Fic: "Conversely Speaking" (Sam/Dean, PG-13)
Just a bit of madness, this, but fun! Written for memphis86 and her prompt of Sam/Dean, cursed dancing shoes.
They're sort of dancing shoes.
Well, they're shoes, at least. And they're cursed. And they do dance.
(Dean really wishes they didn't.)
Title: Conversely Speaking
Rating: PG-13 (innuendo, cussin')
Pairing: Sam/Dean
W/C: 1000 on the dot
It's harder than you'd think to destroy cursed dancing shoes. Seriously, the bastards just clog their way right out of the fire every time Dean thinks they've finally started to burn.
He looks at Sam. Sam looks back, shrugs in that "we're stuck here; you got any better ideas?" kind of way and uses a tire iron to poke the dancing shoes back toward the fire. "Maybe we should drop a grate on top or something."
"Maybe we should stop pussying around and show 'em we mean business." Dean snags the tire iron from Sam and winds up like he's Tiger Woods. (What? So he watches ESPN sometimes. Sometimes. Shuddup.)
Pow! Pow!
The dancing shoes jitterbug on their bed of coals and come out Charlestoning.
Dean considers using the tire iron on his own head instead. Seriously, trying to conjure up Fred Astaire to channel him for the ultimate competitive ballroom cheat? How could anyone have thought that'd go well?
More to the point, how looney-tunes did a guy have to be not to try and summon Elvis instead? Young Elvis, not scary Vegas Elvis. Dude had some moves and if you ask Dean, no one's gonna waste time assessing your footwork when you're shakin' your moneymaker.
Besides, then they'd be dealing with blue suede shoes, probably. Shoes with some style, sort of, which brings Dean to his third and most important question: seriously, who'd put all that effort into enchanting a pair of Chucks? What the hell?
Man, their life is too weird some days. By which Dean means all days.
The sneakers soft-shoe past Dean. He just barely manages to pin them by a lace and flip 'em into the fire, not that he figures that'll last.
It might be easier if they could pin the suckers down. Thing is, if flesh touches canvas or laces or sole then they're gonna be the ones dancing the night away, and no thanks. Anything currently actively organic is up for the same fate, which is why they're using a cauldron sunk into the ground and chemical accelerant and not one of the branches from a handy tree. He's wary enough about taking his chances at the business end of a hunk of metal.
Sam's not paying attention. "They don't even look right. I mean, aren't dancing shoes supposed to be…" Sam waves vaguely. "Sparkly? High-heeled?"
These are dire times, but they'd have to be a hell of a lot worse for Dean not to take advantage of a straight line like that one. "Sammy, you sly dog. Got a cross-dressing kink I didn't know about? Not nice to hold out on a guy like this."
Sam's glare and huff rank around eleven on the one-to-ten scale. Pretty sweet. Puts Dean in a good enough mood to play soccer with the tire iron and the Riverdancing Chucks before he punts 'em back in to roast.
"We're gonna be here until one or both of us gets a flamethrower and a shield, aren't we?" Sam says, sulking.
"Or a nuke." And don't think he's not tempted. Dean risks leaning on the tire iron. The sneaker not pinned down rises vertically and if it weren't for Sam moving quicker than he looks capable of Dean would have been left with a footprint on his face and boogie fever.
Sam helps him up. "Would it be so bad to let them go?" he asks, watching the second shoe clamber out and go hop-skipping after its friend. He's tired, Dean's tired, and they'd planned to spend most of the night crashed out with two pizzas, four dozen hot wings, a six-pack of beer and a twelve-pack of condoms. Not to go chasing a pair of shoes over the river and through the woods after they escaped the finals round.
It's plenty tempting to pretend they got away, but… "You want to be responsible for some poor schmuck dancing themselves to death, fine, but not me." Wielding the iron in both hands, Dean chases the rear sneaker. Maybe if he beats it into chunks of Chucks and tries burning the pieces…
Got 'em in range. Dean winds up for a home run. And because there are lines he hands himself he can't resist, he goes for it and growls, "Say goodnight, Gracie."
The shoe yelps. Fucking yelps. And then it falls over, totally still.
Over at the edge of the tree line, its mate stops and does a lightning fast heel-and-toe. It's galloped, or rather tap-danced halfway back before it jerks to a stop, pirouettes, and stops with its toe pointed toward heaven.
Dean stares. Sam stares. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me. Sam, don't--"
Sam dangles the Converse by one charred lace. "Dude. I think it's dead."
Dean considers debating it. Protesting the insanity. Trying to figure out how the fuck a shoe can be dead.
Then he figures hell with it and kicks the Converse in the fire. They light up and char down with what might possibly be called a tuneful crackle but Dean's not even going there.
"Huh," Sam says. "Was that the Moonlight Sonata?"
Dean shoves his hands in his coat pockets and grumbles.
Sam looks at him, starts to say something, possibly about grace notes, but wisely changes his mind.
Instead, he says, "I think the wing place is still open."
"No shirt, no shoes, no service?" Dean heaves the tire iron over his shoulder. "Sounds like a plan to me."
"Better still," Sam says, walking side by side with him, "They deliver."
"Yeah?" Dean likes the sound of Sam's tone. It's more of a leer than a timbre. "And?"
"And you could--" Sam whispers in Dean's ear. Dean misses a lot of the finer points but the words "fuck" and "me" and "with your boots on" come through loud and clear.
He would be tempted to jump up and click his heels together, but, y'know. That'd just be dumb, and besides, sounds like he has way better things to do now.
They're sort of dancing shoes.
Well, they're shoes, at least. And they're cursed. And they do dance.
(Dean really wishes they didn't.)
Title: Conversely Speaking
Rating: PG-13 (innuendo, cussin')
Pairing: Sam/Dean
W/C: 1000 on the dot
It's harder than you'd think to destroy cursed dancing shoes. Seriously, the bastards just clog their way right out of the fire every time Dean thinks they've finally started to burn.
He looks at Sam. Sam looks back, shrugs in that "we're stuck here; you got any better ideas?" kind of way and uses a tire iron to poke the dancing shoes back toward the fire. "Maybe we should drop a grate on top or something."
"Maybe we should stop pussying around and show 'em we mean business." Dean snags the tire iron from Sam and winds up like he's Tiger Woods. (What? So he watches ESPN sometimes. Sometimes. Shuddup.)
Pow! Pow!
The dancing shoes jitterbug on their bed of coals and come out Charlestoning.
Dean considers using the tire iron on his own head instead. Seriously, trying to conjure up Fred Astaire to channel him for the ultimate competitive ballroom cheat? How could anyone have thought that'd go well?
More to the point, how looney-tunes did a guy have to be not to try and summon Elvis instead? Young Elvis, not scary Vegas Elvis. Dude had some moves and if you ask Dean, no one's gonna waste time assessing your footwork when you're shakin' your moneymaker.
Besides, then they'd be dealing with blue suede shoes, probably. Shoes with some style, sort of, which brings Dean to his third and most important question: seriously, who'd put all that effort into enchanting a pair of Chucks? What the hell?
Man, their life is too weird some days. By which Dean means all days.
The sneakers soft-shoe past Dean. He just barely manages to pin them by a lace and flip 'em into the fire, not that he figures that'll last.
It might be easier if they could pin the suckers down. Thing is, if flesh touches canvas or laces or sole then they're gonna be the ones dancing the night away, and no thanks. Anything currently actively organic is up for the same fate, which is why they're using a cauldron sunk into the ground and chemical accelerant and not one of the branches from a handy tree. He's wary enough about taking his chances at the business end of a hunk of metal.
Sam's not paying attention. "They don't even look right. I mean, aren't dancing shoes supposed to be…" Sam waves vaguely. "Sparkly? High-heeled?"
These are dire times, but they'd have to be a hell of a lot worse for Dean not to take advantage of a straight line like that one. "Sammy, you sly dog. Got a cross-dressing kink I didn't know about? Not nice to hold out on a guy like this."
Sam's glare and huff rank around eleven on the one-to-ten scale. Pretty sweet. Puts Dean in a good enough mood to play soccer with the tire iron and the Riverdancing Chucks before he punts 'em back in to roast.
"We're gonna be here until one or both of us gets a flamethrower and a shield, aren't we?" Sam says, sulking.
"Or a nuke." And don't think he's not tempted. Dean risks leaning on the tire iron. The sneaker not pinned down rises vertically and if it weren't for Sam moving quicker than he looks capable of Dean would have been left with a footprint on his face and boogie fever.
Sam helps him up. "Would it be so bad to let them go?" he asks, watching the second shoe clamber out and go hop-skipping after its friend. He's tired, Dean's tired, and they'd planned to spend most of the night crashed out with two pizzas, four dozen hot wings, a six-pack of beer and a twelve-pack of condoms. Not to go chasing a pair of shoes over the river and through the woods after they escaped the finals round.
It's plenty tempting to pretend they got away, but… "You want to be responsible for some poor schmuck dancing themselves to death, fine, but not me." Wielding the iron in both hands, Dean chases the rear sneaker. Maybe if he beats it into chunks of Chucks and tries burning the pieces…
Got 'em in range. Dean winds up for a home run. And because there are lines he hands himself he can't resist, he goes for it and growls, "Say goodnight, Gracie."
The shoe yelps. Fucking yelps. And then it falls over, totally still.
Over at the edge of the tree line, its mate stops and does a lightning fast heel-and-toe. It's galloped, or rather tap-danced halfway back before it jerks to a stop, pirouettes, and stops with its toe pointed toward heaven.
Dean stares. Sam stares. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me. Sam, don't--"
Sam dangles the Converse by one charred lace. "Dude. I think it's dead."
Dean considers debating it. Protesting the insanity. Trying to figure out how the fuck a shoe can be dead.
Then he figures hell with it and kicks the Converse in the fire. They light up and char down with what might possibly be called a tuneful crackle but Dean's not even going there.
"Huh," Sam says. "Was that the Moonlight Sonata?"
Dean shoves his hands in his coat pockets and grumbles.
Sam looks at him, starts to say something, possibly about grace notes, but wisely changes his mind.
Instead, he says, "I think the wing place is still open."
"No shirt, no shoes, no service?" Dean heaves the tire iron over his shoulder. "Sounds like a plan to me."
"Better still," Sam says, walking side by side with him, "They deliver."
"Yeah?" Dean likes the sound of Sam's tone. It's more of a leer than a timbre. "And?"
"And you could--" Sam whispers in Dean's ear. Dean misses a lot of the finer points but the words "fuck" and "me" and "with your boots on" come through loud and clear.
He would be tempted to jump up and click his heels together, but, y'know. That'd just be dumb, and besides, sounds like he has way better things to do now.