie, then back to her dorm room for some mattress pounding?"
Sam hit him for a third time, but then he nodded. "If she can get her roommate, Jess, out of the room for awhile."
~~~
for deannie
Also, Dean (much Dean! ALL DEAN! *ahem* Sorry.), "overtime," and... mood... um... indecisive. *snerk*
~~~
Dean didn't want to look at his watch, didn't really want to know how long he'd been sitting here. Hours, at least, and sometimes he wished he got paid so he could get paid overtime. What was it, time and a half? Something like that, only when you got paid nothing, one and a half times zero was crappy wages.
He probably had a bunch of vacation time saved up, too, though he'd probably have spent it all on sick leave by now. He rubbed his shoulder, still feeling the twinge from the arrow three weeks ago.
Sometimes he could understand his brother's desire to get away from all this, and have something normal. But what scared Dean was that for everything he had seen, and done, and knew about the world -- he could never decide which was better.
~~~~~
for dawyndiesel
I would like John and Mommy, light and hopeful. Before they knew what was out there, maybe suspected but didn't know.
John stood by his son's crib, looking down at the tiny, peaceful figure. Sleeping now, and he knew enough to treasure the brief silence. Soon enough his son would wake, crying for a meal and to be rocked back to sleep.
He wanted to reach down and touch that face, feel the impossibly smooth skin. But he didn't want to risk waking his son -- Mary needed her sleep, and the slightest sound from the nursery always brought her instantly awake. Instead, he stood and watched, wondering again -- as he had every day and every night since the nurse had placed his boy in his arms for the first time -- just how extraordinary, how impossible it was. That this tiny, fragile-looking thing could be a person. That he could feel something that threatened to consume his very being, a love so overwhelming that he could barely understand how he had ever thought he'd loved, before.
His son shifted in his sleep, tiny hand balling into a fist and raising a thumb to his mouth. John dared reach down, then, and traced a light finger along his son's head. His one finger, nearly the size of the baby's arm. And all he had to do was hold him. Hold, and love, and raise a child.
John shivered, and prayed that he would be worthy of the job ahead.
"Goodnight, Dean," he whispered, and tiptoed out of the room.
~~~~
for elfbystarlight
Shoes and... hyper (no character request)
He knew the last cup was a mistake but he couldn't risk falling asleep. To important -- and wasn't it funny how his priorities had shifted? 'Important' used to mean life, death, and Dean. Now it meant professors' ire and remembering to spellcheck a paper before handing it in.
Like most college students, Sam had every intention of not waiting until the last minute, but somehow things just always cropped up until, one week before the deadline he would start to panic.
And wasn't that funny, as well. That his heart would race and his hands would tremble because of something so...harmless. His dad would scoff. Dean would fall over, laughing.
Sam didn't know if he could have explained just how real it was, even if it wasn't evil, and even if it couldn't be seen. 'Deadlines' more invisible than any spirit he'd hunted, yet just deadly.
Sam snickered at the word dead, and told himself the last two cups were a huge mistake, because was he really sure he wanted to write a paper in this condition? But he didn't have a choice, and he had to get it done tonight so Jess could read it over tomorrow and he could finalise it the following day.
He kicked off his shoes, and watched as they arced towards the bed, one at a time. Gathering himself, he leaped, following their trajectory but aiming slightly higher. Bouncing on the mattress, he laughed as Jess rolled over, hitting him with his pillow.
He could always write the paper tomorrow morning.
Right?
~~~~
for tittakv
I guess I'll go with Sam, hammer and stubborn.
Sometimes, Sam thought, his brother really pissed him off.
He raised the hammer and struck again.
Times like this -- Dean really, really, *really* pissed him off.
The hammer struck dead center, and Sam gritted his teeth. Pulled back his arm and let the hammer fly.
"Goddammit, Dean!" he muttered, then one more strike and he was screaming, shouting out all the anger and frustration and fear. Once, twice, three more times the hammer falling with as much power as he could muster. Shoulders going to ache like hell tomorrow, but small prices for large risks, and he couldn't stop even if his bones broke.
Sam brought the hammer down, exact same spot, watching as the blood, flowing so freely since that first strike, began to taper off.
Sam paused, then, panting for breath and feeling his hands tingling.
"Dean, I should have fucking strangled you when I was nine," he said, glaring down at the twisted mess below him.
Then he raised the hammer in both hands, grip slippery with the drying blood from broken blisters and the glass he'd punched through to get the hammer in the first place. One, two, three more strikes and the concrete shattered, and the first thing he heard as the mortar crumbled was the gasping intake of air of his brothers' lungs.
~~~
for mpoetess the evil one
Dean. "Taller." And... surprised.
"Dean, Dean!"
Sam's shouts were plenty of warning; Dean dropped his magazine and braced himself. Two seconds later the flying form of his little brother landed on him; Dean let out a not-so-restrained 'oof!'
"What do you want, shrimp?" Dean asked, trying not to grin -- just yet -- at the expression on Sammy's face.
"DEAN!" Sam shouted even louder, as though Dean's ears weren't just five inches away. Dean winced, and shoved his brother back, a little.
"What, already?"
Sam bounced -- on Dean's legs, and damn but his brother was getting too big to do that without jamming bony knees into places Dean didn't want damaged. Dean knew better than to try holding him still, though. He shifted on the chair, letting Sammy fall between his legs to bounce safely on the chair's cushion.
"Dean guess what!"
"Tell me, already." Dean grinned, not even sure what was going on, but Sammy's excitement was -- had always been -- infectious.
"I'm TALLER!" Sammy shouted, then leapt backwards off the chair and Dean's legs, grabbing his brother's hand. "Come look!"
Dean let his brother drag him down the hallway towards the kitchen, and watched as Sammy demonstrated. Standing on tiptoes, his outstretched fingers could just barely reach the bottom edge of the cupboard.
'Crap,' Dean thought. Out loud he said, "That's great, Sammy! Pretty soon you'll be as tall as me." He grinned, knowing full well *that* would never happen.
~~~~
for wildcard_sej
Dean, Oprah, and sleepless please.
It was the middle of the day, and Dean knew he should be sleeping. It wouldn't have been difficult if he'd just laid down and closed his eyes -- he'd learned years ago how to sleep whenever and wherever he could.
But the images in his mind wouldn't go away. The spirit was gone, vanquished, but not before it had literally shredded--
Dean forced himself to stop, and angrily picked up the tv remote. He stabbed the buttons, not even caring what was on. The tiny motel, cheap-ass tv, and barely three channels to choose from, if you didn't mind that one station was in Spanish and the other half-static.
The third was clear, and the commercials in English, so Dean left it there and sat back on the bed. Stared at the tv, even when Oprah welcomed her audience back from the break.
He watched and listened, concentrating as fiercely as he could as she spoke with some guy about a book on finances. The words washed through him, meaning little to someone who lived his life with cons and lying and scams, but their faces where alive, their voices bright with interest.
No screaming. No contortions of pain.
Dean closed his eyes and let their voices lull him into forgetting, for just a little while, that there was anything to fear.
~~~~
for gwendolen
Options:
Dean and vapires *eg*
Dean and a rubberduckie
Sam and First Kiss
Dean and Stanford
Sam or Dean and Alternat Reality
Dean held up the vampire rubber duckie, and grinned at Sam.
Sam rolled his eyes. "Grow up," he muttered, though Dean knew he didn't actually mean it. What was the fun in growing up, anyhow?
"You need something to give this girl," Dean said. "Your first kiss ever, I'm so proud."
Sam hit him in the shoulder, hard. "It's not my first kiss. My first kiss was Linda, when I was twelve, as you damn well know."
"Your first as a grown up," Dean explained, gesturing at the Stanford Bookstore, to demonstrate what he meant. Sam hit him again, which really didn't surprise him.
"Piss off, Dean," Sam said. He walked away from Dean, who followed -- still carrying the rubber duck.
"Come on, Sam. It's cute. She'll love it, and she'll kiss you again." He waggled his eyebrows. "Don't you want this Meg chick to kiss you again? Take you to dinner, a movie, then back to her dorm room for some mattress pounding?"
Sam hit him for a third time, but then he nodded. "If she can get her roommate, Jess, out of the room for awhile."
~~~