SPN FIC - Haunted
It's birthday time again -- my friends
autumn_lilacs and mitchsgirl are celebrating today. Happy birthday, ladies, and I hope you enjoy this little bit of silliness, Winchester style.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam
GENRE: Gen (humor)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 867 words
They'd gone almost a mile before Dean's breathing started to level out. He was nowhere near relaxed, though; he was white-knuckling the wheel, so intent on the road that he seemed to be planning to run something - or someone - down. "Did you see him again?" Sam asked.
HAUNTED
By Carol Davis
"Can we get out of here? Please tell me we can get out of here."
"Yeah," Sam said. "I think we're good."
His butt had barely connected with the shotgun seat when Dean stomped on the gas pedal and sent the Impala careening away from the curb. Sam had to scramble to get the door shut and lost his laptop to the footwell in the process. "Dude, Jesus," he shrilled. "Calm down."
"I'll calm down when we're out of here."
They'd gone almost a mile before Dean's breathing started to level out. He was nowhere near relaxed, though; he was white-knuckling the wheel, so intent on the road that he seemed to be planning to run something - or someone - down.
"Did you see him again?" Sam asked.
"Do I ever not see him when we're in this town?" Jaw clenched, Dean shot the Impala through an intersection an instant before the light finished turning green. He seemed to be tallying something in his head before he flicked a glance at Sam and complained, "It was fourteen years ago when me and Dad killed that thing that was after his daughter. Fourteen years! I told him, a thank you's good enough. But does he listen?"
"Maybe he's still worried about her."
"She can deal. She divorced Freaky McFreakerson all on her own."
"But she married him in the first place."
"I can't do anything about who people marry, Sam." Dean fell silent for a minute. Three intersections later, he sputtered, "We gotta do something about this. Fourteen years. This is gettin' freaking ridiculous."
"I told you, man," Sam sighed as he finished brushing off the laptop. "That gravesite's under guard twenty-four-seven. Our chance of getting in there, opening the casket and torching the remains? Is zero. Besides - he doesn't seem angry. He seems like - I don't know. Like he's content to just hang around here. It was his home, after all."
"He oughta go be with his mom and dad. Shoulda done that right off."
"So he's got unfinished business."
"With me?"
"Not just you. He could have a lot of unfinished business. With a lot of people. And like I said -"
"Yeah. He's livin' the fine afterlife. Reading his own press."
"We don't come here that often."
"What if he starts trackin' me down? Huh? What if he starts poppin' up all over the place? What if that shit about him eatin' burgers in Milwaukee's for real?"
"You seriously believe that."
"I don't know what I seriously believe. All I know is, it's been fourteen years, and that yahoo's still tryin' to thank me for something that wasn't that big of a damn deal."
"It was to him."
"Fine. Take his side."
"I'm not -"
With a screeched string of curses and a wild jack of the wheel, Dean jerked the Impala into a U-turn that sent Sam's laptop crunching into the door of the glovebox as Sam flailed his arms, trying to brace himself - and give his hands something to do other than throttling his brother. "What are you doing?" he barked. "For God's sake, man. Let me drive."
Still sputtering, Dean swung the car over to the side of the road. "There!" he shrilled, jabbing a finger at the back window. "I told you, Sam, the fucker's stalking me."
"Do you want me to talk to him?"
"I want this to stop."
Sam took that as permission - and as an indication that Dean didn't intend to hit the gas while Sam was trying to climb out of the car. Muttering to himself, Dean shifted the car down out of gear and sat glowering at the hood, shrugging-nodding-twitching at Sam's request for confirmation that he'd stay where he was for a couple of minutes.
He was quiet, if not exactly calm, when Sam returned to the car. "What'd he say?" Dean mumbled.
"He really wants you to have it."
"Dude. It ain't a real car."
"I know that. You know that. Maybe that's a good thing. You wouldn't have to register it."
"Sam. This car's not registered."
"Would it kill you to say okay?"
Dean leveled a stare at his brother and said two words. "It's pink."
"It's not a real car."
"It's PINK."
"Whatever, man," Sam sighed. "That's the deal. He wants you to take the car. If you don't take it, you're gonna have to put up with this every time we come here. The choice is pretty clear, as far as I can see."
"Damn straight it is," Dean said, and once more - though with a slight tremble in his grip on the wheel - guided the Impala into the traffic lane. "This is the last goddamn time I am ever comin' to Memphis, Tennessee."
"You're sure."
"I am beyond sure."
He would say no more.
Of course, he'd said the same thing the last time they'd come here.
And, as he'd done half a dozen times before, Sam huffed out a soft, indulgent chuckle, settling into his seat to watch in the sideview mirror as the ghost of Elvis Aron Presley and the pink '57 Cadillac Eldorado he'd been attempting to give to Dean for the last fourteen years receded into the sun-washed distance.
* * * * *
autumn_lilacs and mitchsgirl are celebrating today. Happy birthday, ladies, and I hope you enjoy this little bit of silliness, Winchester style.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam
GENRE: Gen (humor)
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 867 words
They'd gone almost a mile before Dean's breathing started to level out. He was nowhere near relaxed, though; he was white-knuckling the wheel, so intent on the road that he seemed to be planning to run something - or someone - down. "Did you see him again?" Sam asked.
HAUNTED
By Carol Davis
"Can we get out of here? Please tell me we can get out of here."
"Yeah," Sam said. "I think we're good."
His butt had barely connected with the shotgun seat when Dean stomped on the gas pedal and sent the Impala careening away from the curb. Sam had to scramble to get the door shut and lost his laptop to the footwell in the process. "Dude, Jesus," he shrilled. "Calm down."
"I'll calm down when we're out of here."
They'd gone almost a mile before Dean's breathing started to level out. He was nowhere near relaxed, though; he was white-knuckling the wheel, so intent on the road that he seemed to be planning to run something - or someone - down.
"Did you see him again?" Sam asked.
"Do I ever not see him when we're in this town?" Jaw clenched, Dean shot the Impala through an intersection an instant before the light finished turning green. He seemed to be tallying something in his head before he flicked a glance at Sam and complained, "It was fourteen years ago when me and Dad killed that thing that was after his daughter. Fourteen years! I told him, a thank you's good enough. But does he listen?"
"Maybe he's still worried about her."
"She can deal. She divorced Freaky McFreakerson all on her own."
"But she married him in the first place."
"I can't do anything about who people marry, Sam." Dean fell silent for a minute. Three intersections later, he sputtered, "We gotta do something about this. Fourteen years. This is gettin' freaking ridiculous."
"I told you, man," Sam sighed as he finished brushing off the laptop. "That gravesite's under guard twenty-four-seven. Our chance of getting in there, opening the casket and torching the remains? Is zero. Besides - he doesn't seem angry. He seems like - I don't know. Like he's content to just hang around here. It was his home, after all."
"He oughta go be with his mom and dad. Shoulda done that right off."
"So he's got unfinished business."
"With me?"
"Not just you. He could have a lot of unfinished business. With a lot of people. And like I said -"
"Yeah. He's livin' the fine afterlife. Reading his own press."
"We don't come here that often."
"What if he starts trackin' me down? Huh? What if he starts poppin' up all over the place? What if that shit about him eatin' burgers in Milwaukee's for real?"
"You seriously believe that."
"I don't know what I seriously believe. All I know is, it's been fourteen years, and that yahoo's still tryin' to thank me for something that wasn't that big of a damn deal."
"It was to him."
"Fine. Take his side."
"I'm not -"
With a screeched string of curses and a wild jack of the wheel, Dean jerked the Impala into a U-turn that sent Sam's laptop crunching into the door of the glovebox as Sam flailed his arms, trying to brace himself - and give his hands something to do other than throttling his brother. "What are you doing?" he barked. "For God's sake, man. Let me drive."
Still sputtering, Dean swung the car over to the side of the road. "There!" he shrilled, jabbing a finger at the back window. "I told you, Sam, the fucker's stalking me."
"Do you want me to talk to him?"
"I want this to stop."
Sam took that as permission - and as an indication that Dean didn't intend to hit the gas while Sam was trying to climb out of the car. Muttering to himself, Dean shifted the car down out of gear and sat glowering at the hood, shrugging-nodding-twitching at Sam's request for confirmation that he'd stay where he was for a couple of minutes.
He was quiet, if not exactly calm, when Sam returned to the car. "What'd he say?" Dean mumbled.
"He really wants you to have it."
"Dude. It ain't a real car."
"I know that. You know that. Maybe that's a good thing. You wouldn't have to register it."
"Sam. This car's not registered."
"Would it kill you to say okay?"
Dean leveled a stare at his brother and said two words. "It's pink."
"It's not a real car."
"It's PINK."
"Whatever, man," Sam sighed. "That's the deal. He wants you to take the car. If you don't take it, you're gonna have to put up with this every time we come here. The choice is pretty clear, as far as I can see."
"Damn straight it is," Dean said, and once more - though with a slight tremble in his grip on the wheel - guided the Impala into the traffic lane. "This is the last goddamn time I am ever comin' to Memphis, Tennessee."
"You're sure."
"I am beyond sure."
He would say no more.
Of course, he'd said the same thing the last time they'd come here.
And, as he'd done half a dozen times before, Sam huffed out a soft, indulgent chuckle, settling into his seat to watch in the sideview mirror as the ghost of Elvis Aron Presley and the pink '57 Cadillac Eldorado he'd been attempting to give to Dean for the last fourteen years receded into the sun-washed distance.
* * * * *