SPN FIC - So a Guy Walks Into an Elevator... (Part 1 of 4)
kimmer1227 handed me this bunny a long time ago: "Dean is trapped in an elevator with an expectant mother and a werewolf wannabe." It's been in my notebook ever since, and I've looked at it from time to time without anything clicking over in my brain. Then, the other day, I looked at it again and thought, Yeah.
Let's go back to late-ish in Season 1, when the boys were hunting Wendigos and pranking each other and ... life was good. More or less.
Public place, he reminds himself when a couple of the people waiting with him turn to look. Curiosity, he figures; none of them seems offended. A couple of 'em are smiling, so he smiles back. Cocky. Self-assured. He can work a crowd, yes ma'am, thank you very much.
3 parts: one today, one tomorrow, one Saturday. I promise. :)
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, various OCs
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: Remains to be seen; this part is 1291 words
SO A GUY WALKS INTO AN ELEVATOR…
By Carol Davis
"Dean? Where the hell are you?"
Where the hell is he?
He hates cities, is where he is. He friggin' hates cities. He feels like Oliver Douglas from Green Acres as he stomps across the marble-floored lobby of the Jameson Building, because some "land spreadin' out so far and wide" is definitely what he could use right now. Out there, in the nice, wide-open peace and quiet of the country, when you want to park the car, you do two things: shift her into Park, and shut the engine off.
Here? Six lanes of traffic, all of it moving at a crawl. Fire hydrants and driveways and "Loading Only" zones and people beeping the friggin' horn at him because he's not moving fast enough, when (Hello!!) he can't move at all.
And there are No. Goddamn. Parking. Places.
"DEAN!" Sam barks from the tiny speaker of Dean's cell.
"WHAT?"
"I said, where the hell are you? I'm feeling kind of conspicuous standing up here by myself."
Conspicuous? That's Sam's problem? He's conspicuous.
There are a number of things Dean would very much like to tell his brother right now. None of them are comforting, or encouraging, or supportive. But he's in a public place, and things being what they are - his being on the FBI's Prom Queen candidate list, for instance - discretion is definitely the better part of something or other, so he grits his teeth and fights a tide of outbound office workers the rest of the way across the lobby to the elevator bank.
"Gettin' on the elevator," he mutters into the phone, although that's not exactly true; he and some other people are waiting for a car to arrive.
"Hurry," Sam says.
Yeah. Because he can will the elevator to come faster. "Hold your friggin' water," Dean hisses.
Public place, he reminds himself when a couple of the people waiting with him turn to look. Curiosity, he figures; none of them seems offended. A couple of 'em are smiling, so he smiles back. Cocky. Self-assured. He can work a crowd, yes ma'am, thank you very much.
One of 'em looks a little like what's-her-name, Reese Witherspoon. One of 'em's pregnant, with what's either one ginormous baby (Sam, he thinks; she's gonna give birth to his brother, full-grown) or quadruplets, and another one's a short guy with more facial hair than a Wookiee. There's a couple business types in suits, and a delivery kid with a stack of pizzas.
He'd like to hang out with Reese, he thinks. And the pizzas.
When the elevator arrives and the buffed metal doors slide open, the whole crowd scuttles inside. He's stuck in the middle and has to thread an arm through to the panel of floor buttons so he can tap 18.
His phone is silent. He doesn't need video capability to see Sam standing there stewing, 18 floors up.
The elevator's got music, of course, some tinkly instrumental stuff that's probably meant to be soothing but to Dean's mind is anything but. As the car inches its way north one of the business types starts to drone into a mini-recorder, something about trades and percentages and options, none of which is anything Dean can translate into actual English.
One of these people…God. Smells like rotten fruit.
He shifts closer to the kid with the pizzas.
Eighteen floors to climb, and the elevator's moving no faster than the traffic outside. Feels like there's a guy up at the top of the building, hauling the elevator car up with a rope.
"Kinda slow, huh?" he quips to Reese.
She gives him a once-over. He smiles. He's wearing a suit. Combed his hair. His underwear was clean yesterday.
"Hmm," she says.
Third floor, the percentages guy gets out. Fourth, they lose the kid with the pizzas. And Reese. Dean almost follows her out, because…hey. There's pizza, and he hasn't had an actual sit-down meal since lunch two days ago. Sam's probably gone into grand mal seizures by now, but seriously? Screw him sideways. There's pizza, the nice drippy kind from the smell of it. And a cute, perky blonde. The fourth floor could be the place to be. It is tonight, at least.
Dean takes a step forward.
And Sam, as if he heard and saw and smelled all that, says, "Dean, for Christ's sake," out of Dean's cell's peewee speaker.
"I'm on the elevator," Dean says back, teeth clenched.
"Is it moving?"
"You want me to run up the stairs? Huh? It's eighteen floors, man. Cool your damn jets."
Sam doesn't reply. Good thing, because if he'd kept it up, Dean would have made him eat the damn phone (no, both phones) when this elevator finally finishes inching its way up to 18.
Next floor, they lose a couple more suits. That's the last of the passengers, except for Dean, the pregnant chick, and the Wookiee.
As the doors slide closed in front of them (thirteen to go, Dean thinks), the mommy-to-be glances over and smiles at him. She's got her arms folded on top of her belly, like that's what the belly's there for.
He's always thought his pain threshold was pretty high - it kind of had to be, for all that Dad withheld the painkillers, saying he'd build up a tolerance and then they wouldn't be worth shit - but he will happily bow down in front of this girl, if she intends to give birth to that enormous frickin' baby. There aren't enough drugs in the world for that, he figures.
She's on Dean's right. On his left is Wookiee Boy, snuffling and snorting like a restless dog.
It's him that smells like rotten fruit.
And…fur.
Dean's stomach does a long, slow roll and he thinks, Crap. This scrawny, gross-smelling, snorting Wookiee of a guy is gonna ride all the way up to 18, while the next best thing to Reese Witherspoon (and the pizza, man, the pizza) got off at 4. Because things just work that way.
In Dean's life, they pretty much always work out that way.
His life sucks. And he's in the freaking city, stuck in a foopy art-modern-deco-something office building until he and Sam can track down an ugly, grapefruit-sized statue of a guy who's been dead for a thousand years (if he was ever alive in the first place) and destroy the damn thing.
They pass the sixth floor.
Stupid statue's been causing accidents all over the place. A light fixture came loose from the ceiling and crushed somebody's arm. A computer short-circuited and zapped another somebody with enough juice to put them in the ICU. A third somebody slipped on a bare floor, did a fifteen-yard quadruple somersault and went down a flight of stairs. When Sam did some Google-fu and checked the background of the thing (PRO-ven-nonce, Sam says, but Dean calls it providence just to piss him off), he found out that wherever the statue had been, the body count was high.
A thousand years of accidents? Yeah. Time to put a stop to that shit.
The pregnant chick hums a few bars. Pretty voice, Dean thinks.
Then the elevator car stops. Hitches up-up-upward for a distance Dean figures is maybe six or eight inches. Stops again. Something in its works makes an alarming cutlery-in-the-garbage-disposal screech.
All at once, it drops the half a foot it gained.
They stumble, the three of them: Dean and the mommy-to-be and Wookiee Boy. The pregnant chick clutches Dean's arm, squealing and trembling. She's as white as paste, and Dean figures he's not much closer to a normal skin tone.
The car is steady and still, but up above them there's a crackling sound.
"This is -" the Wookiee says.
And the lights go out.
Part 2…
Let's go back to late-ish in Season 1, when the boys were hunting Wendigos and pranking each other and ... life was good. More or less.
Public place, he reminds himself when a couple of the people waiting with him turn to look. Curiosity, he figures; none of them seems offended. A couple of 'em are smiling, so he smiles back. Cocky. Self-assured. He can work a crowd, yes ma'am, thank you very much.
3 parts: one today, one tomorrow, one Saturday. I promise. :)
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, various OCs
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: Remains to be seen; this part is 1291 words
SO A GUY WALKS INTO AN ELEVATOR…
By Carol Davis
"Dean? Where the hell are you?"
Where the hell is he?
He hates cities, is where he is. He friggin' hates cities. He feels like Oliver Douglas from Green Acres as he stomps across the marble-floored lobby of the Jameson Building, because some "land spreadin' out so far and wide" is definitely what he could use right now. Out there, in the nice, wide-open peace and quiet of the country, when you want to park the car, you do two things: shift her into Park, and shut the engine off.
Here? Six lanes of traffic, all of it moving at a crawl. Fire hydrants and driveways and "Loading Only" zones and people beeping the friggin' horn at him because he's not moving fast enough, when (Hello!!) he can't move at all.
And there are No. Goddamn. Parking. Places.
"DEAN!" Sam barks from the tiny speaker of Dean's cell.
"WHAT?"
"I said, where the hell are you? I'm feeling kind of conspicuous standing up here by myself."
Conspicuous? That's Sam's problem? He's conspicuous.
There are a number of things Dean would very much like to tell his brother right now. None of them are comforting, or encouraging, or supportive. But he's in a public place, and things being what they are - his being on the FBI's Prom Queen candidate list, for instance - discretion is definitely the better part of something or other, so he grits his teeth and fights a tide of outbound office workers the rest of the way across the lobby to the elevator bank.
"Gettin' on the elevator," he mutters into the phone, although that's not exactly true; he and some other people are waiting for a car to arrive.
"Hurry," Sam says.
Yeah. Because he can will the elevator to come faster. "Hold your friggin' water," Dean hisses.
Public place, he reminds himself when a couple of the people waiting with him turn to look. Curiosity, he figures; none of them seems offended. A couple of 'em are smiling, so he smiles back. Cocky. Self-assured. He can work a crowd, yes ma'am, thank you very much.
One of 'em looks a little like what's-her-name, Reese Witherspoon. One of 'em's pregnant, with what's either one ginormous baby (Sam, he thinks; she's gonna give birth to his brother, full-grown) or quadruplets, and another one's a short guy with more facial hair than a Wookiee. There's a couple business types in suits, and a delivery kid with a stack of pizzas.
He'd like to hang out with Reese, he thinks. And the pizzas.
When the elevator arrives and the buffed metal doors slide open, the whole crowd scuttles inside. He's stuck in the middle and has to thread an arm through to the panel of floor buttons so he can tap 18.
His phone is silent. He doesn't need video capability to see Sam standing there stewing, 18 floors up.
The elevator's got music, of course, some tinkly instrumental stuff that's probably meant to be soothing but to Dean's mind is anything but. As the car inches its way north one of the business types starts to drone into a mini-recorder, something about trades and percentages and options, none of which is anything Dean can translate into actual English.
One of these people…God. Smells like rotten fruit.
He shifts closer to the kid with the pizzas.
Eighteen floors to climb, and the elevator's moving no faster than the traffic outside. Feels like there's a guy up at the top of the building, hauling the elevator car up with a rope.
"Kinda slow, huh?" he quips to Reese.
She gives him a once-over. He smiles. He's wearing a suit. Combed his hair. His underwear was clean yesterday.
"Hmm," she says.
Third floor, the percentages guy gets out. Fourth, they lose the kid with the pizzas. And Reese. Dean almost follows her out, because…hey. There's pizza, and he hasn't had an actual sit-down meal since lunch two days ago. Sam's probably gone into grand mal seizures by now, but seriously? Screw him sideways. There's pizza, the nice drippy kind from the smell of it. And a cute, perky blonde. The fourth floor could be the place to be. It is tonight, at least.
Dean takes a step forward.
And Sam, as if he heard and saw and smelled all that, says, "Dean, for Christ's sake," out of Dean's cell's peewee speaker.
"I'm on the elevator," Dean says back, teeth clenched.
"Is it moving?"
"You want me to run up the stairs? Huh? It's eighteen floors, man. Cool your damn jets."
Sam doesn't reply. Good thing, because if he'd kept it up, Dean would have made him eat the damn phone (no, both phones) when this elevator finally finishes inching its way up to 18.
Next floor, they lose a couple more suits. That's the last of the passengers, except for Dean, the pregnant chick, and the Wookiee.
As the doors slide closed in front of them (thirteen to go, Dean thinks), the mommy-to-be glances over and smiles at him. She's got her arms folded on top of her belly, like that's what the belly's there for.
He's always thought his pain threshold was pretty high - it kind of had to be, for all that Dad withheld the painkillers, saying he'd build up a tolerance and then they wouldn't be worth shit - but he will happily bow down in front of this girl, if she intends to give birth to that enormous frickin' baby. There aren't enough drugs in the world for that, he figures.
She's on Dean's right. On his left is Wookiee Boy, snuffling and snorting like a restless dog.
It's him that smells like rotten fruit.
And…fur.
Dean's stomach does a long, slow roll and he thinks, Crap. This scrawny, gross-smelling, snorting Wookiee of a guy is gonna ride all the way up to 18, while the next best thing to Reese Witherspoon (and the pizza, man, the pizza) got off at 4. Because things just work that way.
In Dean's life, they pretty much always work out that way.
His life sucks. And he's in the freaking city, stuck in a foopy art-modern-deco-something office building until he and Sam can track down an ugly, grapefruit-sized statue of a guy who's been dead for a thousand years (if he was ever alive in the first place) and destroy the damn thing.
They pass the sixth floor.
Stupid statue's been causing accidents all over the place. A light fixture came loose from the ceiling and crushed somebody's arm. A computer short-circuited and zapped another somebody with enough juice to put them in the ICU. A third somebody slipped on a bare floor, did a fifteen-yard quadruple somersault and went down a flight of stairs. When Sam did some Google-fu and checked the background of the thing (PRO-ven-nonce, Sam says, but Dean calls it providence just to piss him off), he found out that wherever the statue had been, the body count was high.
A thousand years of accidents? Yeah. Time to put a stop to that shit.
The pregnant chick hums a few bars. Pretty voice, Dean thinks.
Then the elevator car stops. Hitches up-up-upward for a distance Dean figures is maybe six or eight inches. Stops again. Something in its works makes an alarming cutlery-in-the-garbage-disposal screech.
All at once, it drops the half a foot it gained.
They stumble, the three of them: Dean and the mommy-to-be and Wookiee Boy. The pregnant chick clutches Dean's arm, squealing and trembling. She's as white as paste, and Dean figures he's not much closer to a normal skin tone.
The car is steady and still, but up above them there's a crackling sound.
"This is -" the Wookiee says.
And the lights go out.
Part 2…