Command me fics #2 and #3 - SPN
Howdy all ~ For those not in the know, I am presently off on my annual holiday with my LOTR gal pals, (road trip, photos will follow!) which means laptop time is minimal. But we're having an early evening in, so thought I'd post a couple more of my challenge fics that I've had simmering on my laptop. :-)
The first ficlet is for rinkle whose prompt read: That time when Dean got knocked out by a broom. Thank you, sweetie! :-)
Title: True to Type
Author: ErinRua
Rating: PG
Length: @313 words
Spoilers: None
Characters: Sam, Dean
Notes/Disclaimers/Summary: Dean struggles against stereotypes. Sort of.
"Not a word, Sam."
"But -."
"Not one freakin' word.
"All I'm saying -."
"SAM!"
"..."
"That's better. Get me some more ice, bitch."
"Just ... hang on a sec, hold still."
"..."
"..."
"Ow! Damn it, Sam!"
"Hold still. You might have splinters."
"In my head?"
"Hard as it is, I'm pretty sure hickory is harder."
"Shoulda shot her."
"We don't shoot humans, Dean. Besides which you were sort of unconscious."
"Ya think? God, I hate friggin' witches."
"I kind of think I've noticed that."
"Ow! Gimme that and go sit over there. Sheez."
"Dean, you're dripping."
"No kidding! It's what happens when you hold an ice pack to your freakin' head!"
"Well, if you hadn't pissed her off ..."
"If you hadn't - neh neh neh neh. Jeez, you're such a girl."
"And you're such an ass."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"Head feeling any better?"
"Yeah, a little."
"Here, I'll get you some fresh ice."
"It's just ... Sam, I swear to God, if I'd accused a witch of using a broom, somebody would be reporting me as a - a racist or something."
"Bigot."
"Whatever. It's a stereotype, and she should know it. I mean, being a witch and all."
"Probably. Here, I got you a fresh towel, too."
"Thanks. But what slays me is that she did use a broom! A witch who uses a broom, and she used it on my friggin' head! I'm tellin' you, Sam, next we're gonna find a vampire who sleeps in a coffin, and when that happens?"
"You're going to retire?"
"To the Bahamas, man. Sit on the beach and get blasted. Sleep in a grass hut. Find a cabana girl to bring me booze in a coconut shell. Hell, I bet there's not a broom anywhere in the islands."
"Might still be witches."
"Yeah, but without brooms, they're a whole lot less dangerous."
~ END ~
I also present a double-drabble for smilla02 who prompted me with: Three words for you: labyrinth, underground, touch. This one I found especially tasty - thanks, luv!
Title: Rescue
Author: ErinRua
Rating: PG
Length: @ 200 words
Spoilers: None
Characters: Sam, Dean
Notes/Disclaimers/Summary: Darkness, Sam, and finding Dean.
In darkness and dust, the weight of the old house pressed above his head. No daylight reached here underground, and the beam of Sam's flashlight danced across aged brick and peeling plaster. His feet briefly scuffed but he scarcely heard it above the deep thump of his pulse. Dean. Please. Yet he dared not make a sound.
Another doorway yawned in his beam, and he peered over the Taurus' steady sights. Nothing beyond it but empty shelves, and he moved on through the labyrinthine cellars. One step after the other, each breath measured, methodical a hunt as ever his father taught, though his heart screamed hurryfasterquick.
Then his flashlight caught the dull gleam of filthy, sweaty skin, smeared dark bood, and eyes that squinted painfully against the glare. Swift strides brought him to his brother's crumpled form and Sam paused standing over him, fierce in his intent as his light and gun swept the darkness. All clear.
"Sam?"
At that croaking voice, he sank to one knee, flashlight slipping from his hand to toss its beam crazily across the floor. But he needed no light now, for he knew his brother's face by touch alone.
"Easy, Dean. I've got you."
~ END ~
The first ficlet is for rinkle whose prompt read: That time when Dean got knocked out by a broom. Thank you, sweetie! :-)
Title: True to Type
Author: ErinRua
Rating: PG
Length: @313 words
Spoilers: None
Characters: Sam, Dean
Notes/Disclaimers/Summary: Dean struggles against stereotypes. Sort of.
"Not a word, Sam."
"But -."
"Not one freakin' word.
"All I'm saying -."
"SAM!"
"..."
"That's better. Get me some more ice, bitch."
"Just ... hang on a sec, hold still."
"..."
"..."
"Ow! Damn it, Sam!"
"Hold still. You might have splinters."
"In my head?"
"Hard as it is, I'm pretty sure hickory is harder."
"Shoulda shot her."
"We don't shoot humans, Dean. Besides which you were sort of unconscious."
"Ya think? God, I hate friggin' witches."
"I kind of think I've noticed that."
"Ow! Gimme that and go sit over there. Sheez."
"Dean, you're dripping."
"No kidding! It's what happens when you hold an ice pack to your freakin' head!"
"Well, if you hadn't pissed her off ..."
"If you hadn't - neh neh neh neh. Jeez, you're such a girl."
"And you're such an ass."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"Head feeling any better?"
"Yeah, a little."
"Here, I'll get you some fresh ice."
"It's just ... Sam, I swear to God, if I'd accused a witch of using a broom, somebody would be reporting me as a - a racist or something."
"Bigot."
"Whatever. It's a stereotype, and she should know it. I mean, being a witch and all."
"Probably. Here, I got you a fresh towel, too."
"Thanks. But what slays me is that she did use a broom! A witch who uses a broom, and she used it on my friggin' head! I'm tellin' you, Sam, next we're gonna find a vampire who sleeps in a coffin, and when that happens?"
"You're going to retire?"
"To the Bahamas, man. Sit on the beach and get blasted. Sleep in a grass hut. Find a cabana girl to bring me booze in a coconut shell. Hell, I bet there's not a broom anywhere in the islands."
"Might still be witches."
"Yeah, but without brooms, they're a whole lot less dangerous."
~ END ~
I also present a double-drabble for smilla02 who prompted me with: Three words for you: labyrinth, underground, touch. This one I found especially tasty - thanks, luv!
Title: Rescue
Author: ErinRua
Rating: PG
Length: @ 200 words
Spoilers: None
Characters: Sam, Dean
Notes/Disclaimers/Summary: Darkness, Sam, and finding Dean.
In darkness and dust, the weight of the old house pressed above his head. No daylight reached here underground, and the beam of Sam's flashlight danced across aged brick and peeling plaster. His feet briefly scuffed but he scarcely heard it above the deep thump of his pulse. Dean. Please. Yet he dared not make a sound.
Another doorway yawned in his beam, and he peered over the Taurus' steady sights. Nothing beyond it but empty shelves, and he moved on through the labyrinthine cellars. One step after the other, each breath measured, methodical a hunt as ever his father taught, though his heart screamed hurryfasterquick.
Then his flashlight caught the dull gleam of filthy, sweaty skin, smeared dark bood, and eyes that squinted painfully against the glare. Swift strides brought him to his brother's crumpled form and Sam paused standing over him, fierce in his intent as his light and gun swept the darkness. All clear.
"Sam?"
At that croaking voice, he sank to one knee, flashlight slipping from his hand to toss its beam crazily across the floor. But he needed no light now, for he knew his brother's face by touch alone.
"Easy, Dean. I've got you."
~ END ~