Supernatural crack!fic Gen - Conversational Winchester for Trolls
I've spent the last couple of days writing crack!fic. I have a few bunnies hopping lightly around in my brain, and this was originally one that started as an actual serious story about a haunted/possessed bridge. And then this happened:
TITLE: Conversational Winchester for Trolls
RATING: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: John, Dean, Sam. And troll.
SPOILERS: pre-series and Season 1 generally
DISCLAIMER: The troll is mine.
NOTES: 1850 words. Narrator POV. Crack!fic, people, seriously. Oh, there be spoilers for the story of 'The Three Billy Goats Gruff'. And gratuitous Angel and Matrix references.
Once upon a time there was a troll who lived under a bridge.
“I’m not a troll,” said the troll.
Okay, not exactly a troll then. More of a demon.
“What sort of demon?” said the troll.
Oh, a demon that feeds off people’s fears and anxieties, you know - did you ever see that Angel episode with the hotel flashbacks and the whole allegory for McCarthyism going on?
“Never saw that one,” said the troll.
Pity, it was good. Only instead of feeding off paranoia, you feed off angst.
“M'kay,” said the troll. “And I live under a bridge?”
Well, not so much an actual physical bridge as a metaphorical construct of a bridge.
“Like the Matrix?”
Not exactly. Think of it as a metaphorical construct within the context of the story.
“M’kay,” said the troll. “Carry on.”
So, this troll (demon) lived under a bridge (metaphorical).
“Looks like a real bridge to me,” said the troll. “Look, I’m just saying.”
Fine, you’ve made your point. Can we get back to the story?
“Go ahead,” said the troll.
Anyway, there were these three Winchesters, who were standing on one side of the bridge.
There was the oldest Winchester, who had a God complex, the middlest Winchester, who had a Christ complex, and the youngest Winchester, who had a Judas complex.
“What’s with all the religious symbolism?” said the troll.
You like it?
“Whatever,” said the troll, non-committally.
“Hang on!” said the youngest Winchester, full of righteous indignation. “What do you mean Judas?
“Okay,” said the troll. “I’m kind of lost now. I think I’m going to need help with translation here.”
Fair enough. Where had we got to?
“What do you mean Judas?” said the troll. “The youngest Winchester?”
Right.
Translation:
“I didn’t betray anyone. Well, at least not for money.”
“What do you mean complex?” said the oldest Winchester, heavily and sternly.
Translation:
“Bow your head in reverence when you speak to me.”
The middlest Winchester just nodded.
Translation:
“I would totally lay down my life for my brother and my dad or, you know, any random passing stranger in need.”
“I like that one,” said the troll. “He sounds delicious.”
So, these three Winchesters wanted to get to the other side of the bridge and -
“Why?” said the troll.
What?
“What was so great about the other side of the bridge? Is there something there I should know about? Because, as far as metaphorical constructs of bridges go, this one pretty much sucks.”
Oh, right. Well, the oldest Winchester had been after this demon and apparently it had been spotted somewhere on the other side of the bridge. And he said they had to go after it. So of course they went.
“Because I’m God,” said the oldest Winchester.
“Amen,” prayed the middlest Winchester.
“You’re so not,” muttered the youngest Winchester, but under his breath, in case God would hear.
So the Winchesters made a plan.
“I have a plan,” the oldest Winchester told the other two Winchesters.
Translation:
“I’m not going to tell you my plan, because I’m God, and my ways are mysterious. I expect you to obey me without question, or suffer the consequences of my wrath.”
“Yes, sir,” said the middlest Winchester.
Translation:
“I am aware that your plan is flawed and almost certainly doomed to failure, but I obey you because I want to win your love and respect. And if possible lay down my life for you while doing it.”
“Your plans suck out loud,” said the youngest Winchester.
Translation:
“I will bitch and snipe about your plan behind your back, but in the end I’ll do it because Dean says so.”
“Are they ever going to get to the crossing of the bridge?” said the troll.
They will, just wait. So, the oldest Winchester stepped out onto the bridge.
Trip trap, trip trap.
“Who’s that trip-trapping across my metaphorical construct of a bridge?” said the troll.
“It is I, John Winchester, oldest of all the Winchesters.”
“And are you full of delicious anguish, personal trauma and general emotional fuck-up-edness?” asked the troll, trying to be casual.
“To some degree,” said the oldest Winchester.
Translation:
“Since my wife was burned to death on the ceiling of our younger son’s nursery by an evil wife-burning, baby-stealing demon, I have dedicated my life to the pursuit of two goals:
Goal #1 - Destruction of said Demon
Goal #2 - Repression of All Emotions but Anger.
In summary, I became consumed with the need for vengeance and spend my time trying to find this demon, and dragging my two young sons along for the ride. I effectively destroyed any chance they would ever have at a normal life, and regret this considerably, but as Life Goal #2 has been successfully achieved, I am too emotionally constipated to ever express this regret as anything more than a slight twitch in my upper jaw.”
“Wow,” said the troll. “You are indeed quite emotionally fucked up. Come here and let me eat you.”
“Ah, but no,” said the oldest Winchester. “I am but a morsel. Wait till my sons come along. They are way more emotionally fucked-up than me.”
Translation:
“I know, because I fucked them up myself.”
“Okay,” said the troll. “Don’t want to fill up on snacks. You may cross the metaphorical construct.”
“Huh?” said the oldest Winchester.
“Just cross the damn bridge,” sighed the troll.
After a few moments, the youngest Winchester stepped out onto the bridge.
Trip trap, trip trap.
“Who’s that trip-trapping across my metaphorical construct of a bridge?” said the troll.
“Looks pretty damn literal to me,” said the youngest Winchester.
“Tell me about it,” said the troll. “Not my story.”
“I’m Sam Winchester, youngest of all the Winchesters.”
“Nice to meet you, Sam,” said the troll. “Your dad was just telling me how you were full of emotional pain and fucked up to an almost Larkinesque degree.”
“Oh, yes, this totally be the verse,’ said the youngest Winchester eagerly. “I am Emo-Sam. See me Angst.”
Translation:
“My mother died trying to save me from the nasty baby-burning demon, and then my dad dragged me on his Demon Killing crusade, and treated me like a tiny warrior, and made me do weapons training and shoot at ghosts with rocksalt and never let me grow my bangs.
I betrayed him and my brother by running away to go to college and growing my bangs to an almost ludicrous length. I found a pretty girlfriend and everything was okay until that demon turned up and decided he wanted to branch out into the pre-nuptial burning too. So now I have survivor guilt like Whoa because two women died and it was All. My. Fault.
And I have discovered I’m psychic, and therefore suffer not only from my own considerable personal angst, but am tortured by visions of others in mortal danger, which I express by clutching my head as if in the throes of a migraine induced by hair/vision obscurage.”
“Hmm,” said the troll. “That is pretty damn fucked up. Come here and let me eat you.”
“Now, wait. I am full of angst, but I’m but an appetizer. Wait till my brother comes along. He’s way more emotionally fucked up than me.”
Translation:
“I might bitch about my dad’s plans, but when it comes down to it, I’ll do it because I’m as obsessed as he is about killing this demon.”
“Sounds fair,” said the troll. “You may cross the metaphorical construct.” The troll paused. “And get a haircut.”
After a little while, the third and middlest Winchester stepped onto the bridge.
“I’ve been waiting for this one,” said the troll.
Haven’t we all?
Trip trap, trip trap.
“Who’s that trip-trapping over my metaphorical… blah de blah blah,” said the troll.
“Dude, you fugly, “said the middlest Winchester.
“It’s the whole troll thing,” said the troll. “Apparently it’s meant to be allegorical.”
“Whatever,” said the middlest Winchester. “I’m Dean Winchester. Deal with it.”
“So,” said the troll. “I hear from your dad and brother that you are seriously emotionally fucked up.”
“What?” said the middlest Winchester. “I’m fine, dude. Chill.”
Translation:
“I am fucked up to such a degree that I have no concept of how fundamentally broken I actually am. My mom died when I was a kid, and my dad shoved my baby brother into my arms and issued the Prime Directive:
Watch out for Sammy.
He then spent the better part of my childhood testing my loyalty to the Prime Directive, by abandoning us regularly to hunt demons. This didn’t really do much to ease the already fairly severe abandonment issues I was dealing with over my mom’s death.
I have worked hard to sublimate any personal needs and desires to those of my brother and dad, to the extent that I’m willing to do almost anything for them. Up to and including laying down my life for theirs.”
“You are indeed the most emotionally fucked up Winchester of them all,” said the troll. “Come here and let me eat you.”
“Okay,” said the middlest Winchester, and spread his arms out wide.
Translation:
“Dude, I told you I’d totally sacrifice myself for them. Were you not listening? And once I’m dead, I’m going to find a way to get into hell, and kill all the demons there, because I’d be keeping Sammy safe, and that’s what would make my dad proud of me.”
“That’s too rich for my blood,” said the troll, and promptly exploded.
And the middlest Winchester strolled across the bridge to the other two Winchesters who were waiting on the other side, bickering.
“What took you so long, Dean?” said the oldest Winchester.
“Look, I know for the purposes of this story I’m now dead,” said the troll. “But I’m still going to need some sort of translation here. Can’t I be a metaphorical construct of a troll?”
Fine.
Translation:
“Sammy is pissing me off with his emo whining, and so I take my anger out on you and bitch at you for no good reason.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” said the middlest Winchester.
Translation:
“I take your harsh and undeserved criticism to heart, and will try to do better.”
“You saved us, Dean,” said the youngest Winchester.
Translation:
“I can not stop myself from emoting. You are the best big brother ever and I want us to talk about our feelings. A lot.”
“Dude,” said the middlest Winchester.
Translation:
“I’d give up my life for you, Sammy. In a fucking heartbeat.”
“Boys,” said the oldest Winchester.
Translation:
“Have you forgotten that I am God, and that you are on a mission from me. Get your asses in gear and help me find this goddamned demon.”
“Yes, sir,” said the youngest Winchester
Translation:
“Yay! More opportunities to emote to Dad and Dean. And maybe we’ll get to hug again. I liked the hugging.”
“Yes, sir,” said the middlest Winchester.
Translation:
“Totally going to sacrifice myself for you both, just watch me.”
“Oh, Dean,” said the metaphorical construct of the troll, in admiration. “What? You don’t think that needs translating?”
No.
The End.
TITLE: Conversational Winchester for Trolls
RATING: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: John, Dean, Sam. And troll.
SPOILERS: pre-series and Season 1 generally
DISCLAIMER: The troll is mine.
NOTES: 1850 words. Narrator POV. Crack!fic, people, seriously. Oh, there be spoilers for the story of 'The Three Billy Goats Gruff'. And gratuitous Angel and Matrix references.
Once upon a time there was a troll who lived under a bridge.
“I’m not a troll,” said the troll.
Okay, not exactly a troll then. More of a demon.
“What sort of demon?” said the troll.
Oh, a demon that feeds off people’s fears and anxieties, you know - did you ever see that Angel episode with the hotel flashbacks and the whole allegory for McCarthyism going on?
“Never saw that one,” said the troll.
Pity, it was good. Only instead of feeding off paranoia, you feed off angst.
“M'kay,” said the troll. “And I live under a bridge?”
Well, not so much an actual physical bridge as a metaphorical construct of a bridge.
“Like the Matrix?”
Not exactly. Think of it as a metaphorical construct within the context of the story.
“M’kay,” said the troll. “Carry on.”
So, this troll (demon) lived under a bridge (metaphorical).
“Looks like a real bridge to me,” said the troll. “Look, I’m just saying.”
Fine, you’ve made your point. Can we get back to the story?
“Go ahead,” said the troll.
Anyway, there were these three Winchesters, who were standing on one side of the bridge.
There was the oldest Winchester, who had a God complex, the middlest Winchester, who had a Christ complex, and the youngest Winchester, who had a Judas complex.
“What’s with all the religious symbolism?” said the troll.
You like it?
“Whatever,” said the troll, non-committally.
“Hang on!” said the youngest Winchester, full of righteous indignation. “What do you mean Judas?
“Okay,” said the troll. “I’m kind of lost now. I think I’m going to need help with translation here.”
Fair enough. Where had we got to?
“What do you mean Judas?” said the troll. “The youngest Winchester?”
Right.
Translation:
“I didn’t betray anyone. Well, at least not for money.”
“What do you mean complex?” said the oldest Winchester, heavily and sternly.
Translation:
“Bow your head in reverence when you speak to me.”
The middlest Winchester just nodded.
Translation:
“I would totally lay down my life for my brother and my dad or, you know, any random passing stranger in need.”
“I like that one,” said the troll. “He sounds delicious.”
So, these three Winchesters wanted to get to the other side of the bridge and -
“Why?” said the troll.
What?
“What was so great about the other side of the bridge? Is there something there I should know about? Because, as far as metaphorical constructs of bridges go, this one pretty much sucks.”
Oh, right. Well, the oldest Winchester had been after this demon and apparently it had been spotted somewhere on the other side of the bridge. And he said they had to go after it. So of course they went.
“Because I’m God,” said the oldest Winchester.
“Amen,” prayed the middlest Winchester.
“You’re so not,” muttered the youngest Winchester, but under his breath, in case God would hear.
So the Winchesters made a plan.
“I have a plan,” the oldest Winchester told the other two Winchesters.
Translation:
“I’m not going to tell you my plan, because I’m God, and my ways are mysterious. I expect you to obey me without question, or suffer the consequences of my wrath.”
“Yes, sir,” said the middlest Winchester.
Translation:
“I am aware that your plan is flawed and almost certainly doomed to failure, but I obey you because I want to win your love and respect. And if possible lay down my life for you while doing it.”
“Your plans suck out loud,” said the youngest Winchester.
Translation:
“I will bitch and snipe about your plan behind your back, but in the end I’ll do it because Dean says so.”
“Are they ever going to get to the crossing of the bridge?” said the troll.
They will, just wait. So, the oldest Winchester stepped out onto the bridge.
Trip trap, trip trap.
“Who’s that trip-trapping across my metaphorical construct of a bridge?” said the troll.
“It is I, John Winchester, oldest of all the Winchesters.”
“And are you full of delicious anguish, personal trauma and general emotional fuck-up-edness?” asked the troll, trying to be casual.
“To some degree,” said the oldest Winchester.
Translation:
“Since my wife was burned to death on the ceiling of our younger son’s nursery by an evil wife-burning, baby-stealing demon, I have dedicated my life to the pursuit of two goals:
Goal #1 - Destruction of said Demon
Goal #2 - Repression of All Emotions but Anger.
In summary, I became consumed with the need for vengeance and spend my time trying to find this demon, and dragging my two young sons along for the ride. I effectively destroyed any chance they would ever have at a normal life, and regret this considerably, but as Life Goal #2 has been successfully achieved, I am too emotionally constipated to ever express this regret as anything more than a slight twitch in my upper jaw.”
“Wow,” said the troll. “You are indeed quite emotionally fucked up. Come here and let me eat you.”
“Ah, but no,” said the oldest Winchester. “I am but a morsel. Wait till my sons come along. They are way more emotionally fucked-up than me.”
Translation:
“I know, because I fucked them up myself.”
“Okay,” said the troll. “Don’t want to fill up on snacks. You may cross the metaphorical construct.”
“Huh?” said the oldest Winchester.
“Just cross the damn bridge,” sighed the troll.
After a few moments, the youngest Winchester stepped out onto the bridge.
Trip trap, trip trap.
“Who’s that trip-trapping across my metaphorical construct of a bridge?” said the troll.
“Looks pretty damn literal to me,” said the youngest Winchester.
“Tell me about it,” said the troll. “Not my story.”
“I’m Sam Winchester, youngest of all the Winchesters.”
“Nice to meet you, Sam,” said the troll. “Your dad was just telling me how you were full of emotional pain and fucked up to an almost Larkinesque degree.”
“Oh, yes, this totally be the verse,’ said the youngest Winchester eagerly. “I am Emo-Sam. See me Angst.”
Translation:
“My mother died trying to save me from the nasty baby-burning demon, and then my dad dragged me on his Demon Killing crusade, and treated me like a tiny warrior, and made me do weapons training and shoot at ghosts with rocksalt and never let me grow my bangs.
I betrayed him and my brother by running away to go to college and growing my bangs to an almost ludicrous length. I found a pretty girlfriend and everything was okay until that demon turned up and decided he wanted to branch out into the pre-nuptial burning too. So now I have survivor guilt like Whoa because two women died and it was All. My. Fault.
And I have discovered I’m psychic, and therefore suffer not only from my own considerable personal angst, but am tortured by visions of others in mortal danger, which I express by clutching my head as if in the throes of a migraine induced by hair/vision obscurage.”
“Hmm,” said the troll. “That is pretty damn fucked up. Come here and let me eat you.”
“Now, wait. I am full of angst, but I’m but an appetizer. Wait till my brother comes along. He’s way more emotionally fucked up than me.”
Translation:
“I might bitch about my dad’s plans, but when it comes down to it, I’ll do it because I’m as obsessed as he is about killing this demon.”
“Sounds fair,” said the troll. “You may cross the metaphorical construct.” The troll paused. “And get a haircut.”
After a little while, the third and middlest Winchester stepped onto the bridge.
“I’ve been waiting for this one,” said the troll.
Haven’t we all?
Trip trap, trip trap.
“Who’s that trip-trapping over my metaphorical… blah de blah blah,” said the troll.
“Dude, you fugly, “said the middlest Winchester.
“It’s the whole troll thing,” said the troll. “Apparently it’s meant to be allegorical.”
“Whatever,” said the middlest Winchester. “I’m Dean Winchester. Deal with it.”
“So,” said the troll. “I hear from your dad and brother that you are seriously emotionally fucked up.”
“What?” said the middlest Winchester. “I’m fine, dude. Chill.”
Translation:
“I am fucked up to such a degree that I have no concept of how fundamentally broken I actually am. My mom died when I was a kid, and my dad shoved my baby brother into my arms and issued the Prime Directive:
Watch out for Sammy.
He then spent the better part of my childhood testing my loyalty to the Prime Directive, by abandoning us regularly to hunt demons. This didn’t really do much to ease the already fairly severe abandonment issues I was dealing with over my mom’s death.
I have worked hard to sublimate any personal needs and desires to those of my brother and dad, to the extent that I’m willing to do almost anything for them. Up to and including laying down my life for theirs.”
“You are indeed the most emotionally fucked up Winchester of them all,” said the troll. “Come here and let me eat you.”
“Okay,” said the middlest Winchester, and spread his arms out wide.
Translation:
“Dude, I told you I’d totally sacrifice myself for them. Were you not listening? And once I’m dead, I’m going to find a way to get into hell, and kill all the demons there, because I’d be keeping Sammy safe, and that’s what would make my dad proud of me.”
“That’s too rich for my blood,” said the troll, and promptly exploded.
And the middlest Winchester strolled across the bridge to the other two Winchesters who were waiting on the other side, bickering.
“What took you so long, Dean?” said the oldest Winchester.
“Look, I know for the purposes of this story I’m now dead,” said the troll. “But I’m still going to need some sort of translation here. Can’t I be a metaphorical construct of a troll?”
Fine.
Translation:
“Sammy is pissing me off with his emo whining, and so I take my anger out on you and bitch at you for no good reason.”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” said the middlest Winchester.
Translation:
“I take your harsh and undeserved criticism to heart, and will try to do better.”
“You saved us, Dean,” said the youngest Winchester.
Translation:
“I can not stop myself from emoting. You are the best big brother ever and I want us to talk about our feelings. A lot.”
“Dude,” said the middlest Winchester.
Translation:
“I’d give up my life for you, Sammy. In a fucking heartbeat.”
“Boys,” said the oldest Winchester.
Translation:
“Have you forgotten that I am God, and that you are on a mission from me. Get your asses in gear and help me find this goddamned demon.”
“Yes, sir,” said the youngest Winchester
Translation:
“Yay! More opportunities to emote to Dad and Dean. And maybe we’ll get to hug again. I liked the hugging.”
“Yes, sir,” said the middlest Winchester.
Translation:
“Totally going to sacrifice myself for you both, just watch me.”
“Oh, Dean,” said the metaphorical construct of the troll, in admiration. “What? You don’t think that needs translating?”
No.
The End.