fic: Pupocalypse Now (SPN; Sam and Dean and PUPPIES; pg)
So this happened this evening:
angelgazing: I need to, like, write them surrounded by puppies now or something
angelgazing: maybe that's what can happen instead of a plague of frogs.
angelgazing: lots of fluffy puppies!
musesfool: a plague of puppies?
musesfool: i would go for that
musesfool: it could be annoying - they yip and nip and poop and pee
musesfool: but not apocalyptic
angelgazing: a plague of puppies, and, I don't know, fucking cotton candy or something
musesfool: hee
musesfool: it's sticky!
musesfool: and has no nutritional value
musesfool: clearly it's plague-worthy
angelgazing: see?
angelgazing: this is what I'm saying
which led to this happening:
musesfool and angelgazing present:
Pupocalypse Now
Supernatural; Sam and Dean and a herd of puppies; pg; vaguely spoilery through 5.02; 1,313 words
The apocalypse wasn't quite what they were expecting.
~*~
Pupocalypse Now
The apocalypse came, but it wasn't quite what they were expecting. The puppies--they weren't even hellhounds, just...lots and lots of puppies: FLUFFY puppies, with BIG EYES and FLOPPY EARS.
Sam and Dean were lucky they weren't allergic, though Castiel seemed to be sneezing an awful lot, so maybe Jimmy was, and he couldn't miracle away his reaction to pet dander anymore. Dean hoped he didn't get addicted to Benadryl or anything. That shit could knock you on your ass. Whatever. Dean was so making him clean up the latest mess; it had soaked through three layers of newspaper. Dean had dealt with a lot of gross shit in his life, but it generally hadn't literally been gross shit. At least, not since Sam was about five.
Everywhere they went these days, they were surrounded by packs of fluffy puppies. They climbed all over the upholstery of the car, they peed in flower beds across the country, they gnawed on motel furniture from Tallahassee to San Luis Obispo with their tiny needle like teeth, and Dean didn't have the heart to do more than bark a gruff "No! No teeth!" at them.
Sam shook his head sadly. "You're spoiling them."
Whatever. Dean was awesome and had always kind of wanted a dog, okay, even if Sam was always the one begging for it. "You don't like how I'm raising the litter of apocalyptic puppies, you can do it yourself."
But Sam's puppy eyes were as big and liquidy as the actual puppies', so all he did was insist on feeding them some kind of organic dog food that made their shit green (he and Castiel would rochambeau to see who had to clean that mess up, and Castiel still hadn't figured out that Sam always threw rock, so Castiel was usually the one cleaning it up).
Sam yelled at them sometimes, when they ripped his newspapers or slapped the laptop keyboard with the paws they hadn't grown into yet (and you'd think Sam, of all people, would understand that, considering how long he tripped over his own damn ginormous feet), and then they slinked away and curled up with Dean until Sam felt bad and plied them with fake bacon treats.
"But I'm the one spoiling them," Dean muttered, every time.
At first, the motels tried to keep the puppies out, but they were all over, and the crying when they couldn't be in the room with Sam and Dean was too much, and what heartless soul could say no to that many puppy eyes? Dean obviously couldn't, and since he was the one with the guns and the hulking back up, he usually won those arguments.
Sam had tried that trick with the ticking alarm clock wrapped up in one of his or Dean's t-shirts but it didn't really work, and who could resist the soft yipping of puppies crying out for their mommy and daddy? (Dean was very clear, both with Sam and with the puppies, that Sam was the mommy.)
They were getting used to the pupocalypse, as Dean was calling it, managing pretty well, actually, considering they were taking care of a ridiculous number of puppies (sometimes the puppies found a little boy or girl they wanted to live with, and they would stay behind with some unsuspecting family. Dean didn't cry when that happened. At least, not anywhere Sam could see him.) It could have been worse, but he didn't say that. He wasn't stupid enough to tempt the wrath of the whatever from high atop the thing. (What? Dean watched West Wing pretty regularly the first couple of seasons. It just wasn't the same after Sorkin left, but Toby was still The Man.)
Then came the Tulsa State Fair.
Castiel rode the tilt-a-whirl until he yakked up every last corn dog and slushie and funnel cake they'd fed him during the day, and the puppies wreaked havoc on the midway.
There was an allegedly magical cotton candy machine that, according to local legend, never ran out of sugar to spin.
"Of course we need to investigate," Dean had said, and after dealing with angels, demons, and green puppy poop Sam didn't argue. He wasn't a heartless bastard, after all, not like some people Dean could name.
Of course, that was before the puppies got into the cotton candy. After which, all of them--the whole ridiculously large number of them that Dean couldn't ever quite keep track of--needed to be washed. It nearly took a miracle--more than anything, that made Dean think maybe God was out there somewhere after all.
Half the time, the puppies didn't respond to their names (well, not that Dean could blame the ones Sam had named, because wow, lame) but the word bath sent them all scrambling, and it took hours for him and Sam and Castiel to track them all down, and they were only able to do so because Castiel had carved some kind of protective sigil onto their ribs, just like he had to Dean and Sam. Still meant they had to climb underneath the ring toss booth, and through the animal pens and the funhouse (and goddamn, did Dean hate the funhouse), until they were all dirty and gross and sticky with filth, not to mention covered in bug bites, and if Dean never saw another snuggy or heard Ron Popeil's voice again it would be too soon. Hell could probably learn a thing or two from the vendors hawking their wares in the exhibit hall.
When they got back to the room, Sam shrugged and scratched the back of his neck sheepishly when Dean discovered half a dozen puppies wrapped up in a purple snuggy wriggling around on his bed.
"This way you can use the remote without having to take the blanket off," Sam said, giving him that bright bashful smile that made him look five years old again. "Also, it was free. Or, really, the lady in the booth didn't want to fight the puppies for it."
Dean heaved a resigned sigh. "If it was free, I guess it's okay." Because really, he knew exactly how futile it was to try to deny the apocapuppies--and Sam--anything.
It took them nearly three hours to get all the puppies clean and free of sugar, slime, dirt, and something Dean would swear was manure.
"They're just gonna get dirty again," Sam pointed out, just like he had when he was five and he didn't want to take a bath.
"I don't mind a little dirt," Dean answered, "but I draw the line at sticky pink and blue sugar with sparklies in it."
Dean was surprisingly efficient at bathing small, wriggling, whiny puppies. He'd had plenty of practice.
They were both soaking wet and covered in an unappetizing mix of sugar, dirt and dog hair when they were done. The bathroom was a disaster area, used towels and puddles of water scattered all over the tile, and handfuls of forlorn suds clinging to various surfaces.
"Ah, fuck it," Dean said, shoving the last of the puppies out into the bedroom into Sam's snuggy-clad arms. He stripped down and stepped into the tub and did the best he could to get himself clean under the now lukewarm water.
When he was done, he pulled a pair of boxers on and traded places with Sam, who went to take his own shower.
Dean collapsed on the bed and soon found himself buried in an avalanche of puppies. They were damp and smelled of dog and motel soap but he was clean and happy, and Sam was safe in the next room, singing a godawful, off-key version of "There Ain't No Good Chain Gang" as he showered. Dean relaxed into the puppy pile; they licked and snuffled and nipped at him, and for an apocalypse, it was good.
The End
~*~
We amuse ourselves, anyway.
~*~
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/71650.html.
people have commented there.
angelgazing: I need to, like, write them surrounded by puppies now or something
angelgazing: maybe that's what can happen instead of a plague of frogs.
angelgazing: lots of fluffy puppies!
musesfool: a plague of puppies?
musesfool: i would go for that
musesfool: it could be annoying - they yip and nip and poop and pee
musesfool: but not apocalyptic
angelgazing: a plague of puppies, and, I don't know, fucking cotton candy or something
musesfool: hee
musesfool: it's sticky!
musesfool: and has no nutritional value
musesfool: clearly it's plague-worthy
angelgazing: see?
angelgazing: this is what I'm saying
which led to this happening:
musesfool and angelgazing present:
Pupocalypse Now
Supernatural; Sam and Dean and a herd of puppies; pg; vaguely spoilery through 5.02; 1,313 words
The apocalypse wasn't quite what they were expecting.
~*~
Pupocalypse Now
The apocalypse came, but it wasn't quite what they were expecting. The puppies--they weren't even hellhounds, just...lots and lots of puppies: FLUFFY puppies, with BIG EYES and FLOPPY EARS.
Sam and Dean were lucky they weren't allergic, though Castiel seemed to be sneezing an awful lot, so maybe Jimmy was, and he couldn't miracle away his reaction to pet dander anymore. Dean hoped he didn't get addicted to Benadryl or anything. That shit could knock you on your ass. Whatever. Dean was so making him clean up the latest mess; it had soaked through three layers of newspaper. Dean had dealt with a lot of gross shit in his life, but it generally hadn't literally been gross shit. At least, not since Sam was about five.
Everywhere they went these days, they were surrounded by packs of fluffy puppies. They climbed all over the upholstery of the car, they peed in flower beds across the country, they gnawed on motel furniture from Tallahassee to San Luis Obispo with their tiny needle like teeth, and Dean didn't have the heart to do more than bark a gruff "No! No teeth!" at them.
Sam shook his head sadly. "You're spoiling them."
Whatever. Dean was awesome and had always kind of wanted a dog, okay, even if Sam was always the one begging for it. "You don't like how I'm raising the litter of apocalyptic puppies, you can do it yourself."
But Sam's puppy eyes were as big and liquidy as the actual puppies', so all he did was insist on feeding them some kind of organic dog food that made their shit green (he and Castiel would rochambeau to see who had to clean that mess up, and Castiel still hadn't figured out that Sam always threw rock, so Castiel was usually the one cleaning it up).
Sam yelled at them sometimes, when they ripped his newspapers or slapped the laptop keyboard with the paws they hadn't grown into yet (and you'd think Sam, of all people, would understand that, considering how long he tripped over his own damn ginormous feet), and then they slinked away and curled up with Dean until Sam felt bad and plied them with fake bacon treats.
"But I'm the one spoiling them," Dean muttered, every time.
At first, the motels tried to keep the puppies out, but they were all over, and the crying when they couldn't be in the room with Sam and Dean was too much, and what heartless soul could say no to that many puppy eyes? Dean obviously couldn't, and since he was the one with the guns and the hulking back up, he usually won those arguments.
Sam had tried that trick with the ticking alarm clock wrapped up in one of his or Dean's t-shirts but it didn't really work, and who could resist the soft yipping of puppies crying out for their mommy and daddy? (Dean was very clear, both with Sam and with the puppies, that Sam was the mommy.)
They were getting used to the pupocalypse, as Dean was calling it, managing pretty well, actually, considering they were taking care of a ridiculous number of puppies (sometimes the puppies found a little boy or girl they wanted to live with, and they would stay behind with some unsuspecting family. Dean didn't cry when that happened. At least, not anywhere Sam could see him.) It could have been worse, but he didn't say that. He wasn't stupid enough to tempt the wrath of the whatever from high atop the thing. (What? Dean watched West Wing pretty regularly the first couple of seasons. It just wasn't the same after Sorkin left, but Toby was still The Man.)
Then came the Tulsa State Fair.
Castiel rode the tilt-a-whirl until he yakked up every last corn dog and slushie and funnel cake they'd fed him during the day, and the puppies wreaked havoc on the midway.
There was an allegedly magical cotton candy machine that, according to local legend, never ran out of sugar to spin.
"Of course we need to investigate," Dean had said, and after dealing with angels, demons, and green puppy poop Sam didn't argue. He wasn't a heartless bastard, after all, not like some people Dean could name.
Of course, that was before the puppies got into the cotton candy. After which, all of them--the whole ridiculously large number of them that Dean couldn't ever quite keep track of--needed to be washed. It nearly took a miracle--more than anything, that made Dean think maybe God was out there somewhere after all.
Half the time, the puppies didn't respond to their names (well, not that Dean could blame the ones Sam had named, because wow, lame) but the word bath sent them all scrambling, and it took hours for him and Sam and Castiel to track them all down, and they were only able to do so because Castiel had carved some kind of protective sigil onto their ribs, just like he had to Dean and Sam. Still meant they had to climb underneath the ring toss booth, and through the animal pens and the funhouse (and goddamn, did Dean hate the funhouse), until they were all dirty and gross and sticky with filth, not to mention covered in bug bites, and if Dean never saw another snuggy or heard Ron Popeil's voice again it would be too soon. Hell could probably learn a thing or two from the vendors hawking their wares in the exhibit hall.
When they got back to the room, Sam shrugged and scratched the back of his neck sheepishly when Dean discovered half a dozen puppies wrapped up in a purple snuggy wriggling around on his bed.
"This way you can use the remote without having to take the blanket off," Sam said, giving him that bright bashful smile that made him look five years old again. "Also, it was free. Or, really, the lady in the booth didn't want to fight the puppies for it."
Dean heaved a resigned sigh. "If it was free, I guess it's okay." Because really, he knew exactly how futile it was to try to deny the apocapuppies--and Sam--anything.
It took them nearly three hours to get all the puppies clean and free of sugar, slime, dirt, and something Dean would swear was manure.
"They're just gonna get dirty again," Sam pointed out, just like he had when he was five and he didn't want to take a bath.
"I don't mind a little dirt," Dean answered, "but I draw the line at sticky pink and blue sugar with sparklies in it."
Dean was surprisingly efficient at bathing small, wriggling, whiny puppies. He'd had plenty of practice.
They were both soaking wet and covered in an unappetizing mix of sugar, dirt and dog hair when they were done. The bathroom was a disaster area, used towels and puddles of water scattered all over the tile, and handfuls of forlorn suds clinging to various surfaces.
"Ah, fuck it," Dean said, shoving the last of the puppies out into the bedroom into Sam's snuggy-clad arms. He stripped down and stepped into the tub and did the best he could to get himself clean under the now lukewarm water.
When he was done, he pulled a pair of boxers on and traded places with Sam, who went to take his own shower.
Dean collapsed on the bed and soon found himself buried in an avalanche of puppies. They were damp and smelled of dog and motel soap but he was clean and happy, and Sam was safe in the next room, singing a godawful, off-key version of "There Ain't No Good Chain Gang" as he showered. Dean relaxed into the puppy pile; they licked and snuffled and nipped at him, and for an apocalypse, it was good.
The End
~*~
We amuse ourselves, anyway.
~*~
This entry at DW: http://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/71650.html.
people have commented there.