Supernatural ficlet: Bad Cop, Worse Cop
Pimping: spnroundtable's Improv Writing Session #2
"Each month, we're providing an show cap for you to interpret as your spn, rpf, or even original fic or meta muses desire. No boundaries on content, pairings, ratings, or length -- completely open to interpretation. It doesn't even have to reflect the prompt itself. Just kick your muse in the face and write something new."
Here's my little attempt so you can see it doesn't have to be anything fancy or polished!
Bad Cop, Worse Cop [Supernatural, Dean, Sam, and a random demon, PG, 428 words, no spoilers. Unbetaed.]
"You see that fisherman?" Sam presses the demon's face to the back window and points to the man fishing off the rickety wooden bridge they've just driven over.
The yes is muffled. Can't be easy to talk with your hands hog-tied and your face squashed flat against a window. But then that's the point. Sam's fed up of the complaining, and Dean, well, Dean is cranky today. He's just given Sam an ultimatum - shut the creature up, or they'll dump him, no matter how useful he could be. Dean has a low tolerance for annoying, sniveling demons, especially when they insult the Impala. From the way the demon's been going on, anyone would think a little impromptu trip in the Impala was worse than a lifetime in Hell. And the Impala does not smell. Sam's surprised Dean didn't off the demon the moment he said that.
"You know what's in the bucket next to the fisherman?" Dean asks. They're doing bad cop, really nasty cop. It's the only thing that works on demons. "Maggots, that's what. A pile of wriggling maggots. And they're gonna be fish food soon. Hanging off the end of a hook."
Sam lets the demon up a bit - only because it's awkward holding him down.
"Your little lesson got a point?" the demon spits out. Demons just haven't learned the art of giving up gracefully - it's a species character flaw. Sam might have to have a word with Lucifer about that some time. Suggest they work on it.
"Yeah, it does," Dean says, putting his foot down on the gas as they career around a corner. The demon slides half off the seat, his knees jammed up against the driver's seat. It looks uncomfortable. Sam puts his boots up on the back seat and sprawls out comfortably, winking as Dean catches his eye in the rear view mirror. "You don't do exactly what we tell you," Dean continues, "and we'll be coming back here, and Sam will be exorcising you and putting you in one of those maggots. And you'll spend the rest of your short, dreary existence waiting to get a hook stuck through your vile, squishy body. Capiche?"
The demon sulks for the rest of the journey, but at least he's quiet.
"You know that guy was a fly fisherman," Dean says, after, when they've done their job and gotten rid of the demon, and Sam's back in the front seat where he belongs. "No maggots."
"Yeah," Sam grins. "But that's the fun of dealing with a dumb demon."
//
"Each month, we're providing an show cap for you to interpret as your spn, rpf, or even original fic or meta muses desire. No boundaries on content, pairings, ratings, or length -- completely open to interpretation. It doesn't even have to reflect the prompt itself. Just kick your muse in the face and write something new."
Here's my little attempt so you can see it doesn't have to be anything fancy or polished!
Bad Cop, Worse Cop [Supernatural, Dean, Sam, and a random demon, PG, 428 words, no spoilers. Unbetaed.]
"You see that fisherman?" Sam presses the demon's face to the back window and points to the man fishing off the rickety wooden bridge they've just driven over.
The yes is muffled. Can't be easy to talk with your hands hog-tied and your face squashed flat against a window. But then that's the point. Sam's fed up of the complaining, and Dean, well, Dean is cranky today. He's just given Sam an ultimatum - shut the creature up, or they'll dump him, no matter how useful he could be. Dean has a low tolerance for annoying, sniveling demons, especially when they insult the Impala. From the way the demon's been going on, anyone would think a little impromptu trip in the Impala was worse than a lifetime in Hell. And the Impala does not smell. Sam's surprised Dean didn't off the demon the moment he said that.
"You know what's in the bucket next to the fisherman?" Dean asks. They're doing bad cop, really nasty cop. It's the only thing that works on demons. "Maggots, that's what. A pile of wriggling maggots. And they're gonna be fish food soon. Hanging off the end of a hook."
Sam lets the demon up a bit - only because it's awkward holding him down.
"Your little lesson got a point?" the demon spits out. Demons just haven't learned the art of giving up gracefully - it's a species character flaw. Sam might have to have a word with Lucifer about that some time. Suggest they work on it.
"Yeah, it does," Dean says, putting his foot down on the gas as they career around a corner. The demon slides half off the seat, his knees jammed up against the driver's seat. It looks uncomfortable. Sam puts his boots up on the back seat and sprawls out comfortably, winking as Dean catches his eye in the rear view mirror. "You don't do exactly what we tell you," Dean continues, "and we'll be coming back here, and Sam will be exorcising you and putting you in one of those maggots. And you'll spend the rest of your short, dreary existence waiting to get a hook stuck through your vile, squishy body. Capiche?"
The demon sulks for the rest of the journey, but at least he's quiet.
"You know that guy was a fly fisherman," Dean says, after, when they've done their job and gotten rid of the demon, and Sam's back in the front seat where he belongs. "No maggots."
"Yeah," Sam grins. "But that's the fun of dealing with a dumb demon."
//