SPN Fic snippets.
some incredibly short snippets of unfinished fics that are rotting away on my laptop.
Dean/Ellen
547 words
pg
Dean walks into her bar just like his daddy walked out of it - hands in his pockets and his head bowed like a child who knows he’s done wrong. It‘s enough to almost make Ellen laugh, these Winchester men blowing through her doors like lost pilgrims, looking to her like she’s the only one who can turn them around and put them on the right path when most days it’s all she can do to put food on the table for herself and Jo.
She doesn’t have much - a dead husband, dead end roadhouse and a daughter too damn much like her father to see past her twenty fifth birthday if the fates are whispering the truth at night and now this man-child, more broken then fixed, scuffing his boots on her wooden floor.
“We’re closed,” she says, not trying to hide the unwelcome from her voice. He doesn’t hear it, or maybe just chooses not to, taking a seat at the bar instead, hands clasped together on the counter. His knuckles are torn red and bruised yellow. “I said-”
“Yeah. I know,” he says, words rattling around his mouth like broken teeth. “Jo around?”
Ellen flips the dish rag over her shoulder, hands pressed against the countertop and shoulders spread wide. “She’s out. You got a reason for seeing her?”
He shrugs a shoulder, looking back at her unflinchingly and it’s the first time in a long time she’s the one to look away first, mouth pulling into a frown as she lets her glare slide.
“Could go for a beer.”
“We‘re closed,” she says once more, snapping the cloth off her shoulder and rounding the bar to put the chairs up on the tables, chair legs scraping over the floor loudly. She’s annoyed and uncomfortable, knows the jerky movements of her hands give her away.
He’s still there when the last chair is up, hands clasped in front of him like he’s praying or something, but she’s pretty sure the only time Dean Winchester ever sets foot inside God’s house is to load up on holy water, apple never falls far from the tree after all.
She watches him carefully out of the corner of her eye as she sweeps the floor, brushing up cigarette butts and chips of broken glass from an argument that got out of hand before she had the chance to grab her shotgun and lay down the law. There’s blood on her floor again but she’s too damn tired right now to get down on her knees and scrub, adds it to the list of things that need to be done tomorrow instead.
“Did he come here often?” Dean asks, his voice breaking the silence. When Ellen looks up he’s watching her and all she can do for a moment is swallow, jaw and shoulders tense.
She leans the broom up against the wall.
“Why are you here Dean?”
He huffs a painful laugh, scrubbing a beaten down hand roughly over his face and Ellen wonders if he’s going to fall apart right here, right now. He pushes up from his slouch, broad shoulders unfurling out.
“Really could do with that beer.”
The quirk of his mouth hurts to look at.
Ellen purses her lips. “We’re still closed.”
***
Dean, Angel Gabriel (Constantine)
301 words
Head loose, tipped forward on his neck, weak and vulnerable. He can taste blood in his mouth, feel it coating his teeth, slick and metallic. When he coughs it bubbles up over his lips and runs down his chin.
“You try so hard, don’t you,” it continues. Dean raises his eyes high enough to see its feet, naked and oddly vulnerable in front of him. “But it’s never enough. It was never enough for John and it’ll never be enough for Sam either.”
It comes closer, crouches down between his legs where they’re spread and tied to the chair legs. His top lip pulls in a sneer when its hands settle on his knees. He can see the plastic of a hospital tag on its wrist, see lust printed in neat capitals
When it speaks (always it and never its name because Dean refuses to believe that this is the real Angel fucking Gabriel that has him tied to a chair slowly killing him in the warehouse just south of wherethefuckever and Jesusfuck his brain can‘t even process the fucking wings) its voice is calm, smooth, like familiar fingers brushing down the side of his throat.
“When are you going to realize, Dean, that everything you do, everything you fight for, is inconsequential. You - are nothing. You’re going to die forgotten and unmourned by all those people you think you’ve saved but you’ve just damned them, Dean. You’ve damned every single one of them. Tell me, how does that feel? ”
Dean coughs again and it doesn’t flinch when the white of its suit gets speckled with blood. He lifts his head as high as he can manage, voice hoarse. “Fuck. You.”
It leans forward, smiling slowly like the sun breaking over the horizon. “Does your brother know, Dean?”
***
Dean, Sam
144 words
Dean’s knuckles are scraped raw to the bone and new blood wells up, staining the makeshift bandage every time he clenches his hand around the steering wheel. Sam’s slumped in the passenger seat beside him, head bowed down as he peels the tape at the corner of his own bandage away from his skin - stomach wounds are nasty and this one will slow them down some, but it’s not as bad as it looks. Sam touches the ragged edge of skin and Jesus fuck it hurts but they’re running low of painkillers and he knows Dean’ll need them for his ribs once he quits being so goddamn stubborn and admits the fucking things are broken, so he just grits his jaw and lets his head fall back, turning over and over in his head just how incredibly they’ve fucked up this time.
***
....I seem to beat Dean up A LOT. I really really want to write but I have no time to anymore.
Dean/Ellen
547 words
pg
Dean walks into her bar just like his daddy walked out of it - hands in his pockets and his head bowed like a child who knows he’s done wrong. It‘s enough to almost make Ellen laugh, these Winchester men blowing through her doors like lost pilgrims, looking to her like she’s the only one who can turn them around and put them on the right path when most days it’s all she can do to put food on the table for herself and Jo.
She doesn’t have much - a dead husband, dead end roadhouse and a daughter too damn much like her father to see past her twenty fifth birthday if the fates are whispering the truth at night and now this man-child, more broken then fixed, scuffing his boots on her wooden floor.
“We’re closed,” she says, not trying to hide the unwelcome from her voice. He doesn’t hear it, or maybe just chooses not to, taking a seat at the bar instead, hands clasped together on the counter. His knuckles are torn red and bruised yellow. “I said-”
“Yeah. I know,” he says, words rattling around his mouth like broken teeth. “Jo around?”
Ellen flips the dish rag over her shoulder, hands pressed against the countertop and shoulders spread wide. “She’s out. You got a reason for seeing her?”
He shrugs a shoulder, looking back at her unflinchingly and it’s the first time in a long time she’s the one to look away first, mouth pulling into a frown as she lets her glare slide.
“Could go for a beer.”
“We‘re closed,” she says once more, snapping the cloth off her shoulder and rounding the bar to put the chairs up on the tables, chair legs scraping over the floor loudly. She’s annoyed and uncomfortable, knows the jerky movements of her hands give her away.
He’s still there when the last chair is up, hands clasped in front of him like he’s praying or something, but she’s pretty sure the only time Dean Winchester ever sets foot inside God’s house is to load up on holy water, apple never falls far from the tree after all.
She watches him carefully out of the corner of her eye as she sweeps the floor, brushing up cigarette butts and chips of broken glass from an argument that got out of hand before she had the chance to grab her shotgun and lay down the law. There’s blood on her floor again but she’s too damn tired right now to get down on her knees and scrub, adds it to the list of things that need to be done tomorrow instead.
“Did he come here often?” Dean asks, his voice breaking the silence. When Ellen looks up he’s watching her and all she can do for a moment is swallow, jaw and shoulders tense.
She leans the broom up against the wall.
“Why are you here Dean?”
He huffs a painful laugh, scrubbing a beaten down hand roughly over his face and Ellen wonders if he’s going to fall apart right here, right now. He pushes up from his slouch, broad shoulders unfurling out.
“Really could do with that beer.”
The quirk of his mouth hurts to look at.
Ellen purses her lips. “We’re still closed.”
***
Dean, Angel Gabriel (Constantine)
301 words
Head loose, tipped forward on his neck, weak and vulnerable. He can taste blood in his mouth, feel it coating his teeth, slick and metallic. When he coughs it bubbles up over his lips and runs down his chin.
“You try so hard, don’t you,” it continues. Dean raises his eyes high enough to see its feet, naked and oddly vulnerable in front of him. “But it’s never enough. It was never enough for John and it’ll never be enough for Sam either.”
It comes closer, crouches down between his legs where they’re spread and tied to the chair legs. His top lip pulls in a sneer when its hands settle on his knees. He can see the plastic of a hospital tag on its wrist, see lust printed in neat capitals
When it speaks (always it and never its name because Dean refuses to believe that this is the real Angel fucking Gabriel that has him tied to a chair slowly killing him in the warehouse just south of wherethefuckever and Jesusfuck his brain can‘t even process the fucking wings) its voice is calm, smooth, like familiar fingers brushing down the side of his throat.
“When are you going to realize, Dean, that everything you do, everything you fight for, is inconsequential. You - are nothing. You’re going to die forgotten and unmourned by all those people you think you’ve saved but you’ve just damned them, Dean. You’ve damned every single one of them. Tell me, how does that feel? ”
Dean coughs again and it doesn’t flinch when the white of its suit gets speckled with blood. He lifts his head as high as he can manage, voice hoarse. “Fuck. You.”
It leans forward, smiling slowly like the sun breaking over the horizon. “Does your brother know, Dean?”
***
Dean, Sam
144 words
Dean’s knuckles are scraped raw to the bone and new blood wells up, staining the makeshift bandage every time he clenches his hand around the steering wheel. Sam’s slumped in the passenger seat beside him, head bowed down as he peels the tape at the corner of his own bandage away from his skin - stomach wounds are nasty and this one will slow them down some, but it’s not as bad as it looks. Sam touches the ragged edge of skin and Jesus fuck it hurts but they’re running low of painkillers and he knows Dean’ll need them for his ribs once he quits being so goddamn stubborn and admits the fucking things are broken, so he just grits his jaw and lets his head fall back, turning over and over in his head just how incredibly they’ve fucked up this time.
***
....I seem to beat Dean up A LOT. I really really want to write but I have no time to anymore.