Fic: Be One With the Rabbit
Title: Be One with the Rabbit
Genre: Gen, Crack/humour
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,224
Summary: Sam's psychic powers come into their own. AU in which Sam's powers are much less useful evil than in S4.
The day Sam’s powers came to him was not a good day. The problem was not, as one might have expected, Dean. Dean’s initial reaction was, of course, to declare the powers a slippery slope to the loss of Sam’s humanity, and the first step in Sam’s journey to the dark side. His second reaction was much more problematic. He couldn’t stop laughing long enough to do anything. Such as, for instance, helping Sam find a mysterious yoda-type master of psychic energy to teach him to control the powers.
Having superpowers was not the picnic everyone made it out to be. For one thing, they seemed to manifest totally at random, with no relationship to the situation whatsoever. Secondly, they were the most singularly unhelpful set of superpowers in the history of the world. He could be interviewing a witness, then boom, rabbit. The ability to become a rabbit could conceivably be useful if he ever needed to blend in on farmland or in a pet store, he supposed, but its usefulness quickly disappeared in light of the fact that he a) couldn’t do it on purpose and b) had no idea when he would turn back. He wasn’t even a talking rabbit.
It wasn’t always becoming a rabbit, either. After three days of random episodes of rabbitiness, Sam was losing his patience. Dean’s only suggestion had been to “Stop eating all that green crap, Flopsy.” He clearly wasn’t treating the situation with the seriousness it deserved. Sam would have to learn to use the powers himself, and to do that he needed help. He began to search the net for someone to teach him control. He typed “turning into rabbit” into the search engine, but all it came up with was a bunch of weird videos. He growled in frustration and clenched his fists, a strange prickling sensation filling his hands.
“Dude, are those hairbrushes?” Dean stared curiously at what had been Sam’s hands.
“Dammit! Now I can’t even type!” Sam banged the table angrily with his right hairbrush. Actually, that might be quite good in a fight, when he inevitably lost his weapon. It hurt like hell to get hit with the spiky side of a hairbrush. But if it was anything like the rabbit thing, it was never going to happen at the opportune moment.
“Maybe it’ll go away if you get a haircut,” suggested Dean, not even trying to hide his grin.
Sam glared at him. He’d actually been thinking about getting a haircut, but like hell was he going to now.
He discovered his ability to turn things purple with a touch when he was getting dressed one morning.
“Nice outfit, Chuck Bass,” Dean said, and wouldn’t let him in the car until they worked out how the power functioned.
Sam didn’t get the reference, but he knew it was an insult. Sadly, the purple touch didn’t work on Dean, but it did turn his favourite grunge-green shirt a violent shade of magenta.
“Fine!” Dean threw up his hands in angry surrender, “I’ll help you find your Yoda, just stop touching my stuff!”
They stayed two more days in the crappy motel room with two violet walls, a lavender table and mauve chair, and just enough rabbit fluff to speckle Sam’s clothes (varying shades of purple) with grey fur.
Dean rang Bobby to see if he could help. Sam looked up internet run self-control seminars on his laptop, which was now a particularly ugly shade of puce. They didn’t help.
“I found someone,” Dean announced, “Well, Bobby found him. We just have to get to him in Texas - what’s wrong with your face?”
“Something’s wrong, man,” Sam said, trying and failing to keep the note of panic out of his voice.
Dean stood up, looking concerned. “Try not to worry, man. We’ll be there in two days. A couple of weeks of training and you’ll be able become Stylist Sam at will. What’s going on?”
“I’m seeing vertical brown lines. They’re kind of moving. And there’s a really bad pain in the back of my head.” Sam breathed deeply. Don’t panic.
“I’m going to take a look, okay?” Dean walked carefully around to stand behind him, moving as if he was afraid Sam was about to start shooting lasers from his nostrils or something.
Sam shut his eyes, but the brown lines didn’t go away. He felt his brother’s hands gently part his hair, and then the brown lines were gone, replaced by Dean’s puzzled face.
“Dude, you have an eye in the back of your head,” Dean waved at him, “It’s so gross.”
Sam turned to look at him, momentarily forgetting that he didn’t need to. The second he opened his eyes, a weird dizzy feeling came over him, followed by Dean’s face superimposed over the view behind Sam, and then fuzzy brown lines over everything again as Dean let go of his hair.
“Maybe it’s not superpowers at all,” Dean suggested, “It could be the trickster trying to tell you to cut your hair and eat and dress like a normal person.”
“Who are you using as a model for a normal person? Because I have never seen anyone wearing this much purple. Besides, this doesn’t feel like the trickster, it feels like my visions. Except less painful and less useful.”
ldquo;Are you sure?”
“I tried summoning him a couple of days ago. It’s nothing to do with him.”
“Okay, we’re going to Texas. Try not to turn my car purple.”
Dean made him wear gloves and opened and shut the passenger door for him. The bedspread Dean had covered the seat with still turned purple.
As it turned out, 360 degree vision made him so carsick he wanted to rip out his own stomach. Thankfully, the eye vanished about two hours in, just after the third vomit-stop. Unfortunately, the hairbrushes came back and when the residual nausea got to him, he couldn’t get the door open in time.
Dean was not happy.
Two days later, they finally made it to the house of Cecil C. Cecelio, Master of Psychic energy. Sam was a rabbit at the time, so he had to let his brother do all the talking.
“Bobby sent us,” Dean announced to the small, pudgy, slightly effeminate man who opened the door.
“Ah, Sam, I take it.” Cecil looked expectantly at Dean.
Sam whuffled and thumped the ground with his powerful hind legs.
“No, that’s Sam,” Dean pointed down at him.
“Hmm, animal transformation. One of the more difficult talents to control.”
The patch of grass Sam was standing on turned purple.
It took a month of intense training (“Concentrate, Sam. You are one with the rabbit. You are the rabbit, and the rabbit is you.” “Dammit! Freakin’ hairbrushes!”), but finally the day came when Sam mastered his powers.
Sam stepped out of the shower, wasting no time in drying himself and getting dressed. A month had been a long time to handle the company of Cecil C. Cecelio. He couldn’t wait to get back on the road. He rifled through his bag of toiletries. “Dean?” He called. “Have you seen my comb?”
There was no reply. Sam balled his hand into a fist and concentrated, visualising bristles working their way out of his hand.
Turned out these superpowers had some advantages after all.
Genre: Gen, Crack/humour
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,224
Summary: Sam's psychic powers come into their own. AU in which Sam's powers are much less useful evil than in S4.
The day Sam’s powers came to him was not a good day. The problem was not, as one might have expected, Dean. Dean’s initial reaction was, of course, to declare the powers a slippery slope to the loss of Sam’s humanity, and the first step in Sam’s journey to the dark side. His second reaction was much more problematic. He couldn’t stop laughing long enough to do anything. Such as, for instance, helping Sam find a mysterious yoda-type master of psychic energy to teach him to control the powers.
Having superpowers was not the picnic everyone made it out to be. For one thing, they seemed to manifest totally at random, with no relationship to the situation whatsoever. Secondly, they were the most singularly unhelpful set of superpowers in the history of the world. He could be interviewing a witness, then boom, rabbit. The ability to become a rabbit could conceivably be useful if he ever needed to blend in on farmland or in a pet store, he supposed, but its usefulness quickly disappeared in light of the fact that he a) couldn’t do it on purpose and b) had no idea when he would turn back. He wasn’t even a talking rabbit.
It wasn’t always becoming a rabbit, either. After three days of random episodes of rabbitiness, Sam was losing his patience. Dean’s only suggestion had been to “Stop eating all that green crap, Flopsy.” He clearly wasn’t treating the situation with the seriousness it deserved. Sam would have to learn to use the powers himself, and to do that he needed help. He began to search the net for someone to teach him control. He typed “turning into rabbit” into the search engine, but all it came up with was a bunch of weird videos. He growled in frustration and clenched his fists, a strange prickling sensation filling his hands.
“Dude, are those hairbrushes?” Dean stared curiously at what had been Sam’s hands.
“Dammit! Now I can’t even type!” Sam banged the table angrily with his right hairbrush. Actually, that might be quite good in a fight, when he inevitably lost his weapon. It hurt like hell to get hit with the spiky side of a hairbrush. But if it was anything like the rabbit thing, it was never going to happen at the opportune moment.
“Maybe it’ll go away if you get a haircut,” suggested Dean, not even trying to hide his grin.
Sam glared at him. He’d actually been thinking about getting a haircut, but like hell was he going to now.
He discovered his ability to turn things purple with a touch when he was getting dressed one morning.
“Nice outfit, Chuck Bass,” Dean said, and wouldn’t let him in the car until they worked out how the power functioned.
Sam didn’t get the reference, but he knew it was an insult. Sadly, the purple touch didn’t work on Dean, but it did turn his favourite grunge-green shirt a violent shade of magenta.
“Fine!” Dean threw up his hands in angry surrender, “I’ll help you find your Yoda, just stop touching my stuff!”
They stayed two more days in the crappy motel room with two violet walls, a lavender table and mauve chair, and just enough rabbit fluff to speckle Sam’s clothes (varying shades of purple) with grey fur.
Dean rang Bobby to see if he could help. Sam looked up internet run self-control seminars on his laptop, which was now a particularly ugly shade of puce. They didn’t help.
“I found someone,” Dean announced, “Well, Bobby found him. We just have to get to him in Texas - what’s wrong with your face?”
“Something’s wrong, man,” Sam said, trying and failing to keep the note of panic out of his voice.
Dean stood up, looking concerned. “Try not to worry, man. We’ll be there in two days. A couple of weeks of training and you’ll be able become Stylist Sam at will. What’s going on?”
“I’m seeing vertical brown lines. They’re kind of moving. And there’s a really bad pain in the back of my head.” Sam breathed deeply. Don’t panic.
“I’m going to take a look, okay?” Dean walked carefully around to stand behind him, moving as if he was afraid Sam was about to start shooting lasers from his nostrils or something.
Sam shut his eyes, but the brown lines didn’t go away. He felt his brother’s hands gently part his hair, and then the brown lines were gone, replaced by Dean’s puzzled face.
“Dude, you have an eye in the back of your head,” Dean waved at him, “It’s so gross.”
Sam turned to look at him, momentarily forgetting that he didn’t need to. The second he opened his eyes, a weird dizzy feeling came over him, followed by Dean’s face superimposed over the view behind Sam, and then fuzzy brown lines over everything again as Dean let go of his hair.
“Maybe it’s not superpowers at all,” Dean suggested, “It could be the trickster trying to tell you to cut your hair and eat and dress like a normal person.”
“Who are you using as a model for a normal person? Because I have never seen anyone wearing this much purple. Besides, this doesn’t feel like the trickster, it feels like my visions. Except less painful and less useful.”
ldquo;Are you sure?”
“I tried summoning him a couple of days ago. It’s nothing to do with him.”
“Okay, we’re going to Texas. Try not to turn my car purple.”
Dean made him wear gloves and opened and shut the passenger door for him. The bedspread Dean had covered the seat with still turned purple.
As it turned out, 360 degree vision made him so carsick he wanted to rip out his own stomach. Thankfully, the eye vanished about two hours in, just after the third vomit-stop. Unfortunately, the hairbrushes came back and when the residual nausea got to him, he couldn’t get the door open in time.
Dean was not happy.
Two days later, they finally made it to the house of Cecil C. Cecelio, Master of Psychic energy. Sam was a rabbit at the time, so he had to let his brother do all the talking.
“Bobby sent us,” Dean announced to the small, pudgy, slightly effeminate man who opened the door.
“Ah, Sam, I take it.” Cecil looked expectantly at Dean.
Sam whuffled and thumped the ground with his powerful hind legs.
“No, that’s Sam,” Dean pointed down at him.
“Hmm, animal transformation. One of the more difficult talents to control.”
The patch of grass Sam was standing on turned purple.
It took a month of intense training (“Concentrate, Sam. You are one with the rabbit. You are the rabbit, and the rabbit is you.” “Dammit! Freakin’ hairbrushes!”), but finally the day came when Sam mastered his powers.
Sam stepped out of the shower, wasting no time in drying himself and getting dressed. A month had been a long time to handle the company of Cecil C. Cecelio. He couldn’t wait to get back on the road. He rifled through his bag of toiletries. “Dean?” He called. “Have you seen my comb?”
There was no reply. Sam balled his hand into a fist and concentrated, visualising bristles working their way out of his hand.
Turned out these superpowers had some advantages after all.