Asylum_spnfics gen fic - Roadkill Revenge
I think my weekend in the asylum is catching up with me. I'm so tired I can barely stand up. I sound like Barry White with a really bad chest infection. But it was so worth it.
I'm still snowed under with the Literacy Action Plan of Doom, but I'm taking a break to post my asylum_spnfics fic.
TITLE: Roadkill Revenge
AUTHOR: eloise_bright
RATING: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Only playing.
PROMPT: written for glorfinniel. The boys having to stay not in a motel but in a TENT for a night while on a hunt and how the pair feel about their accommodation.
NOTES: 1600 words. Set after Ep. 2.12-Nightshifter, but with no particular spoilers. The haunted cemetery, Job Corps, and Liberty Orchards candy factory are all real places in and around the Cascades in Washington state. Many thanks to yasminke and krazykipper for their sterling beta-work.
Dean stretches his feet towards the campfire, the flames licking around his toes. Toe, mostly. It’s his last pair of clean socks and there’s a neat hole big enough for his little toe to poke through. He wiggles it experimentally, and looks inordinately pleased with himself when he fits a second toe through the gap.
“Dude.” Sam curls his lip in disgust, then aims a lightly toasted marshmallow at Dean’s face. He gets a direct hit in just below Dean’s eye.
Dean swears fluently, then peels it off, shrugs, and shoves it in his mouth.
“Gross.” God, Dean will eat anything.
“What? Not like you licked it first.” Sam just offers a smirk in reply. “Aw, shit, Sammy.”
Dean spits the half-chewed mass out, and it lands dead in the centre of the fire with a wet hiss. It chars quickly, flaring bright just before it melts into goo on the ashes, like some weird kind of ectoplasm. Okay, so maybe he won’t eat anything.
“Hey, Chubby Bunny, stop stuffing your face and hand over the sugar.” Dean catches the bag one-handed, and spears three marshmallows.
“You know, a kid died from that.” Sam nods to the marshmallows.
“Right. Demonic s’mores.” Dean flips him off, balancing the marshmallow-laden stick over the campfire with casual dexterity.
“Nah, Chubby Bunny. Choked to death. Swear to God.”
“That’s a bunch of crap. Urban legend, Sammy.” The marshmallows are starting to sizzle and droop, and Dean snags the first one, smacking his lips and making unnecessarily gross slurping noises as he swallows.
Sam leans back on his elbows and raises his eyebrow. “And we hunt…?”
“Point taken.” Dean slides the second marshmallow off the stick, flips it into the air and catches it in his mouth, dog-like. “You were so the Chubby Bunny king. Remember that time in Akron? How many?”
“Thirty-nine.” The fact that he can remember the exact number doesn’t embarrass Sam as much as it probably should. Dean tosses the last marshmallow over to him and Sam snags it easily. It’s hot on his tongue; burnt sugar-sweet as it slides down his throat.
“Dude, you were a freaking wide-mouth frog.” Dean sits back, and gives his toes a slightly more contemplative wriggle. “Should have sold you to a travelling freak show. Could have made a fortune.”
It’s warm, and the campfire scents the night air, the familiarity of charred franks and beans wafting on the breeze, a comfortable memory. It was Dean who suggested they camp out-makes sense, the FBI’s bound to be watching motels and who knows how many of their fake credit cards are flagged by now. Maybe if he could persuade Dean to start using boyband aliases instead of Motörhead drummers…
“What’s with the tent?” Not that Sam’s not impressed, it’s state of the art, four seasons, ripstop nylon, ventilation panels and a freaking window onto the stars, but the whole idea of a tent is like the anti-Dean.
“Remember Rocky the Flying Roadkill?”
Sam is only slightly puzzled by the non-sequitur. Dean’s thought processes are a mystery to all, including Dean, and he’s long given up on expecting logical coherence from his brother. He does indeed remember the infamous squirrel stew, served to them as children during one of Dad’s wilderness survival training exercises. It had been one of John Winchester’s less successful culinary creations.
“I remember Rocky’s Revenge.”
Dean groans then, long and loud, with a hint of a laugh underneath. “Jesus, I thought my insides were gonna fall outta my ass.”
“Oh, thanks for that image.”
“Oh, don’t be such a prissy little bitch. I saved your ass that time.”
Sam nods reluctantly. He’d flat-out refused to eat the stew, preferring to go to bed hungry. Dean had to come to his rescue later, and handed over a pack of contraband Cheetos to stave off the worst of Sam’s hunger pangs.
“You so owe me.”
“Yeah, yeah, put it on the list.” Sam’s heard this song before. Dean’s kind of obsessive when it comes to his snack foods.
Dean’s response is pine-cone shaped, with enough curve on it to send it zinging past Sam’s nose and somehow still smack him on the ear.
“Anyway,” Dean continues pointedly. “Rocky? Turned out he had friends. Or relations. Descendants. What the fuck ever.” Dean waves his hand dismissively. “Summer oh-three we were up in Washington state, checking out a cemetery near the Wannabee river. Thirteen Steps to Hell, or something.”
“Wenatchee River.” Sam corrects him softly. “That’s Maltby Cemetery.”
“See, I told Dad Geek Boy would know,” Dean says, so quietly that Sam wonders if he’s even aware he’s said it aloud.
“The cemetery was a bust, turned out it was just kids were pulling pranks on each other, but we got lucky, caught a haunting at a Job Corps Center further north. Things were going fine till we hit the local bars and Dad Fast Eddied the local candy baron’s pain in the ass progeny.” Dean’s voice becomes almost wistful. “Man, those Aplets and Cotlets were awesome.”
In what appears to be some sort of memorial to the lost candy, Dean impales another handful of marshmallows and twirls the stick over the fire before continuing.
“So we’re laying low, and Dad decides we’re gonna have to bivouac.”
Sam groans in sympathy. He remembers nights spent huddled in a moth-eaten army surplus sleeping bag, the tip of his nose feeling like it’d been dipped in liquid nitrogen, actively praying for something to come attack them so that Dad would at least let them sleep in the car.
“Balmy summer evening, bottle of Jack, and a bunch of spirits laid to rest. I mean, where’s the bad?” Dean is warming to his subject. The flames flicker, shadows dancing across his face, but Dean’s relaxed, his smile unguarded, his face open and easy like it hasn’t been since - well, Sam can’t remember since when. Since Manning, maybe.
“Anyway, we hit the hay, only me and Dad, we’re both a little trashed, you know?”
Sam hears the grin in Dean’s voice and it makes his own throat tight, like he’s having to breathe around a hole in his chest. Sam’s afraid to speak, afraid if he interrupts, Dean will actually realise what he’s saying, and stop talking.
“So we crash, and I’m off in dreamland with Jessica Alba, when I hear this screaming. Swear to god, man, full-on, high-pitched screaming.” Dean moves his hands wide apart to demonstrate. “I come to, and Dad’s on his feet, and he’s dancing, Sammy.” Dean looks over at Sam, his eyes shining in the firelight. “Slapping his thighs and shaking his ass like he’s John fucking Travolta.”
The mental image makes Sam grin so wide it hurts his cheeks.
“Turns out he was sharing his sleeping bag with a squirrel, and it got a little too friendly.” Dean is shaking with poorly-repressed hysteria. “I told him it was maybe just looking for nuts.”
The snort explodes out of Sam, and that’s the signal for Dean to let go, cackling wildly. “But see, that’s not the best part. Best part is the squirrel was totally freaked out by this six-foot guy screaming like a goddamn girl, and it kinda lost control of its bladder. All over Dad’s sleeping bag. While he was in it.”
Sam huffs out a breath, his ribs aching. “No more, please.”
Dean is not going to be deterred. “Turns out squirrel pee is a pretty effective supernatural repellent. And it works really well on people too. They wouldn’t even let him into the local diner for breakfast. I had to get take-out coffee and a doggy bag.”
Dean rubs his hand over his chin thoughtfully. “Don’t think he appreciated the whole bubonic plague warning either. Had to haul his ass to the clinic in Leavenworth to get his rabies shots. Anyway, soon as he got the needle out of his ass, Dad headed for the nearest outdoor store, shelled out for the top of the range deluxe model you see before you today,” Dean finishes, flapping his hand at the tent.
Sam wipes his eyes, and reaches down into the backpack for fresh beers. He tosses one to Dean, who catches it one-handed, and snap-twists the cap with the edge of his ring. Sam remembers summers ago, watching Dean perfect that trick, and thinking that his big brother was the coolest guy ever. He never told Dean, though. Not like he needs the affirmation or anything.
Sam leans over and clinks his own bottle against his brother’s. “To Rocky.”
Dean taps his bottle in return. “May he rest in peace.”
They drink their beers in companionable silence, and Dean finishes up the marshmallows, then staggers off to hide the remaining snacks far enough from the tent in case Rocky decides to invite Yogi and Boo Boo over for dinner.
Sam does the salt lines, circling the campsite, and then climbs into the tent, commandeering the larger of the sleeping bags before Dean returns.
He’s zipped in and snuggled up to his neck when Dean wanders back to the camp. He takes it pretty well, considering, just looks at Sam and grins, then unzips the smaller sleeping bag and crawls in. “Sleep well, Sammy.”
It’s only as he pulls the fabric in tight around his head and inhales, that Sam realises his mistake. “Dean?”
“Mmm?” Dean’s voice is convincingly sleepy, but Sam doesn’t buy it for a second. He looks over and sees that Dean’s shoulders are shaking. Hard. Bastard’s laughing his goddamn ass off.
“When Dad bought the tent, he got a new sleeping bag, right? Dean? Right?”
A/N - I already wrote the Flying Squirrel stew fic. It's here: Rocky
I'm still snowed under with the Literacy Action Plan of Doom, but I'm taking a break to post my asylum_spnfics fic.
TITLE: Roadkill Revenge
AUTHOR: eloise_bright
RATING: PG13 (gen)
CHARACTERS: Dean and Sam
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Only playing.
PROMPT: written for glorfinniel. The boys having to stay not in a motel but in a TENT for a night while on a hunt and how the pair feel about their accommodation.
NOTES: 1600 words. Set after Ep. 2.12-Nightshifter, but with no particular spoilers. The haunted cemetery, Job Corps, and Liberty Orchards candy factory are all real places in and around the Cascades in Washington state. Many thanks to yasminke and krazykipper for their sterling beta-work.
Dean stretches his feet towards the campfire, the flames licking around his toes. Toe, mostly. It’s his last pair of clean socks and there’s a neat hole big enough for his little toe to poke through. He wiggles it experimentally, and looks inordinately pleased with himself when he fits a second toe through the gap.
“Dude.” Sam curls his lip in disgust, then aims a lightly toasted marshmallow at Dean’s face. He gets a direct hit in just below Dean’s eye.
Dean swears fluently, then peels it off, shrugs, and shoves it in his mouth.
“Gross.” God, Dean will eat anything.
“What? Not like you licked it first.” Sam just offers a smirk in reply. “Aw, shit, Sammy.”
Dean spits the half-chewed mass out, and it lands dead in the centre of the fire with a wet hiss. It chars quickly, flaring bright just before it melts into goo on the ashes, like some weird kind of ectoplasm. Okay, so maybe he won’t eat anything.
“Hey, Chubby Bunny, stop stuffing your face and hand over the sugar.” Dean catches the bag one-handed, and spears three marshmallows.
“You know, a kid died from that.” Sam nods to the marshmallows.
“Right. Demonic s’mores.” Dean flips him off, balancing the marshmallow-laden stick over the campfire with casual dexterity.
“Nah, Chubby Bunny. Choked to death. Swear to God.”
“That’s a bunch of crap. Urban legend, Sammy.” The marshmallows are starting to sizzle and droop, and Dean snags the first one, smacking his lips and making unnecessarily gross slurping noises as he swallows.
Sam leans back on his elbows and raises his eyebrow. “And we hunt…?”
“Point taken.” Dean slides the second marshmallow off the stick, flips it into the air and catches it in his mouth, dog-like. “You were so the Chubby Bunny king. Remember that time in Akron? How many?”
“Thirty-nine.” The fact that he can remember the exact number doesn’t embarrass Sam as much as it probably should. Dean tosses the last marshmallow over to him and Sam snags it easily. It’s hot on his tongue; burnt sugar-sweet as it slides down his throat.
“Dude, you were a freaking wide-mouth frog.” Dean sits back, and gives his toes a slightly more contemplative wriggle. “Should have sold you to a travelling freak show. Could have made a fortune.”
It’s warm, and the campfire scents the night air, the familiarity of charred franks and beans wafting on the breeze, a comfortable memory. It was Dean who suggested they camp out-makes sense, the FBI’s bound to be watching motels and who knows how many of their fake credit cards are flagged by now. Maybe if he could persuade Dean to start using boyband aliases instead of Motörhead drummers…
“What’s with the tent?” Not that Sam’s not impressed, it’s state of the art, four seasons, ripstop nylon, ventilation panels and a freaking window onto the stars, but the whole idea of a tent is like the anti-Dean.
“Remember Rocky the Flying Roadkill?”
Sam is only slightly puzzled by the non-sequitur. Dean’s thought processes are a mystery to all, including Dean, and he’s long given up on expecting logical coherence from his brother. He does indeed remember the infamous squirrel stew, served to them as children during one of Dad’s wilderness survival training exercises. It had been one of John Winchester’s less successful culinary creations.
“I remember Rocky’s Revenge.”
Dean groans then, long and loud, with a hint of a laugh underneath. “Jesus, I thought my insides were gonna fall outta my ass.”
“Oh, thanks for that image.”
“Oh, don’t be such a prissy little bitch. I saved your ass that time.”
Sam nods reluctantly. He’d flat-out refused to eat the stew, preferring to go to bed hungry. Dean had to come to his rescue later, and handed over a pack of contraband Cheetos to stave off the worst of Sam’s hunger pangs.
“You so owe me.”
“Yeah, yeah, put it on the list.” Sam’s heard this song before. Dean’s kind of obsessive when it comes to his snack foods.
Dean’s response is pine-cone shaped, with enough curve on it to send it zinging past Sam’s nose and somehow still smack him on the ear.
“Anyway,” Dean continues pointedly. “Rocky? Turned out he had friends. Or relations. Descendants. What the fuck ever.” Dean waves his hand dismissively. “Summer oh-three we were up in Washington state, checking out a cemetery near the Wannabee river. Thirteen Steps to Hell, or something.”
“Wenatchee River.” Sam corrects him softly. “That’s Maltby Cemetery.”
“See, I told Dad Geek Boy would know,” Dean says, so quietly that Sam wonders if he’s even aware he’s said it aloud.
“The cemetery was a bust, turned out it was just kids were pulling pranks on each other, but we got lucky, caught a haunting at a Job Corps Center further north. Things were going fine till we hit the local bars and Dad Fast Eddied the local candy baron’s pain in the ass progeny.” Dean’s voice becomes almost wistful. “Man, those Aplets and Cotlets were awesome.”
In what appears to be some sort of memorial to the lost candy, Dean impales another handful of marshmallows and twirls the stick over the fire before continuing.
“So we’re laying low, and Dad decides we’re gonna have to bivouac.”
Sam groans in sympathy. He remembers nights spent huddled in a moth-eaten army surplus sleeping bag, the tip of his nose feeling like it’d been dipped in liquid nitrogen, actively praying for something to come attack them so that Dad would at least let them sleep in the car.
“Balmy summer evening, bottle of Jack, and a bunch of spirits laid to rest. I mean, where’s the bad?” Dean is warming to his subject. The flames flicker, shadows dancing across his face, but Dean’s relaxed, his smile unguarded, his face open and easy like it hasn’t been since - well, Sam can’t remember since when. Since Manning, maybe.
“Anyway, we hit the hay, only me and Dad, we’re both a little trashed, you know?”
Sam hears the grin in Dean’s voice and it makes his own throat tight, like he’s having to breathe around a hole in his chest. Sam’s afraid to speak, afraid if he interrupts, Dean will actually realise what he’s saying, and stop talking.
“So we crash, and I’m off in dreamland with Jessica Alba, when I hear this screaming. Swear to god, man, full-on, high-pitched screaming.” Dean moves his hands wide apart to demonstrate. “I come to, and Dad’s on his feet, and he’s dancing, Sammy.” Dean looks over at Sam, his eyes shining in the firelight. “Slapping his thighs and shaking his ass like he’s John fucking Travolta.”
The mental image makes Sam grin so wide it hurts his cheeks.
“Turns out he was sharing his sleeping bag with a squirrel, and it got a little too friendly.” Dean is shaking with poorly-repressed hysteria. “I told him it was maybe just looking for nuts.”
The snort explodes out of Sam, and that’s the signal for Dean to let go, cackling wildly. “But see, that’s not the best part. Best part is the squirrel was totally freaked out by this six-foot guy screaming like a goddamn girl, and it kinda lost control of its bladder. All over Dad’s sleeping bag. While he was in it.”
Sam huffs out a breath, his ribs aching. “No more, please.”
Dean is not going to be deterred. “Turns out squirrel pee is a pretty effective supernatural repellent. And it works really well on people too. They wouldn’t even let him into the local diner for breakfast. I had to get take-out coffee and a doggy bag.”
Dean rubs his hand over his chin thoughtfully. “Don’t think he appreciated the whole bubonic plague warning either. Had to haul his ass to the clinic in Leavenworth to get his rabies shots. Anyway, soon as he got the needle out of his ass, Dad headed for the nearest outdoor store, shelled out for the top of the range deluxe model you see before you today,” Dean finishes, flapping his hand at the tent.
Sam wipes his eyes, and reaches down into the backpack for fresh beers. He tosses one to Dean, who catches it one-handed, and snap-twists the cap with the edge of his ring. Sam remembers summers ago, watching Dean perfect that trick, and thinking that his big brother was the coolest guy ever. He never told Dean, though. Not like he needs the affirmation or anything.
Sam leans over and clinks his own bottle against his brother’s. “To Rocky.”
Dean taps his bottle in return. “May he rest in peace.”
They drink their beers in companionable silence, and Dean finishes up the marshmallows, then staggers off to hide the remaining snacks far enough from the tent in case Rocky decides to invite Yogi and Boo Boo over for dinner.
Sam does the salt lines, circling the campsite, and then climbs into the tent, commandeering the larger of the sleeping bags before Dean returns.
He’s zipped in and snuggled up to his neck when Dean wanders back to the camp. He takes it pretty well, considering, just looks at Sam and grins, then unzips the smaller sleeping bag and crawls in. “Sleep well, Sammy.”
It’s only as he pulls the fabric in tight around his head and inhales, that Sam realises his mistake. “Dean?”
“Mmm?” Dean’s voice is convincingly sleepy, but Sam doesn’t buy it for a second. He looks over and sees that Dean’s shoulders are shaking. Hard. Bastard’s laughing his goddamn ass off.
“When Dad bought the tent, he got a new sleeping bag, right? Dean? Right?”
A/N - I already wrote the Flying Squirrel stew fic. It's here: Rocky