SPN Fanfic: Vociferance
Title: Vociferance
Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby (via phone)
Rating: GEN, PG
Word Count: 900-ish?
Warnings: Contains a lot of nonsense.
Disclaimer: Kripke rules. I don't.
Summary: Not being understood is the most frustrating thing in the world. Unless you are Sam, in which case not understanding Dean is the most frustrating thing in the world.
A/N: This is the result of a writing exercise, and as such is open-ended. Extremely random silliness, absurdity and crack. No point whatsoever. Set sometime during earlyish season 4, but no spoilers.
-
Vociferance
by CaffieneKitty
-
"Check the monkey!" Dean shouted. "Check the compressed monkey!!!"
Sam sighed into the phone. "You heard that, right Bobby? That's what I mean. He's been like this all morning."
"When does a casket want to fire some motor oil? Near a riverbed!?" Dean stomped over to the hotel room's only armchair and threw himself into it.
"Sure sounds like some kind of a curse to me." Bobby's voice was tinny from the cellphone earpiece.
"We haven't had a case with anything resembling a curse-slinger in months."
"Oh, the turnips. How they glow." Dean nodded miserably.
Sam groaned and covered his eyes with his hand. "It's all gibberish, Bobby. None of it makes sense. I'm kind of wondering if... well. If Dean hasn't just gone crazy."
Dean stood up. "Wavering fields of toothpicks are on fire, violet! With a, a..." he snapped his fingers, searching for a word, "...an all-terrain banana! Kobold cheese-doodles!" He crossed his arms and glared into a corner of the room.
Sam stared over at Dean and blinked. "...Yeah."
"I s'pose it's possible," said Bobby. "Things he's been through lately'd put anyone up for a long stretch in a straightjacket."
"No kidding."
"There's no chance someone drugged him? LSD sounds about right."
Sam watched Dean pace back and forth at the end of the bed, then sit in the armchair again and glare at his shoes. "Not that I'm aware of, but I did leave him alone at the bar last night."
"Think maybe someone slipped something in his drink?"
"Like an LSD roofie?"
Dean snorted. "Harbor lights go north, when a mountain sings that canteloupe."
Sam glanced over at Dean. "...I think that might mean no."
Dean sat forward, nodding quickly. "In the moose! It dances in the moose!"
"Hey..." Sam tilted his head and looked at Dean. "Hey, Bobby. I think it's a one-way thing. I think he knows what I'm saying."
"Massachusetts!" said Dean, throwing his hands up in the air and looking towards the ceiling.
"Is he lucid?" asked Bobby. "Aside from speaking nonsense, is he otherwise confused or disoriented?"
"No more than he usually is in the morning. Mainly he seems frustrated."
"Unstuffed hermit, shortstop." Dean rolled his eyes.
Sam spoke slowly and clearly. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Dean?"
Dean nodded, big and slow. "Fiiiish nuuuuuggets."
"Do you understand that I don't understand you?"
Another, less emphasized nod, with a wry smirk. "Floortiles in his crankcase, hamster."
"Okay, Bobby. He understands me, I don't understand him."
"How about writing? Does he write in gibberish?"
Sam grabbed some hotel stationery and waved it towards Dean. "Write something."
Dean raised an eyebrow.
"Just do it, please?"
Dean shook his head and bent over the paper, muttering, "Foot-rail creek." He touched the pen to the paper, chuckled, wrote something, then put the pen down and handed the paper back to Sam with a smirk. Sam looked at it.
"So?" asked Bobby.
"It says, 'Floral halibut flying in unreconstituted gift-wrap.'"
"Granola?" Dean said, standing up, grabbing the paper back from Sam and peering at it with a scowl. "Teacups. Bendable teacups!"
"Guess that means writing's not an option then." Sam could hear Bobby tapping a pen against something in contemplation. "Is there any kind of pattern to what he says? Does he use the same gibberish twice? Maybe it's translatable."
"He's repeated a couple words. Let me check." Sam turned to Dean. "Hey Dean, can you repeat the last thing you said?"
Dean looked puzzled. "'Flatulent aardvark?'"
Sam shook his head. "No, no the last thing you said. I heard it as, uh, 'bendable teacups.'"
Dean snorted. "How a kitchen makes him puncture, 'vulcanizing edifice', horsefly?
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is getting us nowhere. Dean, say 'Sam'"
"Button."
"Say 'Sam'"
"Hyacinth."
"Say 'Sam'"
"Asteroid laser pudding." Dean smirked.
Sam stared at Dean and raised an eyebrow.
Dean sighed. "Eggplant."
"Nope, no pattern, Bobby. However, Dean is still a smartass."
Dean swatted his brother's arm with a half-grin. "Narwhal."
"Jerk," Sam said, automatically responding to Dean's tone, then did a double-take.
Dean beamed. Sam grinned back.
"How about the basics? Nodding, shaking his head?"
Sam turned his attention back to Bobby. "He's consistent on that."
"So you two could communicate if you only ask him things that can be answered with yes or no?"
"You mean play twenty questions?"
"Tracery empties the swamp-water!" Dean frowned and tapped his watch. "Sturgeon lay barefoot in the trees, fungus."
"I think he's saying there's not enough time."
Dean nodded.
"Not enough time for what?" asked Bobby. "Does he know what's going on?"
"Do you know what's going on, Dean?" Sam said, relaying the question.
"Flexible eskimos, when they wash in dog-like euphemisms and cry." Dean stood up and grabbed his jacket.
Sam pursed his lips and nodded. "Okay then. I think Dean thinks he's on to something."
"Alright, I'll see what I can turn up on my end."
"Great, thanks Bobby."
Sam disconnected and stuffed his phone into his pocket, rattling against the Impala's keys. Dean stood in front of the door with a mildly peeved expression and held his hand out. He coughed pointedly.
"What?"
"Nutshells, marigold." Dean jerked his head towards the Impala parked in front of the hotel room.
"Oh no." Sam kept his hand on the keys in his pocket. "No, no, no. Until we get you straightened out, you are not driving."
"Fleece flippers under glass!" said Dean, shifting his balance and watching Sam's key-guarding hand.
"No you won't. Think about it, Dean. What if this gets worse? What if you get mixed up between right and left while driving? Or Stop and Yield?"
Dean's mouth twisted and his hands dropped to his sides. "Cupcakes toggled to a pristine goose," he said with disgust.
"Thought you'd see it my way," said Sam as they headed out the door to the Impala.
- - -
(and then they went and fixed the problem. That's it.)
Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby (via phone)
Rating: GEN, PG
Word Count: 900-ish?
Warnings: Contains a lot of nonsense.
Disclaimer: Kripke rules. I don't.
Summary: Not being understood is the most frustrating thing in the world. Unless you are Sam, in which case not understanding Dean is the most frustrating thing in the world.
A/N: This is the result of a writing exercise, and as such is open-ended. Extremely random silliness, absurdity and crack. No point whatsoever. Set sometime during earlyish season 4, but no spoilers.
-
Vociferance
by CaffieneKitty
-
"Check the monkey!" Dean shouted. "Check the compressed monkey!!!"
Sam sighed into the phone. "You heard that, right Bobby? That's what I mean. He's been like this all morning."
"When does a casket want to fire some motor oil? Near a riverbed!?" Dean stomped over to the hotel room's only armchair and threw himself into it.
"Sure sounds like some kind of a curse to me." Bobby's voice was tinny from the cellphone earpiece.
"We haven't had a case with anything resembling a curse-slinger in months."
"Oh, the turnips. How they glow." Dean nodded miserably.
Sam groaned and covered his eyes with his hand. "It's all gibberish, Bobby. None of it makes sense. I'm kind of wondering if... well. If Dean hasn't just gone crazy."
Dean stood up. "Wavering fields of toothpicks are on fire, violet! With a, a..." he snapped his fingers, searching for a word, "...an all-terrain banana! Kobold cheese-doodles!" He crossed his arms and glared into a corner of the room.
Sam stared over at Dean and blinked. "...Yeah."
"I s'pose it's possible," said Bobby. "Things he's been through lately'd put anyone up for a long stretch in a straightjacket."
"No kidding."
"There's no chance someone drugged him? LSD sounds about right."
Sam watched Dean pace back and forth at the end of the bed, then sit in the armchair again and glare at his shoes. "Not that I'm aware of, but I did leave him alone at the bar last night."
"Think maybe someone slipped something in his drink?"
"Like an LSD roofie?"
Dean snorted. "Harbor lights go north, when a mountain sings that canteloupe."
Sam glanced over at Dean. "...I think that might mean no."
Dean sat forward, nodding quickly. "In the moose! It dances in the moose!"
"Hey..." Sam tilted his head and looked at Dean. "Hey, Bobby. I think it's a one-way thing. I think he knows what I'm saying."
"Massachusetts!" said Dean, throwing his hands up in the air and looking towards the ceiling.
"Is he lucid?" asked Bobby. "Aside from speaking nonsense, is he otherwise confused or disoriented?"
"No more than he usually is in the morning. Mainly he seems frustrated."
"Unstuffed hermit, shortstop." Dean rolled his eyes.
Sam spoke slowly and clearly. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Dean?"
Dean nodded, big and slow. "Fiiiish nuuuuuggets."
"Do you understand that I don't understand you?"
Another, less emphasized nod, with a wry smirk. "Floortiles in his crankcase, hamster."
"Okay, Bobby. He understands me, I don't understand him."
"How about writing? Does he write in gibberish?"
Sam grabbed some hotel stationery and waved it towards Dean. "Write something."
Dean raised an eyebrow.
"Just do it, please?"
Dean shook his head and bent over the paper, muttering, "Foot-rail creek." He touched the pen to the paper, chuckled, wrote something, then put the pen down and handed the paper back to Sam with a smirk. Sam looked at it.
"So?" asked Bobby.
"It says, 'Floral halibut flying in unreconstituted gift-wrap.'"
"Granola?" Dean said, standing up, grabbing the paper back from Sam and peering at it with a scowl. "Teacups. Bendable teacups!"
"Guess that means writing's not an option then." Sam could hear Bobby tapping a pen against something in contemplation. "Is there any kind of pattern to what he says? Does he use the same gibberish twice? Maybe it's translatable."
"He's repeated a couple words. Let me check." Sam turned to Dean. "Hey Dean, can you repeat the last thing you said?"
Dean looked puzzled. "'Flatulent aardvark?'"
Sam shook his head. "No, no the last thing you said. I heard it as, uh, 'bendable teacups.'"
Dean snorted. "How a kitchen makes him puncture, 'vulcanizing edifice', horsefly?
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is getting us nowhere. Dean, say 'Sam'"
"Button."
"Say 'Sam'"
"Hyacinth."
"Say 'Sam'"
"Asteroid laser pudding." Dean smirked.
Sam stared at Dean and raised an eyebrow.
Dean sighed. "Eggplant."
"Nope, no pattern, Bobby. However, Dean is still a smartass."
Dean swatted his brother's arm with a half-grin. "Narwhal."
"Jerk," Sam said, automatically responding to Dean's tone, then did a double-take.
Dean beamed. Sam grinned back.
"How about the basics? Nodding, shaking his head?"
Sam turned his attention back to Bobby. "He's consistent on that."
"So you two could communicate if you only ask him things that can be answered with yes or no?"
"You mean play twenty questions?"
"Tracery empties the swamp-water!" Dean frowned and tapped his watch. "Sturgeon lay barefoot in the trees, fungus."
"I think he's saying there's not enough time."
Dean nodded.
"Not enough time for what?" asked Bobby. "Does he know what's going on?"
"Do you know what's going on, Dean?" Sam said, relaying the question.
"Flexible eskimos, when they wash in dog-like euphemisms and cry." Dean stood up and grabbed his jacket.
Sam pursed his lips and nodded. "Okay then. I think Dean thinks he's on to something."
"Alright, I'll see what I can turn up on my end."
"Great, thanks Bobby."
Sam disconnected and stuffed his phone into his pocket, rattling against the Impala's keys. Dean stood in front of the door with a mildly peeved expression and held his hand out. He coughed pointedly.
"What?"
"Nutshells, marigold." Dean jerked his head towards the Impala parked in front of the hotel room.
"Oh no." Sam kept his hand on the keys in his pocket. "No, no, no. Until we get you straightened out, you are not driving."
"Fleece flippers under glass!" said Dean, shifting his balance and watching Sam's key-guarding hand.
"No you won't. Think about it, Dean. What if this gets worse? What if you get mixed up between right and left while driving? Or Stop and Yield?"
Dean's mouth twisted and his hands dropped to his sides. "Cupcakes toggled to a pristine goose," he said with disgust.
"Thought you'd see it my way," said Sam as they headed out the door to the Impala.
- - -
(and then they went and fixed the problem. That's it.)