[discardia] i know you're backed up
Here are two old SPN wsip that I will never finish. There's probably about 800 words of each.
the one where everything's different when Sam comes back from vacation
Dean says, Vegas, and Sam says, DC, and they stare at each other for a long moment across the table. San Francisco, New Orleans, and New York are all mentioned and discarded, and Sam tosses out Maui in the desperate hope that Dean will get over his weird flying phobia and go for it, or just agree to DC because it means he won't have to fly, but Dean just says, You can't drive to Maui, Sam, as if Sam's not aware of that.
"Choose you for it," Sam offers finally, hand already curling into a fist, knowing DC is in the bag.
A sly look crosses Dean's face, and he says, "You know, we could do both."
Sam thinks about spending a week in Vegas, holed up in some crappy motel in the desert while Dean attempts to take the house, and any unattached female between the ages of eighteen and fifty. Not even the prospect of making Dean tour every damn museum in the District of Columbia (and surrounding areas) is enough to make up for that.
"I'm not going to Vegas, Dean." Sam crosses his arms over his chest and sets his jaw as if he's still six years old, knowing it's childish, but also knowing that it often works. Dean's pretty stubborn, but he's also impatient and not prone to holding grudges the way Sam is. Sam can win just by being patient and waiting for Dean to get so annoyed he gives in.
"And I'm not gonna follow you around all those damn museums. The art gallery in the Bellagio should be enough for you."
Sam sighs like he's not being just as immature and intractable. "Dean--"
"Why don't you go to DC, and I'll go to Vegas, and we can meet up in Austin on the twelfth?"
Sam stares at him in shock. Dean has occasionally suggested they split up to work a case, and he's frequently suggested they split up so he can get laid, but that's always only been for a night, or a weekend at most. Dean hasn't willingly let him go for longer than that since they got back together after Dean's trip to the zombie-virus future. He remembers the lonely months after Dean went to hell, the horror of being on his own, and says, "No."
"Aw, come on, Sammy. You can do whatever the hell you like--walk around a million museums, listen to whatever crap music turns your crank, hang out at the library all day. Drink soy lattes and eat tofu."
"I don't like tofu."
Dean waves a hand. "You know what I mean." Annoyance is creeping into his voice. It seems to be happening more and more lately. After everything that's happened, Sam knows they're still readjusting. But they've just saved the world--they deserve a vacation. Maybe from each other, as well, since all they do anymore is snipe at each other. Sam hates it--it reminds him of the worst times with Dad, but now there's no one to step in between them and tell them to cut it the hell out. Sam is tired of it, of feeling like he's walking on eggshells because of this weird tension between them. Dean had chosen him at the end, over heaven and hell, regardless of his demon blood, and Sam had thought that was it, but maybe Dean's still got some lingering issues, which he won't talk about. Of course.
"You don't want to come with me to Vegas? Fine. I don't care. But either way, I'm going."
"Fine," Sam says, angry and okay with showing it, because anger is one emotion he's never had a problem expressing. "I'm going to DC."
"Fine."
"Fine," he repeats, because he can't let Dean have the last word, not this time.
*
DC is warm and muggy, but Sam doesn't care. He spends most of his time in air conditioned museums, and it's awesome. He's been here before, once or twice, but always for jobs, and neither Dad nor Dean had ever been up for spending a day or two wandering around museums, though Sam is sure Dean would love it all if he gave it half a chance.
He meets Amber at the Lincoln Bicentennial exhibition at the Library of Congress, notices the sleek green snake tattoo spiraling up her forearm and is intrigued.
They go for coffee at the Starbucks down the street, and spend a couple of hours talking about Lincoln and the Civil War and the civil rights movement. Sam can almost forget that he's been out of school for five years, that most of his conversations lately have been about the end of the world and how to stop it, and the last discussion he had about the Civil War had involved salting and burning the ghost of an angry Confederate soldier down in Charleston.
[everything seems off somehow to Sam when they get back together; Sam puts Dean through a few tests to ascertain that he's actually Dean; eventual wincest]
~*~
for a good time, call Dean Winchester
Dean turns off the weed whacker and rubs a grubby forearm over his sweaty face. "Christ, it's hot," he mutters.
Jose, trimming the hedges nearby, snorts. He doesn't speak a lot of English, and Dean's Spanish is patchy at best, but after a week of mowing lawns and trimming hedges together, they understand each other pretty well. "Lunchtime soon," Jose says, grinning. His wife always packs him a good lunch, and sometimes he shares with Dean, who usually has peanut butter and jelly on Wonder bread, just like when he was in school.
Dean grins back. "Awesome."
He and Jose head in opposite directions, trimming the tall hedge that guards the McMansion from roadside gawkers. He can't help but remember his djinn-inspired fantasy world, mowing his mom's lawn, and though he'll never admit it to Sam, there's something soothing about landscaping. He doesn't plan to do it forever, just long enough for Sam's broken ribs to heal.
Normally, he wouldn't even bother with a day job, but the East End of Long Island is expensive, and Sam hasn't really been in any shape to travel, and they need the money.
It's kind of nice, too, which he also will never admit to Sam, to work in sunlight and plant living things instead of digging up and burning dead ones.
He knows he's been in the sun too long when he starts getting philosophical, so he stops again, and pulls his dirt-smeared t-shirt up over his head. "It's too freaking hot for clothes," he tells the hedges.
He's a little startled when they answer back. "I quite agree."
He whirls around, forcing himself not to reach for the gun he's not carrying. The speaker is a lady probably about as old as his Dad would be now, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and a tennis racket under her arm. She's wearing a white dress and tennis shoes, and her skin is golden in the sunlight.
"I, uh--" He's not sure what the proper response is, so he gives her his best panty-melting smile to cover his stuttering, and says, "Can I help you?"
"I think you can," she answers. She's got a brisk voice and a New York accent, not as bad as some of the locals he's heard in town, but definitely noticeable. She walks up the drive and opens the front door, tapping her foot impatiently when he doesn't immediately follow her inside.
"Look," he says, pretty sure he's not supposed to actually go inside with her, "if there's something wrong, you should talk to Ramon. He's in charge."
"Do you own a tuxedo?"
"Do I look like I own a tuxedo?"
She smiles. "Good point." She gives him a slow once-over that makes him itch--more drill sergeant than potential fuckbuddy. He forces himself not to stand at attention. "My ex-husband was about your height. He wasn't quite as broad in the shoulders, though, so the jacket could be a problem."
Dean thinks a tuxedo jacket is the least of this lady's problems, but he manages not to say it out loud. Sam would be proud of his discretion for once. "Miss--" he starts.
"Mrs. Ruderman," she says, "but you can call me Andrea."
"Look, Andrea, it's been fun chatting, but your bushes won't trim themselves." He grins again, thinking of the half-dozen innuendoes he could wring out of that remark, and gestures with the weed whacker.
She laughs, which is good--he appreciates a woman who laughs at his jokes (especially after weeks of nothing but Sam's eye-rolling), and he reassesses her MILF potential.
"I can offer you a job that'll pay way more than trimming hedges."
"Oh, yeah?"
She laughs again, and beckons him into the house. "It's not illegal, or even particularly immoral," she says when he doesn't follow.
He opens his mouth and closes it again, because pointing out that he doesn't really care about legality or morality seems counterproductive.
"It's not dangerous. And there will be free food and booze, on top of what I'll pay you."
Dean shrugs, what the hell, and follows.
"There's a black tie reception at that Perelmans' tonight," she tells him, leading him up the stairs. "My ex-husband and his new wife will be there." She takes him into a walk-in closet larger than the motel room he and Sam are staying in; it's not even half-full, but there's a penguin suit hanging on the left-hand side.
"Oh," Dean says, clueing in. "And you want me to, uh, be your arm candy."
She looks amused. "In so many words, yes."
"Well, as tempting as the offer is--"
"I'll pay you five hundred dollars."
Dean doesn't hesitate. "What time should I show up?"
*
Dean brushes non-existent lint off his lapels and tries not to fiddle with the tie. Andrea was right--the jacket is a little tight in the shoulders, but he'll manage. He turns away from the mirror and grins at Sam. "Don't wait up, Sammy."
Sam grunts, which means, When have I ever?, which they both know is a lie, and doesn't look up from his paperback.
"Take the Vicodin if you need it."
Sam finally looks up from his paperback, and whatever smart remark he's going to make about not needing the drugs (when he totally does, in Dean's opinion), dies before it leaves his mouth. "Why are you dressed like that?"
"Got a date with a lady."
"Dean--"
"Don't worry, Sammy, it's all on the up-and-up."
[Dean ends up being arm-candy for various wealthy socialites while Sam gets better]
~*~
*moves files into abandoned wsip folder and dusts off hands*
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/391661.html.
people have commented there.
the one where everything's different when Sam comes back from vacation
Dean says, Vegas, and Sam says, DC, and they stare at each other for a long moment across the table. San Francisco, New Orleans, and New York are all mentioned and discarded, and Sam tosses out Maui in the desperate hope that Dean will get over his weird flying phobia and go for it, or just agree to DC because it means he won't have to fly, but Dean just says, You can't drive to Maui, Sam, as if Sam's not aware of that.
"Choose you for it," Sam offers finally, hand already curling into a fist, knowing DC is in the bag.
A sly look crosses Dean's face, and he says, "You know, we could do both."
Sam thinks about spending a week in Vegas, holed up in some crappy motel in the desert while Dean attempts to take the house, and any unattached female between the ages of eighteen and fifty. Not even the prospect of making Dean tour every damn museum in the District of Columbia (and surrounding areas) is enough to make up for that.
"I'm not going to Vegas, Dean." Sam crosses his arms over his chest and sets his jaw as if he's still six years old, knowing it's childish, but also knowing that it often works. Dean's pretty stubborn, but he's also impatient and not prone to holding grudges the way Sam is. Sam can win just by being patient and waiting for Dean to get so annoyed he gives in.
"And I'm not gonna follow you around all those damn museums. The art gallery in the Bellagio should be enough for you."
Sam sighs like he's not being just as immature and intractable. "Dean--"
"Why don't you go to DC, and I'll go to Vegas, and we can meet up in Austin on the twelfth?"
Sam stares at him in shock. Dean has occasionally suggested they split up to work a case, and he's frequently suggested they split up so he can get laid, but that's always only been for a night, or a weekend at most. Dean hasn't willingly let him go for longer than that since they got back together after Dean's trip to the zombie-virus future. He remembers the lonely months after Dean went to hell, the horror of being on his own, and says, "No."
"Aw, come on, Sammy. You can do whatever the hell you like--walk around a million museums, listen to whatever crap music turns your crank, hang out at the library all day. Drink soy lattes and eat tofu."
"I don't like tofu."
Dean waves a hand. "You know what I mean." Annoyance is creeping into his voice. It seems to be happening more and more lately. After everything that's happened, Sam knows they're still readjusting. But they've just saved the world--they deserve a vacation. Maybe from each other, as well, since all they do anymore is snipe at each other. Sam hates it--it reminds him of the worst times with Dad, but now there's no one to step in between them and tell them to cut it the hell out. Sam is tired of it, of feeling like he's walking on eggshells because of this weird tension between them. Dean had chosen him at the end, over heaven and hell, regardless of his demon blood, and Sam had thought that was it, but maybe Dean's still got some lingering issues, which he won't talk about. Of course.
"You don't want to come with me to Vegas? Fine. I don't care. But either way, I'm going."
"Fine," Sam says, angry and okay with showing it, because anger is one emotion he's never had a problem expressing. "I'm going to DC."
"Fine."
"Fine," he repeats, because he can't let Dean have the last word, not this time.
*
DC is warm and muggy, but Sam doesn't care. He spends most of his time in air conditioned museums, and it's awesome. He's been here before, once or twice, but always for jobs, and neither Dad nor Dean had ever been up for spending a day or two wandering around museums, though Sam is sure Dean would love it all if he gave it half a chance.
He meets Amber at the Lincoln Bicentennial exhibition at the Library of Congress, notices the sleek green snake tattoo spiraling up her forearm and is intrigued.
They go for coffee at the Starbucks down the street, and spend a couple of hours talking about Lincoln and the Civil War and the civil rights movement. Sam can almost forget that he's been out of school for five years, that most of his conversations lately have been about the end of the world and how to stop it, and the last discussion he had about the Civil War had involved salting and burning the ghost of an angry Confederate soldier down in Charleston.
[everything seems off somehow to Sam when they get back together; Sam puts Dean through a few tests to ascertain that he's actually Dean; eventual wincest]
~*~
for a good time, call Dean Winchester
Dean turns off the weed whacker and rubs a grubby forearm over his sweaty face. "Christ, it's hot," he mutters.
Jose, trimming the hedges nearby, snorts. He doesn't speak a lot of English, and Dean's Spanish is patchy at best, but after a week of mowing lawns and trimming hedges together, they understand each other pretty well. "Lunchtime soon," Jose says, grinning. His wife always packs him a good lunch, and sometimes he shares with Dean, who usually has peanut butter and jelly on Wonder bread, just like when he was in school.
Dean grins back. "Awesome."
He and Jose head in opposite directions, trimming the tall hedge that guards the McMansion from roadside gawkers. He can't help but remember his djinn-inspired fantasy world, mowing his mom's lawn, and though he'll never admit it to Sam, there's something soothing about landscaping. He doesn't plan to do it forever, just long enough for Sam's broken ribs to heal.
Normally, he wouldn't even bother with a day job, but the East End of Long Island is expensive, and Sam hasn't really been in any shape to travel, and they need the money.
It's kind of nice, too, which he also will never admit to Sam, to work in sunlight and plant living things instead of digging up and burning dead ones.
He knows he's been in the sun too long when he starts getting philosophical, so he stops again, and pulls his dirt-smeared t-shirt up over his head. "It's too freaking hot for clothes," he tells the hedges.
He's a little startled when they answer back. "I quite agree."
He whirls around, forcing himself not to reach for the gun he's not carrying. The speaker is a lady probably about as old as his Dad would be now, with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and a tennis racket under her arm. She's wearing a white dress and tennis shoes, and her skin is golden in the sunlight.
"I, uh--" He's not sure what the proper response is, so he gives her his best panty-melting smile to cover his stuttering, and says, "Can I help you?"
"I think you can," she answers. She's got a brisk voice and a New York accent, not as bad as some of the locals he's heard in town, but definitely noticeable. She walks up the drive and opens the front door, tapping her foot impatiently when he doesn't immediately follow her inside.
"Look," he says, pretty sure he's not supposed to actually go inside with her, "if there's something wrong, you should talk to Ramon. He's in charge."
"Do you own a tuxedo?"
"Do I look like I own a tuxedo?"
She smiles. "Good point." She gives him a slow once-over that makes him itch--more drill sergeant than potential fuckbuddy. He forces himself not to stand at attention. "My ex-husband was about your height. He wasn't quite as broad in the shoulders, though, so the jacket could be a problem."
Dean thinks a tuxedo jacket is the least of this lady's problems, but he manages not to say it out loud. Sam would be proud of his discretion for once. "Miss--" he starts.
"Mrs. Ruderman," she says, "but you can call me Andrea."
"Look, Andrea, it's been fun chatting, but your bushes won't trim themselves." He grins again, thinking of the half-dozen innuendoes he could wring out of that remark, and gestures with the weed whacker.
She laughs, which is good--he appreciates a woman who laughs at his jokes (especially after weeks of nothing but Sam's eye-rolling), and he reassesses her MILF potential.
"I can offer you a job that'll pay way more than trimming hedges."
"Oh, yeah?"
She laughs again, and beckons him into the house. "It's not illegal, or even particularly immoral," she says when he doesn't follow.
He opens his mouth and closes it again, because pointing out that he doesn't really care about legality or morality seems counterproductive.
"It's not dangerous. And there will be free food and booze, on top of what I'll pay you."
Dean shrugs, what the hell, and follows.
"There's a black tie reception at that Perelmans' tonight," she tells him, leading him up the stairs. "My ex-husband and his new wife will be there." She takes him into a walk-in closet larger than the motel room he and Sam are staying in; it's not even half-full, but there's a penguin suit hanging on the left-hand side.
"Oh," Dean says, clueing in. "And you want me to, uh, be your arm candy."
She looks amused. "In so many words, yes."
"Well, as tempting as the offer is--"
"I'll pay you five hundred dollars."
Dean doesn't hesitate. "What time should I show up?"
*
Dean brushes non-existent lint off his lapels and tries not to fiddle with the tie. Andrea was right--the jacket is a little tight in the shoulders, but he'll manage. He turns away from the mirror and grins at Sam. "Don't wait up, Sammy."
Sam grunts, which means, When have I ever?, which they both know is a lie, and doesn't look up from his paperback.
"Take the Vicodin if you need it."
Sam finally looks up from his paperback, and whatever smart remark he's going to make about not needing the drugs (when he totally does, in Dean's opinion), dies before it leaves his mouth. "Why are you dressed like that?"
"Got a date with a lady."
"Dean--"
"Don't worry, Sammy, it's all on the up-and-up."
[Dean ends up being arm-candy for various wealthy socialites while Sam gets better]
~*~
*moves files into abandoned wsip folder and dusts off hands*
***
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/391661.html.
people have commented there.