SPN Fanfic: Learning Curve
Title: Learning Curve
Characters: John, Dean, Sam (From Stanford Era to 1.10, influenced by Season 5 developments)
Rating/Warnings: GEN, PG. This is a little odd, sort of 'moppet-fic' (My Own Personal PEt Theory), so it's probably a little off-canon. Moppet given at the end. ETA: Comments contain Season 5 spoilers.
Word Count: This one, 790-ish.
Beta: The amazing ciaranbochna!
Disclaimer: Not mine, no ownership claimed.
Summary: The source of a message is as, if not more, important than its content.
A/N: The second of likely three otherwise unconnected "Texting with the Winchesters" fics written for pinkfinity and help_haiti.[LJ-only]
-
Learning Curve
by CaffieneKitty
-
Technology had its uses, John would be more than willing to admit. Right now the use he wanted to put this particular technology to was target practice.
"You hit the number and it goes through the letters above it," said Dean.
John scowled at the tiny phone with its little green screen and keypad that helpfully lit itself up anytime he touched it; glowing in a way that would make a nice bright target in any dark area.
Dean reached over and pointed. "Two is ABC, three is DEF, and so on. Hit three once for D, twice for E-"
The keypad booped cheerily as Dean pushed a button. If there wasn't a way to stop the phone from making noise, John would make one. "What about numbers?" he asked Dean. "Co-ordinates, phone numbers."
"You have to go through all the letters first. Hit the button four times to get to the number. Or sometimes five."
"Sometimes?"
"Some of the keys have four letters instead of three, because of the Z and the Q."
"Great. And exactly why is this better than a pager?"
Dean shrugged. "You can send longer messages, real messages with letters, not just numbers. And a pager would be another thing to pack around. Texting is already built into your new cellphone so if you've got it anyway, why not use it?"
John frowned at the dark grey phone, barely half the length of his hand. He'd used soap that was bigger than this phone. He missed portable phones that were big enough to be used as an emergency bludgeon.
Dean's voice rushed into the conversational vacuum. "I mean we can find a pager if you want a pager, but-"
"It's okay, Dean," John said, tucking the phone away. "I'll make it work."
If not, target practice always remained an option.
-
John and Dean had been working separate hunts for over a month. John had what seemed like a lead on the thing that killed Mary, and there was a possible chupacabra sighting in a rural forested area near Dean. He figured it was as good a time as any to try out texting to send Dean the coordinates.
One, two, three, 3. One, two, three, 8. Uh...
John looked at the keypad. Then looked some more.
How the hell do you make a space? Or a minus sign?
John cleared the message and left the coordinates on Dean's voicemail. He'd figure this text thing out some other time.
-
[42, -89]
"The man can barely work a toaster, Dean."
Dean held back his first three reactions to Sam's statement and proclaimed that John's text message was good news. At least they knew their Dad was alive.
Actually, Dean was also really pleased Dad had figured out how to get punctuation. There was a comma, a space, even a minus sign. Dean hadn't showed him, so he must have figured it out solo. After Sam's toaster crack though, he wouldn't be mentioning it out loud.
-
Sam pulled his greyhound t-shirt on and tried not to look like he was staring. The hotel bathroom mirror reflected Dean's chest and Sam kept sneaking glances, looking for bruises Dean would never admit to. Dean had said at the asylum they didn't need to talk about it, so they weren't talking about it. As usual. He wasn't acting any different around Sam; not much anyway. If anything he was more...
In the bathroom Dean gargled "Highway to Hell".
Yeah. That.
Sam still couldn't believe he'd shot Dean with rock salt, and then pulled the trigger on him several times with something he had no reason to believe wouldn't be lethal. He didn't hate Dean. He sure as hell didn't want to kill him. But he'd pulled the trigger, again and again.
It was like Ellicot had punched a hole in something inside Sam and released... rage. Pure unreasoning rage. Even when he was a kid, Sam sometimes got so frustrated or mad it felt like his head was floating. He still felt like that sometimes, but he'd grown up and got his temper under control. Mostly.
Maybe the ghost hadn't made him angry, maybe it just took away his control. Took away the option to not act on his rage.
Sam frowned. It was just a ghost, messing with my head. Dean knows that. He wasn't any angrier than the next guy, provided the next guy had had his crap life.
The bathroom light flicked off and Dean stepped out, caught Sam staring.
"What? Am I drooling toothpaste?"
"No."
"Stare somewhere else then." Dean got into his bed and flicked off the light.
Sam watched passing headlights slide across the closed curtains. If we ever find Dad, I'll have to thank him for sending us on this stupid haunted insane asylum gig.
I still can't believe Dad texted us a hunt.
- - -
(that's it for this one, one more to go!)
Post A/N: The pet theory being "John wasn't the one who sent the text in 'Asylum'"
Characters: John, Dean, Sam (From Stanford Era to 1.10, influenced by Season 5 developments)
Rating/Warnings: GEN, PG. This is a little odd, sort of 'moppet-fic' (My Own Personal PEt Theory), so it's probably a little off-canon. Moppet given at the end. ETA: Comments contain Season 5 spoilers.
Word Count: This one, 790-ish.
Beta: The amazing ciaranbochna!
Disclaimer: Not mine, no ownership claimed.
Summary: The source of a message is as, if not more, important than its content.
A/N: The second of likely three otherwise unconnected "Texting with the Winchesters" fics written for pinkfinity and help_haiti.[LJ-only]
-
Learning Curve
by CaffieneKitty
-
Technology had its uses, John would be more than willing to admit. Right now the use he wanted to put this particular technology to was target practice.
"You hit the number and it goes through the letters above it," said Dean.
John scowled at the tiny phone with its little green screen and keypad that helpfully lit itself up anytime he touched it; glowing in a way that would make a nice bright target in any dark area.
Dean reached over and pointed. "Two is ABC, three is DEF, and so on. Hit three once for D, twice for E-"
The keypad booped cheerily as Dean pushed a button. If there wasn't a way to stop the phone from making noise, John would make one. "What about numbers?" he asked Dean. "Co-ordinates, phone numbers."
"You have to go through all the letters first. Hit the button four times to get to the number. Or sometimes five."
"Sometimes?"
"Some of the keys have four letters instead of three, because of the Z and the Q."
"Great. And exactly why is this better than a pager?"
Dean shrugged. "You can send longer messages, real messages with letters, not just numbers. And a pager would be another thing to pack around. Texting is already built into your new cellphone so if you've got it anyway, why not use it?"
John frowned at the dark grey phone, barely half the length of his hand. He'd used soap that was bigger than this phone. He missed portable phones that were big enough to be used as an emergency bludgeon.
Dean's voice rushed into the conversational vacuum. "I mean we can find a pager if you want a pager, but-"
"It's okay, Dean," John said, tucking the phone away. "I'll make it work."
If not, target practice always remained an option.
-
John and Dean had been working separate hunts for over a month. John had what seemed like a lead on the thing that killed Mary, and there was a possible chupacabra sighting in a rural forested area near Dean. He figured it was as good a time as any to try out texting to send Dean the coordinates.
One, two, three, 3. One, two, three, 8. Uh...
John looked at the keypad. Then looked some more.
How the hell do you make a space? Or a minus sign?
John cleared the message and left the coordinates on Dean's voicemail. He'd figure this text thing out some other time.
-
[42, -89]
"The man can barely work a toaster, Dean."
Dean held back his first three reactions to Sam's statement and proclaimed that John's text message was good news. At least they knew their Dad was alive.
Actually, Dean was also really pleased Dad had figured out how to get punctuation. There was a comma, a space, even a minus sign. Dean hadn't showed him, so he must have figured it out solo. After Sam's toaster crack though, he wouldn't be mentioning it out loud.
-
Sam pulled his greyhound t-shirt on and tried not to look like he was staring. The hotel bathroom mirror reflected Dean's chest and Sam kept sneaking glances, looking for bruises Dean would never admit to. Dean had said at the asylum they didn't need to talk about it, so they weren't talking about it. As usual. He wasn't acting any different around Sam; not much anyway. If anything he was more...
In the bathroom Dean gargled "Highway to Hell".
Yeah. That.
Sam still couldn't believe he'd shot Dean with rock salt, and then pulled the trigger on him several times with something he had no reason to believe wouldn't be lethal. He didn't hate Dean. He sure as hell didn't want to kill him. But he'd pulled the trigger, again and again.
It was like Ellicot had punched a hole in something inside Sam and released... rage. Pure unreasoning rage. Even when he was a kid, Sam sometimes got so frustrated or mad it felt like his head was floating. He still felt like that sometimes, but he'd grown up and got his temper under control. Mostly.
Maybe the ghost hadn't made him angry, maybe it just took away his control. Took away the option to not act on his rage.
Sam frowned. It was just a ghost, messing with my head. Dean knows that. He wasn't any angrier than the next guy, provided the next guy had had his crap life.
The bathroom light flicked off and Dean stepped out, caught Sam staring.
"What? Am I drooling toothpaste?"
"No."
"Stare somewhere else then." Dean got into his bed and flicked off the light.
Sam watched passing headlights slide across the closed curtains. If we ever find Dad, I'll have to thank him for sending us on this stupid haunted insane asylum gig.
I still can't believe Dad texted us a hunt.
- - -
(that's it for this one, one more to go!)
Post A/N: The pet theory being "John wasn't the one who sent the text in 'Asylum'"