Ficlets! Round-up Repost
Fandom: Supernatural, one SPN/SW
Title: Two H/C and Three Humor Ficlets
Author: Maychorian
Characters: John, Mary, Dean, Bobby, Sam, Castiel, Obi-Wan
Category: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Humor, Crossover
Rating: Up to PG13/T
Spoilers: None
Summary: Various ficlets written for prompts: Dean vs. wasps, Bobby patches up an injured Dean, ribbons, werewolves, Star Wars crossover with Obi-Wan and Castiel.
Word Count: None more than 800 words or so. ~2500 total.
Disclaimer: Tragically, they continue to not belong to me. :(
Author’s Note: With thanks to tahirire, i_speak_tongue, bellatemple, fox1013, jadeblood, and lita_of_jupiter.
And Peach Pie for Dessert for i_speak_tongue
“Like a cat,” Daddy said, smiling wide and warm when he came home at night smelling of oil and sweat and cars, and Mommy told him all about what Dean had been getting into that day. “He’s just a curious little fella, that’s all.” And he reached out to ruffle Dean’s hair, tossing it all over the place, making him giggle until his stomach hurt.
“Yes, but the spice cupboard?” Mommy swayed gently back and forth, rocking baby Sammy in her arms. Her voice was a little rough and high, but she wasn’t really mad, Dean knew. Mommy almost never got mad, but when she did…whoo! Worse than a thunderstorm. That was the time for hiding under beds. “He dumped out all of the cinnamon and ginger. Every last bit. No more apple pie, John. No more apple pie.”
Daddy pouted, and Mommy threw a towel at him, and Dean laughed and clapped his hands while Sammy waved one tiny fist in the air, joining in the fun.
---
It looked like a honeycomb made of paper, like something from the Winnie the Pooh cartoons Mommy let him watch when he was good. It was hanging off the corner of the shed, gray and small and so, so interesting. Dean stared at it for a long time, his mouth hanging open in fascination, before going in search of a stick to knock it down. Pooh-Bear really liked honey a lot. Dean figured he probably would too.
---
“Oh, baby…”
Dean was still sniffling a long time later, but now he was all cuddled up in Mommy’s arms, rocking back and forth, back and forth in the special chair where she mostly only held Sammy anymore. Her long golden hair hung down around his face, shielding him from the afternoon light, too bright on his puffy, sore eyes.
“My poor baby,” Mommy crooned, rubbing his back with her firm, strong hand. “At least cats have some fur to protect them from stingers. You’re just my little pink Deano, and you didn’t stand a chance, did you?”
She smelled like laundry and sunlight and the last traces of ginger and cinnamon that she’d been chasing out of the corners of the kitchen with a broom and dustpan, and Dean hid his face against her and closed his eyes.
---
“Daddy, Daddy, look!”
He jumped into Daddy’s arms and showed him the scratchy dots of baking soda-water that peppered his face and arms, dry now and starting to flake off, but still soothing over the red stinging spots left by those nasty flying black things.
“Oh, my boy’s got some war wounds, huh?” Daddy grabbed his hand and laid a kiss on his palm, careful to avoid the white spots. “Were you brave?”
Dean nodded proudly. “So brave, Daddy. I only cried until they stopped hurting so much, and then I quit.”
Mommy laughed in the kitchen, and Sammy gurgled in the bassinet, and Daddy grinned at him, brown eyes twinkling. “That’s my boy.”
Still, Dean figured that he would stay away from those paper honeycomb things from now on. There were lots of other things he needed to explore, and no honey could possibly worth all the stingies. He didn’t know how Pooh put up with it.
Daddy sniffed, turning his face toward the kitchen. “No more pie, Mary? Isn’t that what you said?”
“No more apple pie, I said. This is peach.”
“Ah. Even better.”
And Daddy carried Dean into the kitchen and kissed Mommy on the neck, and then he put Dean down and scooped up Sammy and tossed him gently in the air, and they had beef and potatoes and carrots and peach pie for dessert, and everything was wonderful and perfect and just right.
(End)
Fuel Stop for bellatemple
"Swear I'm gonna kill that dog of yours, Bobby," Dean growled around the bottle of whiskey jammed firmly between his teeth. "This hurts like a son of a bitch."
"Oh, quit yer whining, you big baby." They sat at Bobby's kitchen table, Dean with his feet firmly planted on the floor and one hand wrapped around a bottle, his entire body tense with the effort to stay still, Bobby bent over the young hunter's bloody forearm, wiping away the fluid to find the jagged gashes beneath. "It's not even that bad. Seen Rumsfeld give worse bites when he was playing."
Dean gave him an incredulous stare, white all around his greeny-brown irises. "Don't lie to the injured man, dude. 'S freakin' tacky."
Bobby snorted a laugh and started daubing antiseptic on the cuts, taking no care to be gentle. Served the dumb kid right. And it was true-they really weren't that bad. Dean could have gotten worse cuts running through a thorn bush. "'Swhat you get anyway for coming in smelling like a pack of werewolves, ya idjit."
"Yeah, well, I didn't have much of a choice." Dean clenched the fist of the arm Bobby was working on, making his tendons stand out under the older hunter's fingers. "Runnin' on fumes here, man."
Bobby looked up, then, took in the younger man's appearance. He'd been a little busy earlier, what with Dean stumbling in the door in the middle of the night chased by Rumsfeld's throaty growls, cursing and bleeding, but now he saw it. Dean was pale and drawn, darkness smudging both eyes. He looked thinner than the last time Bobby had seen him, too, and even as he watched the kid swayed slightly in his seat, blinking hard to hold on to consciousness.
"What you been up to, boy?" Bobby snagged the roll of gauze out of the first aid and started wrapping Dean's forearm, surreptitiously looking over the rest of the kid's body for more blood, more wounds. It would be just like the dumbass boy to whine about some little cuts on his arm and never mention the cut on his back that was bleeding him dry.
"Just hunting." Dean's voice was soft, now, his eyes contemplative as he gazed at the bottle in his hand.
"Where's your daddy? Not with you, huh?"
"He's hunting, too."
Bobby cut off the gauze and tied it down, adding a few pieces of medical tape to shore up the bandage, though it looked as tight and professional as any of his patch jobs. "Well, you'd better sleep here tonight," he said gruffly, making it an order and not a suggestion. "Better stick around for a few days, too, make sure you don't get your stupid ass infected."
Dean smiled, small but bright, all but wiping out the weariness in his eyes. "Yeah, okay. If you say so, old man."
"I do." Bobby stood and hauled the kid to his feet, pushing him bodily toward the door. "Go put your butt on the couch before you pass out on my floor, idjit. I'll get you a spare blanket."
Dean let Bobby manhandle him into the living room and push him down on the couch, and that in itself told Bobby just how worn down the poor kid was. He went upstairs for a blanket and pillow, muttering under his breath about stupid stubborn Winchesters with their heads up their asses, showing up at his doorstep at o'dark thirty and scaring his dogs. Dean grinned behind him, then let his head fall back against the cushions and closed his eyes.
Bobby would make Dean stick around for a few days on the pretense of watching for infection, feed him up, force him to sleep. Then maybe he'd have to come up with a few more excuses, cars he needed Dean's help working on, nearby hunts the kid could do using the salvage yard as a base, stuff like that. It wouldn't be too hard to come up with reasons. Bobby was no fool, not like the entire Winchester clan.
Rumsfeld would help. He was a good dog. Bobby was sure it wouldn't take long for him and Dean to reconcile. A Milkbone and scratch behind the ears, after a shower to wash off the werewolf scent, and all would be well.
Intentionally or not, Dean had come to the right place to refill his tank. No more running on fumes. Bobby would make sure of it, even if he had to sit on the stupid kid himself.
(End)
That Time Again for this gen battle
"Dad, you have got to give Sammy a haircut."
Dean's young voice was oddly desperate. John barely glanced up from the newspaper he was reading, trying to track down an interesting obituary. He'd found one that sounded mysterious enough to need some investigation, and he was so engrossed that it was easy to ignore his kids running around the motel room whooping like wild Indians.
Even now, he could hear Sammy running in circles, making a high-pitched "EEEEEEEEEEEE" noise that strengthened and weakened regularly in a Doppler effect. It didn't worry him. Little boys did that.
"Dad, please. His hair is way too long, seriously, and you said I'm not old enough to use the scissors yet."
"That's right, you aren't," John said absently, turning the page and shaking out the newspaper. "I'll take care of it soon, okay?"
"No, Dad, now. Please cut it now. Sammy's kindergarten teacher is reading his class some weird book about this red-headed girl, and today they watched a movie, and Sammy loved it and now he won't quit..."
Sammy was jumping up and down on the bed now, voice bouncing as he sang a cheerful, off-tune melody. "I am PIPPi LONGstocking, if you SAY it FAST it's FUNny..."
Something tugged at John's memory, and he finally looked up, eyes wide, and actually looked at his younger son. Sammy continued bouncing up and down, still singing at the top of his lungs.
"PIPPi, PIPPi, PIPPi, how I LOVE my FUNny NAME!"
Oh, God. Sam's hair was long enough that he had managed to make it stick out from both sides of his head in something that vaguely resembled braids, and where the hell had he found hair ribbons?
"You see, Dad?" Dean looked up at him with big, pleading eyes. "We can't be seen in public like this!"
"No, no, son, you're absolutely right," John said, hastily folding up his newspaper and jumping out of his chair. "You know where the scissors are?"
Dean nodded gratefully and rushed to fetch them while John hied himself to the bed and tried to capture his wild five-year-old. Really, this ought to be a lesson to him. Always, always, always listen to Dean.
(End)
We Won't Be Home Till Morning for jadeblood
"It's definitely not a werewolf."
"Oh, c'mon! It's totally a werewolf."
"Dean, are you saying that because you really do believe it's a werewolf, or just because you think werewolves are cool and you're sad that we haven't fought any since we were kids?"
"..."
"Uh-huh."
"It's totally a werewolf!"
"What if it's not, huh? What if we go into this hunt with extra guns and silver bullets and it turns out to be a completely different creature? What if our lack of preparation means we don't succeed, and the thing lives to kill again another day?"
"Oh, take a chill pill, Sammy. As long as we're using bullets, we have a pretty good chance of killing it, whatever it is. Bullets kill lots of things. That's why I like 'em so much."
"..."
"Besides, it's totally a werewolf."
"I still think we need to do more research. The cycle isn't quite right, and there's more than one supernatural entity that eats the heart out of victims' chests."
"Whatever. It's close enough. Besides, dude, werewolf. You know I'm right. Or at least you want me to be."
"...Okay, I kind of want you to be right."
"Because werewolves are awesome, am I right? Huh? Huh?"
"...Yes, Dean, because werewolves are awesome."
"That's right. And hey, while we're at it, we'll take along the salt and iron and purifying herbs and brush up on our Latin, too, just in case. Okay? Will that satisfy you?"
"All right. I guess that will work."
"Yes! We're going on a wolf hunt, I hope we catch a big one..."
"Oh, God, don't sing...."
"Going on a wolf hunt, a wolf hunt, a wolf hunt..."
"...If I die of embarrassment, you're doing this alone."
"Whatever, man. Werewolf! We're off to fight the werewolf, the werewolf, the werewolf, we're off to fight the werewolf..."
"Because you told me so."
"Yeah!"
(End)
Previously, there was this and also this. Dang, do I have an SW/SPN series? "Dean and Obi-Wan Hang Out in Bars"?
You're an Angel of the...What? for lita_of_jupiter
"Man, these life-debt things are annoying."
Obi-Wan blinked at Dean over the rim of his drink. It was the end of the week, and therefore it was cantina time. Dean had established this rule quite early in their association, and Obi-Wan had never opposed his will. It was, Obi-Wan had reluctantly admitted after much coaxing, quite relaxing. "Does someone owe you a life-debt?"
"Yeah." Dean sighed gustily and leaned back in his chair, fiddling idly with a credit on the table. "He's in the refresher now, but he'll be back in a minute. I don't even know what he does in there, since I don't think his folks...you know...eliminate. Mostly he just follows me around like a cani-pup, dude. 'S freakin' annoying."
"Yes, you said that."
Obi-Wan turned his head toward the refresher to watch and wait, partly because he knew that it would annoy Dean and partly because he was really, really curious. Predictably, Dean grunted and glowered, and Obi-Wan smirked at him, but kept watching. After a moment a human wearing a long coat and a solemn, somewhat sour expression emerged, dark hair standing up from his head, eyes round and watchful. He came to their table and sat down carefully, almost stiffly, as near to Dean as he could get without seeming glaringly inappropriate.
There was something odd about him, something ethereal, not of this plane. Obi-Wan reached out in the Force to check him out, and felt his eyes grow just as wide and curious as the stranger's. "You are not quite a human."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Cas, meet Obi. Obi, meet Cas."
"Cas?"
The stranger frowned gently. "I am Castiel."
"Go on, now." Dean flicked his fingers. "Tell Obi what you are."
Castiel's shoulders slumped. "I am an angel of the Lord of Iego."
Obi-Wan looked to Dean, and the other man nodded cheerfully, granting permission to tease. "You don't look like an angel. I hear they're the most beautiful creatures in the galaxy."
"My true visage is too brilliant to look upon," Castiel said primly. "This is a...veil."
Obi-Wan covered his mouth with his hand to hide his mirth, but Dean felt no such compunctions, giggling noisily into his ale. "Oh, man, that never gets less funny."
Obi-Wan coughed, feeling badly at the true frustration on Castiel's face. "Well, how did you end up riding with this no-account good-for-nothing?" He gave Dean a friendly slap on the shoulder, making the pilot choke on his ale.
Castiel's frown deepened. "Dean is a good man."
Dean cleared his throat. "Guy pulled me out of a dungeon. Said his lord had work for me, though of course they won't tell me what. And then, yeah, I saved his life. So now he's following me around."
"Good story." Obi-Wan nodded solemnly, then extended his hand to Castiel for a shake. When Castiel just stared at it, he withdrew with an easy shrug. "Welcome to Coruscant, Castiel, angel of the Lord of Iego. I hope you find it to your liking."
The angel tilted his head forlornly and looked to Dean, who continued chortling into his drink.
Oh, yeah. This was going to be lots of fun.
(End)
Title: Two H/C and Three Humor Ficlets
Author: Maychorian
Characters: John, Mary, Dean, Bobby, Sam, Castiel, Obi-Wan
Category: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Humor, Crossover
Rating: Up to PG13/T
Spoilers: None
Summary: Various ficlets written for prompts: Dean vs. wasps, Bobby patches up an injured Dean, ribbons, werewolves, Star Wars crossover with Obi-Wan and Castiel.
Word Count: None more than 800 words or so. ~2500 total.
Disclaimer: Tragically, they continue to not belong to me. :(
Author’s Note: With thanks to tahirire, i_speak_tongue, bellatemple, fox1013, jadeblood, and lita_of_jupiter.
And Peach Pie for Dessert for i_speak_tongue
“Like a cat,” Daddy said, smiling wide and warm when he came home at night smelling of oil and sweat and cars, and Mommy told him all about what Dean had been getting into that day. “He’s just a curious little fella, that’s all.” And he reached out to ruffle Dean’s hair, tossing it all over the place, making him giggle until his stomach hurt.
“Yes, but the spice cupboard?” Mommy swayed gently back and forth, rocking baby Sammy in her arms. Her voice was a little rough and high, but she wasn’t really mad, Dean knew. Mommy almost never got mad, but when she did…whoo! Worse than a thunderstorm. That was the time for hiding under beds. “He dumped out all of the cinnamon and ginger. Every last bit. No more apple pie, John. No more apple pie.”
Daddy pouted, and Mommy threw a towel at him, and Dean laughed and clapped his hands while Sammy waved one tiny fist in the air, joining in the fun.
---
It looked like a honeycomb made of paper, like something from the Winnie the Pooh cartoons Mommy let him watch when he was good. It was hanging off the corner of the shed, gray and small and so, so interesting. Dean stared at it for a long time, his mouth hanging open in fascination, before going in search of a stick to knock it down. Pooh-Bear really liked honey a lot. Dean figured he probably would too.
---
“Oh, baby…”
Dean was still sniffling a long time later, but now he was all cuddled up in Mommy’s arms, rocking back and forth, back and forth in the special chair where she mostly only held Sammy anymore. Her long golden hair hung down around his face, shielding him from the afternoon light, too bright on his puffy, sore eyes.
“My poor baby,” Mommy crooned, rubbing his back with her firm, strong hand. “At least cats have some fur to protect them from stingers. You’re just my little pink Deano, and you didn’t stand a chance, did you?”
She smelled like laundry and sunlight and the last traces of ginger and cinnamon that she’d been chasing out of the corners of the kitchen with a broom and dustpan, and Dean hid his face against her and closed his eyes.
---
“Daddy, Daddy, look!”
He jumped into Daddy’s arms and showed him the scratchy dots of baking soda-water that peppered his face and arms, dry now and starting to flake off, but still soothing over the red stinging spots left by those nasty flying black things.
“Oh, my boy’s got some war wounds, huh?” Daddy grabbed his hand and laid a kiss on his palm, careful to avoid the white spots. “Were you brave?”
Dean nodded proudly. “So brave, Daddy. I only cried until they stopped hurting so much, and then I quit.”
Mommy laughed in the kitchen, and Sammy gurgled in the bassinet, and Daddy grinned at him, brown eyes twinkling. “That’s my boy.”
Still, Dean figured that he would stay away from those paper honeycomb things from now on. There were lots of other things he needed to explore, and no honey could possibly worth all the stingies. He didn’t know how Pooh put up with it.
Daddy sniffed, turning his face toward the kitchen. “No more pie, Mary? Isn’t that what you said?”
“No more apple pie, I said. This is peach.”
“Ah. Even better.”
And Daddy carried Dean into the kitchen and kissed Mommy on the neck, and then he put Dean down and scooped up Sammy and tossed him gently in the air, and they had beef and potatoes and carrots and peach pie for dessert, and everything was wonderful and perfect and just right.
(End)
Fuel Stop for bellatemple
"Swear I'm gonna kill that dog of yours, Bobby," Dean growled around the bottle of whiskey jammed firmly between his teeth. "This hurts like a son of a bitch."
"Oh, quit yer whining, you big baby." They sat at Bobby's kitchen table, Dean with his feet firmly planted on the floor and one hand wrapped around a bottle, his entire body tense with the effort to stay still, Bobby bent over the young hunter's bloody forearm, wiping away the fluid to find the jagged gashes beneath. "It's not even that bad. Seen Rumsfeld give worse bites when he was playing."
Dean gave him an incredulous stare, white all around his greeny-brown irises. "Don't lie to the injured man, dude. 'S freakin' tacky."
Bobby snorted a laugh and started daubing antiseptic on the cuts, taking no care to be gentle. Served the dumb kid right. And it was true-they really weren't that bad. Dean could have gotten worse cuts running through a thorn bush. "'Swhat you get anyway for coming in smelling like a pack of werewolves, ya idjit."
"Yeah, well, I didn't have much of a choice." Dean clenched the fist of the arm Bobby was working on, making his tendons stand out under the older hunter's fingers. "Runnin' on fumes here, man."
Bobby looked up, then, took in the younger man's appearance. He'd been a little busy earlier, what with Dean stumbling in the door in the middle of the night chased by Rumsfeld's throaty growls, cursing and bleeding, but now he saw it. Dean was pale and drawn, darkness smudging both eyes. He looked thinner than the last time Bobby had seen him, too, and even as he watched the kid swayed slightly in his seat, blinking hard to hold on to consciousness.
"What you been up to, boy?" Bobby snagged the roll of gauze out of the first aid and started wrapping Dean's forearm, surreptitiously looking over the rest of the kid's body for more blood, more wounds. It would be just like the dumbass boy to whine about some little cuts on his arm and never mention the cut on his back that was bleeding him dry.
"Just hunting." Dean's voice was soft, now, his eyes contemplative as he gazed at the bottle in his hand.
"Where's your daddy? Not with you, huh?"
"He's hunting, too."
Bobby cut off the gauze and tied it down, adding a few pieces of medical tape to shore up the bandage, though it looked as tight and professional as any of his patch jobs. "Well, you'd better sleep here tonight," he said gruffly, making it an order and not a suggestion. "Better stick around for a few days, too, make sure you don't get your stupid ass infected."
Dean smiled, small but bright, all but wiping out the weariness in his eyes. "Yeah, okay. If you say so, old man."
"I do." Bobby stood and hauled the kid to his feet, pushing him bodily toward the door. "Go put your butt on the couch before you pass out on my floor, idjit. I'll get you a spare blanket."
Dean let Bobby manhandle him into the living room and push him down on the couch, and that in itself told Bobby just how worn down the poor kid was. He went upstairs for a blanket and pillow, muttering under his breath about stupid stubborn Winchesters with their heads up their asses, showing up at his doorstep at o'dark thirty and scaring his dogs. Dean grinned behind him, then let his head fall back against the cushions and closed his eyes.
Bobby would make Dean stick around for a few days on the pretense of watching for infection, feed him up, force him to sleep. Then maybe he'd have to come up with a few more excuses, cars he needed Dean's help working on, nearby hunts the kid could do using the salvage yard as a base, stuff like that. It wouldn't be too hard to come up with reasons. Bobby was no fool, not like the entire Winchester clan.
Rumsfeld would help. He was a good dog. Bobby was sure it wouldn't take long for him and Dean to reconcile. A Milkbone and scratch behind the ears, after a shower to wash off the werewolf scent, and all would be well.
Intentionally or not, Dean had come to the right place to refill his tank. No more running on fumes. Bobby would make sure of it, even if he had to sit on the stupid kid himself.
(End)
That Time Again for this gen battle
"Dad, you have got to give Sammy a haircut."
Dean's young voice was oddly desperate. John barely glanced up from the newspaper he was reading, trying to track down an interesting obituary. He'd found one that sounded mysterious enough to need some investigation, and he was so engrossed that it was easy to ignore his kids running around the motel room whooping like wild Indians.
Even now, he could hear Sammy running in circles, making a high-pitched "EEEEEEEEEEEE" noise that strengthened and weakened regularly in a Doppler effect. It didn't worry him. Little boys did that.
"Dad, please. His hair is way too long, seriously, and you said I'm not old enough to use the scissors yet."
"That's right, you aren't," John said absently, turning the page and shaking out the newspaper. "I'll take care of it soon, okay?"
"No, Dad, now. Please cut it now. Sammy's kindergarten teacher is reading his class some weird book about this red-headed girl, and today they watched a movie, and Sammy loved it and now he won't quit..."
Sammy was jumping up and down on the bed now, voice bouncing as he sang a cheerful, off-tune melody. "I am PIPPi LONGstocking, if you SAY it FAST it's FUNny..."
Something tugged at John's memory, and he finally looked up, eyes wide, and actually looked at his younger son. Sammy continued bouncing up and down, still singing at the top of his lungs.
"PIPPi, PIPPi, PIPPi, how I LOVE my FUNny NAME!"
Oh, God. Sam's hair was long enough that he had managed to make it stick out from both sides of his head in something that vaguely resembled braids, and where the hell had he found hair ribbons?
"You see, Dad?" Dean looked up at him with big, pleading eyes. "We can't be seen in public like this!"
"No, no, son, you're absolutely right," John said, hastily folding up his newspaper and jumping out of his chair. "You know where the scissors are?"
Dean nodded gratefully and rushed to fetch them while John hied himself to the bed and tried to capture his wild five-year-old. Really, this ought to be a lesson to him. Always, always, always listen to Dean.
(End)
We Won't Be Home Till Morning for jadeblood
"It's definitely not a werewolf."
"Oh, c'mon! It's totally a werewolf."
"Dean, are you saying that because you really do believe it's a werewolf, or just because you think werewolves are cool and you're sad that we haven't fought any since we were kids?"
"..."
"Uh-huh."
"It's totally a werewolf!"
"What if it's not, huh? What if we go into this hunt with extra guns and silver bullets and it turns out to be a completely different creature? What if our lack of preparation means we don't succeed, and the thing lives to kill again another day?"
"Oh, take a chill pill, Sammy. As long as we're using bullets, we have a pretty good chance of killing it, whatever it is. Bullets kill lots of things. That's why I like 'em so much."
"..."
"Besides, it's totally a werewolf."
"I still think we need to do more research. The cycle isn't quite right, and there's more than one supernatural entity that eats the heart out of victims' chests."
"Whatever. It's close enough. Besides, dude, werewolf. You know I'm right. Or at least you want me to be."
"...Okay, I kind of want you to be right."
"Because werewolves are awesome, am I right? Huh? Huh?"
"...Yes, Dean, because werewolves are awesome."
"That's right. And hey, while we're at it, we'll take along the salt and iron and purifying herbs and brush up on our Latin, too, just in case. Okay? Will that satisfy you?"
"All right. I guess that will work."
"Yes! We're going on a wolf hunt, I hope we catch a big one..."
"Oh, God, don't sing...."
"Going on a wolf hunt, a wolf hunt, a wolf hunt..."
"...If I die of embarrassment, you're doing this alone."
"Whatever, man. Werewolf! We're off to fight the werewolf, the werewolf, the werewolf, we're off to fight the werewolf..."
"Because you told me so."
"Yeah!"
(End)
Previously, there was this and also this. Dang, do I have an SW/SPN series? "Dean and Obi-Wan Hang Out in Bars"?
You're an Angel of the...What? for lita_of_jupiter
"Man, these life-debt things are annoying."
Obi-Wan blinked at Dean over the rim of his drink. It was the end of the week, and therefore it was cantina time. Dean had established this rule quite early in their association, and Obi-Wan had never opposed his will. It was, Obi-Wan had reluctantly admitted after much coaxing, quite relaxing. "Does someone owe you a life-debt?"
"Yeah." Dean sighed gustily and leaned back in his chair, fiddling idly with a credit on the table. "He's in the refresher now, but he'll be back in a minute. I don't even know what he does in there, since I don't think his folks...you know...eliminate. Mostly he just follows me around like a cani-pup, dude. 'S freakin' annoying."
"Yes, you said that."
Obi-Wan turned his head toward the refresher to watch and wait, partly because he knew that it would annoy Dean and partly because he was really, really curious. Predictably, Dean grunted and glowered, and Obi-Wan smirked at him, but kept watching. After a moment a human wearing a long coat and a solemn, somewhat sour expression emerged, dark hair standing up from his head, eyes round and watchful. He came to their table and sat down carefully, almost stiffly, as near to Dean as he could get without seeming glaringly inappropriate.
There was something odd about him, something ethereal, not of this plane. Obi-Wan reached out in the Force to check him out, and felt his eyes grow just as wide and curious as the stranger's. "You are not quite a human."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Cas, meet Obi. Obi, meet Cas."
"Cas?"
The stranger frowned gently. "I am Castiel."
"Go on, now." Dean flicked his fingers. "Tell Obi what you are."
Castiel's shoulders slumped. "I am an angel of the Lord of Iego."
Obi-Wan looked to Dean, and the other man nodded cheerfully, granting permission to tease. "You don't look like an angel. I hear they're the most beautiful creatures in the galaxy."
"My true visage is too brilliant to look upon," Castiel said primly. "This is a...veil."
Obi-Wan covered his mouth with his hand to hide his mirth, but Dean felt no such compunctions, giggling noisily into his ale. "Oh, man, that never gets less funny."
Obi-Wan coughed, feeling badly at the true frustration on Castiel's face. "Well, how did you end up riding with this no-account good-for-nothing?" He gave Dean a friendly slap on the shoulder, making the pilot choke on his ale.
Castiel's frown deepened. "Dean is a good man."
Dean cleared his throat. "Guy pulled me out of a dungeon. Said his lord had work for me, though of course they won't tell me what. And then, yeah, I saved his life. So now he's following me around."
"Good story." Obi-Wan nodded solemnly, then extended his hand to Castiel for a shake. When Castiel just stared at it, he withdrew with an easy shrug. "Welcome to Coruscant, Castiel, angel of the Lord of Iego. I hope you find it to your liking."
The angel tilted his head forlornly and looked to Dean, who continued chortling into his drink.
Oh, yeah. This was going to be lots of fun.
(End)