[SPN] Eternal WIP -- in before Kripke!
The preview for 3.17 killed me dead of laugh for many reasons, but not least because about a year ago, I was writing something very similar. I thought I'd get it out there for posterity, and also because I'm not likely to finish it at the rate I'm going, even though it's a lot of fun. Further discussion under the cut, for spoilers. Hope you enjoy!
So, last year marked the first time I had an actual cubicle job, a fact which sent me into hysterics of irony for a good long time. varadia and I had many insane and wonderful email conversations, one of the regulars of which stemmed from a remark that Dean would totally be the skeezy guy who hangs out at the cooler and hits on all the secretaries. And then, well, it just kept growing. There's a spreadsheet somewhere with the entire cast, spanning all the seasons, slotted into their different jobs. I have a whole tag for it in Gmail, and this elaborate plot unfolded in which [whitetext, for if I ever do write it] Rufus Turner and the YED do battle each night in the hallways, Gordon likes to torment Dean by forcing him to go golfing with him, the Ghostfacers are interns and muck everything up, and somehow the office is infested with lolcat tulpas. It was a continual source of delight, and I think if next week's episode knows what's good for it, it will guest star Ron Livingston, but that's true of many shows, including Life, so. Anyway, here's what got finished! For your delectation, guys -- happy Friday!
* * *
Dean's phone rings the minute he walks into his cubicle. He tosses his jacket over the back of the chair, frowns at the caller ID and picks up.
"What?"
"You're late," says Jo darkly.
He twirls his car keys on one finger. "You noticed?"
"Of course I noticed, it was quiet."
Dean glances at his cube divider. "I'm a little confused as to why you're calling me about this."
"I didn't want to attract attention."
"Yeah, you do that by not calling me."
"I'm a project manager, Dean. I manage things. You are in need of some serious managing."
"Hey, sweetheart, it's early in the day, let's not get ahead--"
A troll doll sails over the wall and clocks him on the head. "Ow!" He rubs the sore spot. "What the hell was that for?"
"To make you listen!" Jo hisses. "Trust me, this time it's for your own good."
"What could possibly--"
"Management's cruising for an outing today."
Dean sits up. "Sushi?" he whispers, bracing himself.
"Golf," Jo whispers back.
His face drains. "Oh God."
"Aren't you happy I called now?"
He bends down and picks up the fallen troll toll. "I'm still a little puzzled, honestly. I mean, you know, after last week."
"Forgive and forget, Dean. It's called moving on. Adults do it sometimes, you may have seen it in a movie."
He opens his drawer and pulls out a pair of scissors. "Wow, that's great, Jo. You hear that a seminar or something?"
She huffs, loud enough that he gets her in stereo sound, through the earpiece and over the wall. "Just look busy today, all right?"
"Noted," he says, positioning the troll's violently Kool-Aid-colored tuft between the two blades. She hangs up; he hesitates, then sets the troll aside, its hair intact. Dean drums his fingers on his desk, assessing the day's workload. He gets as far as turning on the computer before the concept of his inbox looms grimly over what so far has been an easy breezy morning.
This is definitely going to require some reinforcements.
* * *
Sam doesn't look away from his screen when Dean flops into his chair, coffee in hand. "Jo's being nice to me," he announces, suspicious.
"I'm on the other side of you," Sam says. "I heard."
Dean frowns. "You were listening to me?"
"Your voice carries. What do you want?"
Dean slouches comfortably into the seat. "Well, good morning to you too, sunshine."
Sam turns to glare, because Dean will be smirking now and the cosmic balance of the universe requires Sam to meet him with an equal and opposite facial expression. His eye falls on Dean's mug. He sits up.
"Dude. I've been looking for that."
Dean shrugs. "I was letting Becky borrow it. I only got it back just now." He takes another sip, innocent as pie.
Sam's frown becomes more insistent. "That's my mug, Dean. I left it in the drying rack in the lounge last Thursday."
"Chill out, it was in safe hands." Dean radiates smugness like a Glade plug-in. "Come on, who else is gonna lift a mug from debate camp for college-age virgins?"
Sam grits his teeth. "It was a forensics conference, and we won first place." He looks away: his blood pressure doesn't need the ride this early in the day. "Would you just. Give it back to me when you're done?"
Dean sucks in his breath. "Oh, well argued."
Sam's knee begins to bounce. "Becky thinks you're a creep, by the way."
"Give her time." Dean smacks his lips and exhales. "Hey," he says, completely unaffected by the previous conversation. "You hear something about the higher-ups recruiting for a meeting this afternoon?"
Sam turns back to his screen. He begins, pointedly, clicking through his documents. "Yeah, something about paradigm management or something. Why?"
Dean peers at Sam's computer. "Dude. Are those spreadsheets?"
"Welcome to the office, Dean. Yes they are."
"They're enormous," he says, like he's affronted by all Sam's scrolling. "How long have you been here?"
Sam sighs. "Since eight."
"This was what you ditched bar night for? Seriously? That's freaking intern work!"
Sam gives him a look. "You've met our interns, Dean."
He sits back. "Point." He focuses on Sam again. "Still, seriously, man, you have got to get through your deep-seated terror of extracurricular activities. I promise they won't bite." He stops. "Well, not unless she's into that. In which case--"
"Dude, don't you have your own office?"
Dean rolls his eyes and gets up. "Yeah, yeah."
"Hey!" says Sam as Dean drifts out of the cubicle. "Are we still doing that thing tonight?"
Dean leans against the entryway. "If you don't chicken out, we are."
Sam nods. "Right, I'll catch you later."
Once Dean is gone, Sam looks up at the corner of his cubicle. A note dangling on a chain of paperclips has been slung in from the cube cattycorner to his. NICE ONE, it says.
Sam smiles, and reaches for his phone.
* * *
Sam is nearly to the copy machine when he hears it: the kind of giggling reserved for monomaniacal supervillains or middle school slumber parties. He freezes, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but he is assaulted by neither a mutant pteradactyl fitted with lasers or a bevy of young teenage girls bearing nail polish and hair products. Sam edges around the corner.
It's just Ava, wheezing with both hands clapped over her mouth. She squeaks at something on her screen before noticing Sam. Her eyes go even wider, if possible, and she drops her hands from her face. "Sam! Hi, wow, how's it going? Holy crap, did you hear about that thing Missouri caught on the internet about us? I don't even know how she finds that stuff, but she's all ready to, like, totally kick some ass. I have never been so in awe of a woman who bakes her own cookies for her desk as I am about her."
She pauses to take a breath. "Wow," interrupts Sam in self-defense. "Someone spike your coffee or something?"
"What? No, I haven't even had mine yet." She gestures messily in three different directions. "I have been trying to get Rufus to fix the toner in the copy machine. He was here, like, way early and I saw him talking with Bobby over in Shipping, do you know Bobby? Anyway, I saw them when I parked my car, and I'm like, how can they not have their acts together to get our machine fixed if they're here so early? I've had about ten different people asking me if it was fixed yet. I'm gonna have to beat them off with a stick before lunch, and trust me, you do not want to see me get down and dangerous with a stick."
"No, I believe you. I've seen you with a three-hole punch."
"Damn skippy you have," Ava says darkly.
"What were you reading?" he asks. Her face suddenly becomes guarded.
"Nothing. It was a memo. From Ruby in Outside Sales. Well, I mean, she didn't send it to me directly, it was more of a mass email thing that Sarah in Accounting sent on. Do you know Sarah? She was an art student in college, can you believe that? I bet you two would really hit it off, I should introduce you sometime, she's really hot and she's a hoot with a few beers in her. Oh crap!" She claps one hand over her mouth again. "Sorry, sorry, inappropriate office behavior!"
Sam laughs. "I've met Ruby. She's not as funny as she thinks she is. Come on, what were you looking at? You can tell me."
Ava looks right, then left. "Lolcats," she says. Sam frowns.
"Excuse me?"
She throws up both hands. "Icanhascheezburger.com! Ohmygod, you don't know about this? It's totally hilarious, I love it! There's one for dogs too, I bet you'd get a huge kick out of it. I should send you the link! I'm always kinda worried it's gonna infect me, though."
"Infect you how?"
"The grammar," she whispers. "It's highly infectious."
"How--?"
"Good morning, Ava. Sam."
They both look up. Sam straightens and swallows. "Morning, Gordon."
Gordon looks between them, taking a languid pause before he speaks again. "How's that copy machine coming?"
"It's--they're working on it," Ava stammers, her expression somehow both meek and surly.
"Good to hear," says Gordon. "Sam, have you seen your brother around?"
"Uh." Sam scratches the back of his neck. "He's here. I don't know where exactly, though."
Gordon's face doesn't move. "He's not at his desk?"
"He had--things to take care of in another department, I think."
"Hmm." Gordon's eyes drift, like he's thinking but he's still in command of the conversation. Sam and Ava wait. "Well," he says at last, "if you see him, tell him to come around."
Sam's mouth sort of twitches. "Absolutely."
They watch him disappear down a row of cubicles. "Ohmygod!" Ava hisses. "He is so creepy! How did he get to be a VP?"
"Ask yourself: Do you really want to know?"
Ava looks disturbed by this. "Good point," she says, and turns back to her keyboard.
* * *
[This is where someone has desktop gadgets that totally offend Dean's sensibilities.]
So, last year marked the first time I had an actual cubicle job, a fact which sent me into hysterics of irony for a good long time. varadia and I had many insane and wonderful email conversations, one of the regulars of which stemmed from a remark that Dean would totally be the skeezy guy who hangs out at the cooler and hits on all the secretaries. And then, well, it just kept growing. There's a spreadsheet somewhere with the entire cast, spanning all the seasons, slotted into their different jobs. I have a whole tag for it in Gmail, and this elaborate plot unfolded in which [whitetext, for if I ever do write it] Rufus Turner and the YED do battle each night in the hallways, Gordon likes to torment Dean by forcing him to go golfing with him, the Ghostfacers are interns and muck everything up, and somehow the office is infested with lolcat tulpas. It was a continual source of delight, and I think if next week's episode knows what's good for it, it will guest star Ron Livingston, but that's true of many shows, including Life, so. Anyway, here's what got finished! For your delectation, guys -- happy Friday!
* * *
Dean's phone rings the minute he walks into his cubicle. He tosses his jacket over the back of the chair, frowns at the caller ID and picks up.
"What?"
"You're late," says Jo darkly.
He twirls his car keys on one finger. "You noticed?"
"Of course I noticed, it was quiet."
Dean glances at his cube divider. "I'm a little confused as to why you're calling me about this."
"I didn't want to attract attention."
"Yeah, you do that by not calling me."
"I'm a project manager, Dean. I manage things. You are in need of some serious managing."
"Hey, sweetheart, it's early in the day, let's not get ahead--"
A troll doll sails over the wall and clocks him on the head. "Ow!" He rubs the sore spot. "What the hell was that for?"
"To make you listen!" Jo hisses. "Trust me, this time it's for your own good."
"What could possibly--"
"Management's cruising for an outing today."
Dean sits up. "Sushi?" he whispers, bracing himself.
"Golf," Jo whispers back.
His face drains. "Oh God."
"Aren't you happy I called now?"
He bends down and picks up the fallen troll toll. "I'm still a little puzzled, honestly. I mean, you know, after last week."
"Forgive and forget, Dean. It's called moving on. Adults do it sometimes, you may have seen it in a movie."
He opens his drawer and pulls out a pair of scissors. "Wow, that's great, Jo. You hear that a seminar or something?"
She huffs, loud enough that he gets her in stereo sound, through the earpiece and over the wall. "Just look busy today, all right?"
"Noted," he says, positioning the troll's violently Kool-Aid-colored tuft between the two blades. She hangs up; he hesitates, then sets the troll aside, its hair intact. Dean drums his fingers on his desk, assessing the day's workload. He gets as far as turning on the computer before the concept of his inbox looms grimly over what so far has been an easy breezy morning.
This is definitely going to require some reinforcements.
* * *
Sam doesn't look away from his screen when Dean flops into his chair, coffee in hand. "Jo's being nice to me," he announces, suspicious.
"I'm on the other side of you," Sam says. "I heard."
Dean frowns. "You were listening to me?"
"Your voice carries. What do you want?"
Dean slouches comfortably into the seat. "Well, good morning to you too, sunshine."
Sam turns to glare, because Dean will be smirking now and the cosmic balance of the universe requires Sam to meet him with an equal and opposite facial expression. His eye falls on Dean's mug. He sits up.
"Dude. I've been looking for that."
Dean shrugs. "I was letting Becky borrow it. I only got it back just now." He takes another sip, innocent as pie.
Sam's frown becomes more insistent. "That's my mug, Dean. I left it in the drying rack in the lounge last Thursday."
"Chill out, it was in safe hands." Dean radiates smugness like a Glade plug-in. "Come on, who else is gonna lift a mug from debate camp for college-age virgins?"
Sam grits his teeth. "It was a forensics conference, and we won first place." He looks away: his blood pressure doesn't need the ride this early in the day. "Would you just. Give it back to me when you're done?"
Dean sucks in his breath. "Oh, well argued."
Sam's knee begins to bounce. "Becky thinks you're a creep, by the way."
"Give her time." Dean smacks his lips and exhales. "Hey," he says, completely unaffected by the previous conversation. "You hear something about the higher-ups recruiting for a meeting this afternoon?"
Sam turns back to his screen. He begins, pointedly, clicking through his documents. "Yeah, something about paradigm management or something. Why?"
Dean peers at Sam's computer. "Dude. Are those spreadsheets?"
"Welcome to the office, Dean. Yes they are."
"They're enormous," he says, like he's affronted by all Sam's scrolling. "How long have you been here?"
Sam sighs. "Since eight."
"This was what you ditched bar night for? Seriously? That's freaking intern work!"
Sam gives him a look. "You've met our interns, Dean."
He sits back. "Point." He focuses on Sam again. "Still, seriously, man, you have got to get through your deep-seated terror of extracurricular activities. I promise they won't bite." He stops. "Well, not unless she's into that. In which case--"
"Dude, don't you have your own office?"
Dean rolls his eyes and gets up. "Yeah, yeah."
"Hey!" says Sam as Dean drifts out of the cubicle. "Are we still doing that thing tonight?"
Dean leans against the entryway. "If you don't chicken out, we are."
Sam nods. "Right, I'll catch you later."
Once Dean is gone, Sam looks up at the corner of his cubicle. A note dangling on a chain of paperclips has been slung in from the cube cattycorner to his. NICE ONE, it says.
Sam smiles, and reaches for his phone.
* * *
Sam is nearly to the copy machine when he hears it: the kind of giggling reserved for monomaniacal supervillains or middle school slumber parties. He freezes, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but he is assaulted by neither a mutant pteradactyl fitted with lasers or a bevy of young teenage girls bearing nail polish and hair products. Sam edges around the corner.
It's just Ava, wheezing with both hands clapped over her mouth. She squeaks at something on her screen before noticing Sam. Her eyes go even wider, if possible, and she drops her hands from her face. "Sam! Hi, wow, how's it going? Holy crap, did you hear about that thing Missouri caught on the internet about us? I don't even know how she finds that stuff, but she's all ready to, like, totally kick some ass. I have never been so in awe of a woman who bakes her own cookies for her desk as I am about her."
She pauses to take a breath. "Wow," interrupts Sam in self-defense. "Someone spike your coffee or something?"
"What? No, I haven't even had mine yet." She gestures messily in three different directions. "I have been trying to get Rufus to fix the toner in the copy machine. He was here, like, way early and I saw him talking with Bobby over in Shipping, do you know Bobby? Anyway, I saw them when I parked my car, and I'm like, how can they not have their acts together to get our machine fixed if they're here so early? I've had about ten different people asking me if it was fixed yet. I'm gonna have to beat them off with a stick before lunch, and trust me, you do not want to see me get down and dangerous with a stick."
"No, I believe you. I've seen you with a three-hole punch."
"Damn skippy you have," Ava says darkly.
"What were you reading?" he asks. Her face suddenly becomes guarded.
"Nothing. It was a memo. From Ruby in Outside Sales. Well, I mean, she didn't send it to me directly, it was more of a mass email thing that Sarah in Accounting sent on. Do you know Sarah? She was an art student in college, can you believe that? I bet you two would really hit it off, I should introduce you sometime, she's really hot and she's a hoot with a few beers in her. Oh crap!" She claps one hand over her mouth again. "Sorry, sorry, inappropriate office behavior!"
Sam laughs. "I've met Ruby. She's not as funny as she thinks she is. Come on, what were you looking at? You can tell me."
Ava looks right, then left. "Lolcats," she says. Sam frowns.
"Excuse me?"
She throws up both hands. "Icanhascheezburger.com! Ohmygod, you don't know about this? It's totally hilarious, I love it! There's one for dogs too, I bet you'd get a huge kick out of it. I should send you the link! I'm always kinda worried it's gonna infect me, though."
"Infect you how?"
"The grammar," she whispers. "It's highly infectious."
"How--?"
"Good morning, Ava. Sam."
They both look up. Sam straightens and swallows. "Morning, Gordon."
Gordon looks between them, taking a languid pause before he speaks again. "How's that copy machine coming?"
"It's--they're working on it," Ava stammers, her expression somehow both meek and surly.
"Good to hear," says Gordon. "Sam, have you seen your brother around?"
"Uh." Sam scratches the back of his neck. "He's here. I don't know where exactly, though."
Gordon's face doesn't move. "He's not at his desk?"
"He had--things to take care of in another department, I think."
"Hmm." Gordon's eyes drift, like he's thinking but he's still in command of the conversation. Sam and Ava wait. "Well," he says at last, "if you see him, tell him to come around."
Sam's mouth sort of twitches. "Absolutely."
They watch him disappear down a row of cubicles. "Ohmygod!" Ava hisses. "He is so creepy! How did he get to be a VP?"
"Ask yourself: Do you really want to know?"
Ava looks disturbed by this. "Good point," she says, and turns back to her keyboard.
* * *
[This is where someone has desktop gadgets that totally offend Dean's sensibilities.]