Ah, Mr. Ackles. Let us look back at your illustrious TV history...
Was combing through stuff on my hard drive looking for ficspiration when I came upon this WIP from January 2009. It's really kind of amusing! At least to me. God, the shit that rolls around in my brain...
Sam clapped John's book closed, slouching on the edge of the hotel room bed. "Demonic possession," he emphasized slowly. "1995. Hotbed of supernatural activity."
Dean was still, for all intents and purposes, not listening to him, choosing to instead bang on the side of the TV in the hopes that the Chiefs game would come in nice and clear. "What are you talking about again?"
"Salem," Sam sighed, heavily.
Dean looked up, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "Witch trial Salem?"
He sighed even *more* heavily. "No, the other one." A slightly less well known but equally interesting little coastal town, Dad's journal had plenty to say about its potential for weirdness. Aside from the very publicized possession of a local psychiatrist in the mid-'90s, there were also records of several unexplained deaths… and even more unexplained resurrections. It also happened to be where a European hunter named Brady had just recently settled in… and Brady, according to Ruby, was the last person she knew to have encountered Lilith and lived.
After he explained this to Dean, leaving out the Ruby part so as not to set him off on a whole rant about the evils of "that nasty little tramp --sorry, Sam-- that I wouldn't trust to water my cactus," the Chiefs game became a very, very low priority. His brother leapt up from the floor, dusting off his jeans with his palms, and made a beeline for his gun and his wallet. "Well? What are you waiting for, Sammy? Let's hit the road."
**
Philip hunched over the coffee table, massaging his temples and willing the Titan financials to suddenly start making some semblance of sense. They just sat there, in their neat little rows and columns instead. He fumbled blearily for his nearly empty Red Bull, glad his father had finally agreed to stock the "abominable stuff" in the fridge. "Relax, Dad," he'd sighed. "I'll make sure it's nowhere near the goose liver pate you love so much."
As he attempted to tackle the numbers once again, the door chimes sounded, followed by a firm knock. Moments later, the chimes sounded again. It appeared Henderson was nowhere to be found. God, maybe the *butler* needed some Red Bull. Philip rose slowly, sliding between the table and the sofa and then making his way towards the foyer. When he peered through the peephole, he spied two men on the front steps, one tall and the other taller. Dark suits. Grim expressions. And the absence of little metal name badges left only one possibility for their identity. "Feds. Great," he groaned, flipping the locks and hauling the door open.
The shorter of the two immediately started in on his prepared spiel. "Excuse me, we're Agents Spencer and Cassadine. Interpol. We're looking for Brady Black."
But right around "Interpol," Philip's energy drink-addled brain clicked in and he peered at the man. Light brown hair, solid chin, green eyes. A face he usually saw on family Christmas cards. "Eric!" he gasped. "Eric Brady? What are you doing here?"
"No. Not Eric. Spencer," the man corrected, speaking emphatically like Philip was a six year old or slow. "I think you have me confused with somebody else, Pal."
"Brady Black," his partner prompted quickly, as if he was aware how surly the 'Pal' sounded. "We have this as his last known address, and he's not in any trouble, we just have a few things to clear up regarding matters in Vienna."
Philip transferred his attention to the second man, Cassadine, and had to look up several more inches to do so. He'd never really considered himself short, except next to Austin and EJ, and he definitely felt the height difference now. "My nephew's not here right now," he said, evenly. "Maybe you can leave a card or a number where you can be reached and he'll get back to you?"
"Nephew?" Spencer blurted out, as if he couldn't stop himself, wheeling to face his companion. "Sammy, what the fuck kind of town did you bring us to?"
Sami? Philip's head was really starting to throb now, as he remembered the time Sami had been traipsing around the desert dressed as a guy named Stan. He frowned at the tall guy, speculatively. Nope, definitely not. Face transplants were one thing, but he seriously doubted Sami Brady had gotten two extra feet of leg and torso attached. He backed up a few steps and checked his six on impulse. Two tours had taught him to be wary of set ups. Luckily, there was nobody behind him. Just two potentially crazy people in front of him. "Are you *sure* you're not Eric?"
"Dean Spencer," the agitated agent snapped. "I am not, nor have I ever been, a guy named Eric."
I have no idea where I was going with this, except to have Dean be mistaken for Eric by EVERYBODY in Salem. And he would probably be reduced to Donald Duck-style, profanity-laced flailing by the end of it.
Sam clapped John's book closed, slouching on the edge of the hotel room bed. "Demonic possession," he emphasized slowly. "1995. Hotbed of supernatural activity."
Dean was still, for all intents and purposes, not listening to him, choosing to instead bang on the side of the TV in the hopes that the Chiefs game would come in nice and clear. "What are you talking about again?"
"Salem," Sam sighed, heavily.
Dean looked up, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "Witch trial Salem?"
He sighed even *more* heavily. "No, the other one." A slightly less well known but equally interesting little coastal town, Dad's journal had plenty to say about its potential for weirdness. Aside from the very publicized possession of a local psychiatrist in the mid-'90s, there were also records of several unexplained deaths… and even more unexplained resurrections. It also happened to be where a European hunter named Brady had just recently settled in… and Brady, according to Ruby, was the last person she knew to have encountered Lilith and lived.
After he explained this to Dean, leaving out the Ruby part so as not to set him off on a whole rant about the evils of "that nasty little tramp --sorry, Sam-- that I wouldn't trust to water my cactus," the Chiefs game became a very, very low priority. His brother leapt up from the floor, dusting off his jeans with his palms, and made a beeline for his gun and his wallet. "Well? What are you waiting for, Sammy? Let's hit the road."
**
Philip hunched over the coffee table, massaging his temples and willing the Titan financials to suddenly start making some semblance of sense. They just sat there, in their neat little rows and columns instead. He fumbled blearily for his nearly empty Red Bull, glad his father had finally agreed to stock the "abominable stuff" in the fridge. "Relax, Dad," he'd sighed. "I'll make sure it's nowhere near the goose liver pate you love so much."
As he attempted to tackle the numbers once again, the door chimes sounded, followed by a firm knock. Moments later, the chimes sounded again. It appeared Henderson was nowhere to be found. God, maybe the *butler* needed some Red Bull. Philip rose slowly, sliding between the table and the sofa and then making his way towards the foyer. When he peered through the peephole, he spied two men on the front steps, one tall and the other taller. Dark suits. Grim expressions. And the absence of little metal name badges left only one possibility for their identity. "Feds. Great," he groaned, flipping the locks and hauling the door open.
The shorter of the two immediately started in on his prepared spiel. "Excuse me, we're Agents Spencer and Cassadine. Interpol. We're looking for Brady Black."
But right around "Interpol," Philip's energy drink-addled brain clicked in and he peered at the man. Light brown hair, solid chin, green eyes. A face he usually saw on family Christmas cards. "Eric!" he gasped. "Eric Brady? What are you doing here?"
"No. Not Eric. Spencer," the man corrected, speaking emphatically like Philip was a six year old or slow. "I think you have me confused with somebody else, Pal."
"Brady Black," his partner prompted quickly, as if he was aware how surly the 'Pal' sounded. "We have this as his last known address, and he's not in any trouble, we just have a few things to clear up regarding matters in Vienna."
Philip transferred his attention to the second man, Cassadine, and had to look up several more inches to do so. He'd never really considered himself short, except next to Austin and EJ, and he definitely felt the height difference now. "My nephew's not here right now," he said, evenly. "Maybe you can leave a card or a number where you can be reached and he'll get back to you?"
"Nephew?" Spencer blurted out, as if he couldn't stop himself, wheeling to face his companion. "Sammy, what the fuck kind of town did you bring us to?"
Sami? Philip's head was really starting to throb now, as he remembered the time Sami had been traipsing around the desert dressed as a guy named Stan. He frowned at the tall guy, speculatively. Nope, definitely not. Face transplants were one thing, but he seriously doubted Sami Brady had gotten two extra feet of leg and torso attached. He backed up a few steps and checked his six on impulse. Two tours had taught him to be wary of set ups. Luckily, there was nobody behind him. Just two potentially crazy people in front of him. "Are you *sure* you're not Eric?"
"Dean Spencer," the agitated agent snapped. "I am not, nor have I ever been, a guy named Eric."
I have no idea where I was going with this, except to have Dean be mistaken for Eric by EVERYBODY in Salem. And he would probably be reduced to Donald Duck-style, profanity-laced flailing by the end of it.