SPN Ficlet #2
In the continuing adventures of... well, something, Snoo is back in the hospital. It's probably nothing, but if past visits are any indication they'll be keeping her for several days "just to be on the safe side," which means my life is going to be a lot of shuttling back and forth between my apartment, my office, and Cedars-Sinai for awhile, which means fandom stuff is going on the back burner.
I haven't forgotten that I still owe a bunch of you pretty people ficlets, but don't look for them immediately. Or, most likely, much of anything else from this space for the next several days.
On a more cheerful note, here's the one I wrote yesterday. For ignipes (gen, 821 words):
Prompt: Carwash on a hot summer day. Bonus points for use of a hose as a weapon.
There's not much Dean hates more than stake-outs in Chicago, world capital of phallic food and worthless sports teams and roasted old people, in the summer. It's hot enough that the asphalt is shimmering wetly, humid enough that moving in the sticky, laden air feels like walking through Jell-o.
The Impala feels like an incinerator. He can feel the sweat on his back, feel his t-shirt sticking uncomfortably to the leather, and he'd kill for a beer and walk-in freezer. Not necessarily in that order.
Sam, the stupid bastard, isn't even sweating. He looks perfectly comfortable sprawled beside Dean, delicately sipping his gayass smoothie, fruit and honey and soymilk and whey protein, whatever the hell that is. In his less generous moments, Dean suspects Sam loved Sex and the City. Probably Queer Eye, too. He glares darkly at Sam's oblivious head.
"Want some?" Sam offers, tilting his cup in Dean's direction.
"Fuck, no," Dean says. "Keep your hippie crap to yourself." Sam just shrugs and turns back to the window, and Dean glowers harder. "Fuck this," he says. "They're not here."
"They have to come back sometime," Sam says, in that softly reasonable tone that generally makes Dean want to smack him, and the satisfied look on his face as he takes another drink of his metrosexual atrocity doesn't help.
"It's too damn hot to sit here all day, Sam!"
"Look, there's a Baskin-Robbins just back there," Sam says. "Go get an ice cream or something. It helps, I swear."
"Too hot to walk," Dean says. His voice sounds petulant in his own ears, but he's way too uncomfortable and pissed off to care overly much.
Sam sighs. "Would you like me to get one for you?" he says. His long-suffering voice is even more annoying that his logical one, and Dean clenches his fists.
"I can get my own damned ice cream." He wrenches the door open and climbs out, wincing as he peels himself off the seat. "I need a break from your stupid little Mary Sunshine act anyway." He stomps in the direction Sam pointed, muttering bitterly under his breath, when he sees It.
The holy grail of scorching summer days. The one thing that can save this miserable wreck of a stake-out.
The cheerleader carwash fundraiser.
They're set up at the Chevron station just around the corner, at least ten perky, nubile girls in barely-there cutoffs and bikini tops, slopping dripping sponges haphazardly as they giggle and prance and toss their shiny wet hair. As he watches, one of the girls, a blonde with legs that go all the way up to there, turns the hose on the redhead next to her. The redhead squeals and bounces, all jiggly, wet, perfect flesh, and Dean sighs blissfully, ice cream forgotten.
It's 101 degrees without the heat index, and Dean's in jeans, a black t-shirt, and his favorite boots. None of this stops him from flat out running back to the car.
"Where's your--" Sam begins, but Dean cuts him off.
"Found something even better!" he crows. He starts the car and pulls out, glancing up and down the street before doing a neat u-turn.
"Dean, what the hell are you doing? We can't just--"
"Just improving the view, Sammy boy," Dean says, pulling smoothly into an open space near the corner. "Just improving the view."
He nods towards the gas station, where a huddle of wet cheerleaders are smearing sunscreen on each other, and Sam does an honest-to-god double take.
"You have got to be kidding me," Sam says.
"You're complaining about a front-row seat for smokin' hot girls getting wet and soapy?" Dean says incredulously. "Do you even have a dick?"
"They're about sixteen!"
"So? Sixteen's legal in Illinois."
Sam opens his mouth and shuts it again, twice in a row. It makes him look like a particularly stupid fish, but Dean decides to keep that observation to himself. "I can't believe you--" Sam says finally, but then he stops and shakes his head. "Of course you know that."
"All fifty states, Sammy," Dean says proudly. "Even the creepy ones."
"I'm not even going to--"
"Twelve in Delaware," Dean says. "And twelve in Kentucky as long the girl isn't a virgin when it happens."
Sam looks horrified. "That's... how can you..."
"Dude, I said they were creepy," Dean says. "Don't look at me like that, I didn't write the laws."
"Sometimes I can't believe we're related," Sam mutters, but his face relaxes into an almost-smile, and his eyes slide back to the sea of taut, tanned flesh.
"Cheerleaders, Sam," Dean says firmly. "Stop whining and enjoy the show." Sam snorts, but he sits back and watches all the same, and when Dean starts to detail just exactly what he'd do to each girl in turn and just exactly how hard she'd come when he did it, he keeps his smartass comments to a bare minimum.
Note: Listed ages of consent have no basis in reality -- they are, in fact, lifted nearly verbatim from a conversation I had with a drunken fratboy in college, who swore it was all true and he could show me the web site to prove it.
I haven't forgotten that I still owe a bunch of you pretty people ficlets, but don't look for them immediately. Or, most likely, much of anything else from this space for the next several days.
On a more cheerful note, here's the one I wrote yesterday. For ignipes (gen, 821 words):
Prompt: Carwash on a hot summer day. Bonus points for use of a hose as a weapon.
There's not much Dean hates more than stake-outs in Chicago, world capital of phallic food and worthless sports teams and roasted old people, in the summer. It's hot enough that the asphalt is shimmering wetly, humid enough that moving in the sticky, laden air feels like walking through Jell-o.
The Impala feels like an incinerator. He can feel the sweat on his back, feel his t-shirt sticking uncomfortably to the leather, and he'd kill for a beer and walk-in freezer. Not necessarily in that order.
Sam, the stupid bastard, isn't even sweating. He looks perfectly comfortable sprawled beside Dean, delicately sipping his gayass smoothie, fruit and honey and soymilk and whey protein, whatever the hell that is. In his less generous moments, Dean suspects Sam loved Sex and the City. Probably Queer Eye, too. He glares darkly at Sam's oblivious head.
"Want some?" Sam offers, tilting his cup in Dean's direction.
"Fuck, no," Dean says. "Keep your hippie crap to yourself." Sam just shrugs and turns back to the window, and Dean glowers harder. "Fuck this," he says. "They're not here."
"They have to come back sometime," Sam says, in that softly reasonable tone that generally makes Dean want to smack him, and the satisfied look on his face as he takes another drink of his metrosexual atrocity doesn't help.
"It's too damn hot to sit here all day, Sam!"
"Look, there's a Baskin-Robbins just back there," Sam says. "Go get an ice cream or something. It helps, I swear."
"Too hot to walk," Dean says. His voice sounds petulant in his own ears, but he's way too uncomfortable and pissed off to care overly much.
Sam sighs. "Would you like me to get one for you?" he says. His long-suffering voice is even more annoying that his logical one, and Dean clenches his fists.
"I can get my own damned ice cream." He wrenches the door open and climbs out, wincing as he peels himself off the seat. "I need a break from your stupid little Mary Sunshine act anyway." He stomps in the direction Sam pointed, muttering bitterly under his breath, when he sees It.
The holy grail of scorching summer days. The one thing that can save this miserable wreck of a stake-out.
The cheerleader carwash fundraiser.
They're set up at the Chevron station just around the corner, at least ten perky, nubile girls in barely-there cutoffs and bikini tops, slopping dripping sponges haphazardly as they giggle and prance and toss their shiny wet hair. As he watches, one of the girls, a blonde with legs that go all the way up to there, turns the hose on the redhead next to her. The redhead squeals and bounces, all jiggly, wet, perfect flesh, and Dean sighs blissfully, ice cream forgotten.
It's 101 degrees without the heat index, and Dean's in jeans, a black t-shirt, and his favorite boots. None of this stops him from flat out running back to the car.
"Where's your--" Sam begins, but Dean cuts him off.
"Found something even better!" he crows. He starts the car and pulls out, glancing up and down the street before doing a neat u-turn.
"Dean, what the hell are you doing? We can't just--"
"Just improving the view, Sammy boy," Dean says, pulling smoothly into an open space near the corner. "Just improving the view."
He nods towards the gas station, where a huddle of wet cheerleaders are smearing sunscreen on each other, and Sam does an honest-to-god double take.
"You have got to be kidding me," Sam says.
"You're complaining about a front-row seat for smokin' hot girls getting wet and soapy?" Dean says incredulously. "Do you even have a dick?"
"They're about sixteen!"
"So? Sixteen's legal in Illinois."
Sam opens his mouth and shuts it again, twice in a row. It makes him look like a particularly stupid fish, but Dean decides to keep that observation to himself. "I can't believe you--" Sam says finally, but then he stops and shakes his head. "Of course you know that."
"All fifty states, Sammy," Dean says proudly. "Even the creepy ones."
"I'm not even going to--"
"Twelve in Delaware," Dean says. "And twelve in Kentucky as long the girl isn't a virgin when it happens."
Sam looks horrified. "That's... how can you..."
"Dude, I said they were creepy," Dean says. "Don't look at me like that, I didn't write the laws."
"Sometimes I can't believe we're related," Sam mutters, but his face relaxes into an almost-smile, and his eyes slide back to the sea of taut, tanned flesh.
"Cheerleaders, Sam," Dean says firmly. "Stop whining and enjoy the show." Sam snorts, but he sits back and watches all the same, and when Dean starts to detail just exactly what he'd do to each girl in turn and just exactly how hard she'd come when he did it, he keeps his smartass comments to a bare minimum.
Note: Listed ages of consent have no basis in reality -- they are, in fact, lifted nearly verbatim from a conversation I had with a drunken fratboy in college, who swore it was all true and he could show me the web site to prove it.