fic: fear is the mindkiller [christmas fic #5]
title: fear is the mindkiller
rating: pg-13
characters/pairing: dean, sam, michael, lucifer.
summary: Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
notes: 897 words. general spoilers for 6.11. for tahirire, who I sort of owed "something about why Sam isn't scared of clowns anymore." Ta-da, I FINALLY made... uh, something. Title and summary from the litany against fear.
It's a fun house, it had to be a fun house, mirrors and smoke everywhere, laughter from all directions. Dean's uncomfortably reminded of hell, fear bubbling up and trying to choke him, and suddenly he's frozen in place with his gun pointed at seventeen images of himself, cracked and bloody in each and every one. He hears Sam yelling but he can't make out the words, sound of them echoing in the tiny space, and then there's a muzzle flash and it's bright and blinding and the noise bounces off the walls, mixes with Sam's voice. Then Sam's voice is in his ear, Sam's hand on his arm, and all the noise fades away.
Dean hears the squeak of the clown's nose as the body hits the floor. He's waiting for Sam's punchline, holding onto the rolodex of jokes spinning through his head to give Sam a chance, 'Guess you shot that fear dead', and far more witty retorts bouncing around. But Sam never says a word.
"So, clowns," Dean starts, but Sam doesn't reply, just shrugs and leads them out of the claustrophobia-inducing walls of Wacky Wally's Fun House. There's a pile of clown clothes in a puddle of goo in the room with mirrors and one less bullet in the chamber of Sam's gun.
~
Sam doesn't remember. He doesn't remember Lucifer in front of him, all around him, mocking him, laughing at him, torturing him, a red face and a red nose and a little teardrop on a pasty white face.
"Sometimes I wonder if the world could end with an army of clowns," Lucifer muses. "It seems there are quite so many people who don't appreciate them."
Sam cowers, a curly red wig and a painted-on smile all he sees.
"You know, the most basic form of a clown is simply a mime," Michael says, and Lucifer laughs.
"He's right, you know. I don't often admit that, as you also know. It seems you've gifted us something more fun than fighting."
"Fear is a powerful thing." Michael's laughter joins Lucifer's as their faces transform into eerie smiles.
Sam stays silent in his corner of the cage.
~
Later that night they're watching a rerun of CSI on the TV, murder at a circus, of all things. Dean's staring intently at Sam when the clown comes on screen, waiting for that recognition of fear or disgust, waiting for him to reach for the remote and change the channel. But he doesn't. Instead he watches intently as the guy he remembers is Nick and the redhead Dean's always thought was attractive but too old for him question the man with the red nose. Then it cuts to a commercial for Geico.
"It was him," Sam says, startling Dean.
"Huh?"
"The clown, he did it." Sam looks at him quizzically, like Dean's supposed to know this already and agree automatically. Dean follows the cue.
"Yeah, okay." Dean knows he would've figured it out if he'd been paying attention, should've known Sam would figure it out in three seconds flat, like he always does. He doesn't think either of them know why they're watching the damn show in the first place.
"What?"
"Just. Nevermind." People get over their fears, he tries to tell himself.
~
Sam's three bites deep in his quarter pounder with cheese when Ronald McDonald pops out of the men's bathroom. "Huh," he says casually. "I didn't think this place did that anymore."
Dean turns and recoils a bit when he spots the dilapidated clown, his makeup streaked and shoes scuffed. "With good reason, I'd say. Guy looks like he lives in a box down the street."
"Maybe he does," Sam shrugs. "Everyone's gotta make a living somehow."
"Uh yeah, I guess." Dean figures now's as good a time as any to bring up the question he's wanted to ask for weeks. "So uh, do you not remember being afraid of clowns?"
Sam cocks his head and for a moment Dean could swear his brother looks confused, but then the look is gone. Sam takes another bite of his burger before responding with his mouth still partially full. "Dean, half the world is afraid of clowns."
"That's not really an answer, Sam."
"What do you want me to say? I remember being afraid of clowns, okay. I'm just not anymore. Can you drop the inquiries and weird looks now?" The angry way in which Sam crumbles up his wrapper lets Dean know the subject's being left alone whether he wants it to be or not. He thinks maybe it's better that way.
~
The truth is Sam has no clue why he's not scared of clowns anymore and finds it about as strange as Dean does. He goes poking around in his memories later that night, expecting to find a hazy snatch of some night years ago, under the influence of Ruby or Jack or Jim, something so he can answer Dean's question and get it over with. He doesn't find an answer, doesn't find much of anything about clowns other than a general sense of dislike and he tells Dean as much the next morning. Dean tells him not to worry about it, not too look too hard for answers.
"Probably just a fluke," Dean says, complete one-eighty from the day before, but it's already too late.
The first scratch has been made.
rating: pg-13
characters/pairing: dean, sam, michael, lucifer.
summary: Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
notes: 897 words. general spoilers for 6.11. for tahirire, who I sort of owed "something about why Sam isn't scared of clowns anymore." Ta-da, I FINALLY made... uh, something. Title and summary from the litany against fear.
It's a fun house, it had to be a fun house, mirrors and smoke everywhere, laughter from all directions. Dean's uncomfortably reminded of hell, fear bubbling up and trying to choke him, and suddenly he's frozen in place with his gun pointed at seventeen images of himself, cracked and bloody in each and every one. He hears Sam yelling but he can't make out the words, sound of them echoing in the tiny space, and then there's a muzzle flash and it's bright and blinding and the noise bounces off the walls, mixes with Sam's voice. Then Sam's voice is in his ear, Sam's hand on his arm, and all the noise fades away.
Dean hears the squeak of the clown's nose as the body hits the floor. He's waiting for Sam's punchline, holding onto the rolodex of jokes spinning through his head to give Sam a chance, 'Guess you shot that fear dead', and far more witty retorts bouncing around. But Sam never says a word.
"So, clowns," Dean starts, but Sam doesn't reply, just shrugs and leads them out of the claustrophobia-inducing walls of Wacky Wally's Fun House. There's a pile of clown clothes in a puddle of goo in the room with mirrors and one less bullet in the chamber of Sam's gun.
~
Sam doesn't remember. He doesn't remember Lucifer in front of him, all around him, mocking him, laughing at him, torturing him, a red face and a red nose and a little teardrop on a pasty white face.
"Sometimes I wonder if the world could end with an army of clowns," Lucifer muses. "It seems there are quite so many people who don't appreciate them."
Sam cowers, a curly red wig and a painted-on smile all he sees.
"You know, the most basic form of a clown is simply a mime," Michael says, and Lucifer laughs.
"He's right, you know. I don't often admit that, as you also know. It seems you've gifted us something more fun than fighting."
"Fear is a powerful thing." Michael's laughter joins Lucifer's as their faces transform into eerie smiles.
Sam stays silent in his corner of the cage.
~
Later that night they're watching a rerun of CSI on the TV, murder at a circus, of all things. Dean's staring intently at Sam when the clown comes on screen, waiting for that recognition of fear or disgust, waiting for him to reach for the remote and change the channel. But he doesn't. Instead he watches intently as the guy he remembers is Nick and the redhead Dean's always thought was attractive but too old for him question the man with the red nose. Then it cuts to a commercial for Geico.
"It was him," Sam says, startling Dean.
"Huh?"
"The clown, he did it." Sam looks at him quizzically, like Dean's supposed to know this already and agree automatically. Dean follows the cue.
"Yeah, okay." Dean knows he would've figured it out if he'd been paying attention, should've known Sam would figure it out in three seconds flat, like he always does. He doesn't think either of them know why they're watching the damn show in the first place.
"What?"
"Just. Nevermind." People get over their fears, he tries to tell himself.
~
Sam's three bites deep in his quarter pounder with cheese when Ronald McDonald pops out of the men's bathroom. "Huh," he says casually. "I didn't think this place did that anymore."
Dean turns and recoils a bit when he spots the dilapidated clown, his makeup streaked and shoes scuffed. "With good reason, I'd say. Guy looks like he lives in a box down the street."
"Maybe he does," Sam shrugs. "Everyone's gotta make a living somehow."
"Uh yeah, I guess." Dean figures now's as good a time as any to bring up the question he's wanted to ask for weeks. "So uh, do you not remember being afraid of clowns?"
Sam cocks his head and for a moment Dean could swear his brother looks confused, but then the look is gone. Sam takes another bite of his burger before responding with his mouth still partially full. "Dean, half the world is afraid of clowns."
"That's not really an answer, Sam."
"What do you want me to say? I remember being afraid of clowns, okay. I'm just not anymore. Can you drop the inquiries and weird looks now?" The angry way in which Sam crumbles up his wrapper lets Dean know the subject's being left alone whether he wants it to be or not. He thinks maybe it's better that way.
~
The truth is Sam has no clue why he's not scared of clowns anymore and finds it about as strange as Dean does. He goes poking around in his memories later that night, expecting to find a hazy snatch of some night years ago, under the influence of Ruby or Jack or Jim, something so he can answer Dean's question and get it over with. He doesn't find an answer, doesn't find much of anything about clowns other than a general sense of dislike and he tells Dean as much the next morning. Dean tells him not to worry about it, not too look too hard for answers.
"Probably just a fluke," Dean says, complete one-eighty from the day before, but it's already too late.
The first scratch has been made.