Master Comment Fic List
Here be all the Dragons' contributions to comment fic memes in one handy dandy place. Includes links back to original communities' posts. Go be a reading bug there too, or snag an unclaimed prompt. *\o/*
Standard disclaimers apply. It's Kripke's world, we're all just living in it. *snaps fingers, points*
Title: Essential for Safety
Word count: 890
Written for: spn_hurtcomfort’s Christmas comment fic meme
marlowe78’s prompt: Gen, post-Hell. Dean is in hospital (concussion? head injury?). Due to some heavy outbursts, the psychiatrist (who then left for holiday and won't release him before the 26th) had him restrained and a guard set up. Sam and Dean 'celebrate' Christmas and Sam tries to take his mind off the fact that he is bound to the bed.
It’s the coffee. The hospital coffee’s got Sam twitchier than Dean, and Dean’s pretty damn twitchy. Even now, after they’ve stilled his arms with those padded straps that clearly aren’t padded enough. Sam can see from where he sits that Dean’s wrists are raw. And whoever makes restraints - the company that makes those things - they should probably look into that because after you lose your shit and end up on the floor with three security guys sitting on you, a little layer of foam isn’t cutting any mustard. Sure, those things might seem like they’re padded enough when you’re sane, or some requisitions guy staring at them on an internet catalogue, but…
Probably there isn’t any internet catalogue for restraints. Sam sets his empty coffee cup down on the bedside table. Probably he should drink water for a while.
The cup doesn’t go down loud, but Dean still flinches at the sound and then it’s a couple more minutes of struggling. He’s getting slower, less fierce, half because of the sedatives and half because he’s been going at it for an hour and he's just pluck out of steam. His wrists twist at an underwater pace and the back of his head knocks a steady, disconcerting beat against the hard mattress. They took away his pillow, and Sam didn’t ask why. He can’t decide if Dean’s going to make the concussion worse if he keeps doing that or not.
Probably things can’t get any worse than they are.
Dean stills again. He’s awake, and Sam knows because his chest is hitching up and down and he’s got a lackluster gaze aimed up at the ceiling. Sam watches a trickle of sweat slide across his brother’s temple and tries to think of something calming to say.
He decides on “It’s okay, you just have a concussion,” and that’s pretty lame, but it’s a shitload better than “Merry fucking Christmas,” which is the only other option that springs to mind. Because it’s the twenty-fourth of December, and Dean’s just had a Three Mile Island meltdown, and even if he snaps to and stops foaming at the mouth in the next twenty-four hours, they’re still going to be a Christmas miracle shy of getting out of here before Boxing Day.
Sam leans to deliver his chosen words of discomfit, and Dean makes a low, gravelly sound in the back of his throat that puts Sam in mind of a Black Dog. It raises the hairs on his nape and sends him out into the hall with a hand over his mouth.
He paces some, attempts to pin down all the different points at which he should have seen this coming. The accelerated drinking. The slowly worsening nightmares. The staring into space, and then yesterday at breakfast, he’d just about broken Sam’s wrist when he reached across the table to snap him out of his funk. It had all been there, short of a neon fucking sign, and Sam couldn’t even say he hadn’t noticed. He’d seen it coming just fine. He’d just had no clue what to do about it.
The security guard stationed outside Dean’s door taps his magazine as Sam passes him for the fifth time. “Try reading.”
“What?”
He shrugs. “We see a lot of this drug psychosis. Calms ‘em down sometimes.”
“He doesn’t have any drug psychosis,” Sam says defensively. “He’s been… He’s just been through a lot, okay?”
The security guard raises his eyebrows and makes a dubious face. “Okay,” he echoes.
Sam decides he needs another coffee after all. He stops in the hospital gift store next to the cafeteria on the way back and sips his brew in front of the magazines, trying to decide what Dean could stand to hear. They all look like the kind of crap Dean would punch him for, and it doesn’t seem fair when he’s restrained. There aren’t any editions of Busty Asian Beauties, which is a relief because as far as Sam’s concerned, there’s no level of psychosis that makes reading porn aloud to your brother okay.
He goes out to the car and roots around in the trunk, uncovers and discards a couple of his own tattered paperbacks before he finds what he’s after.
When he gets back to the room, Dean’s tugging on his restraints and laughing thinly up at the ceiling tiles.
“When are you?” he asks, and Sam ignores both the question and the icy finger it sends up his spine.
He sits in the chair beside the bed and cracks the well-loved hardcover in his lap to a random page, selects a spot and begins to read.
“‘In the summary given here the 1967 Chevrolet Impala ‘essential for safety’ items are shown in bold type. These must be attended to at the regular frequencies shown in order to avoid accidents or loss of life. Other neglect results in unreliability, increased running costs, more rapid wear and more rapid depreciation of the vehicle in general.’”
Sam pauses, touches his finger to his tongue and uses it to turn the page. Dean has fallen silent, head half-cocked toward the sound of his voice, and that's a start, at least.
“‘Every two hundred and fifty miles traveled, or weekly’,” Sam reads from the underlined typeface at the top, and continues on to the first heading. “‘Steering... ’”
**********
Title: God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
Word count: 620
Written for: spn_hurtcomfort’s Christmas comment fic meme
pedal_blur’s prompt: Dean, John, gen, preseries. First Christmas with Sam away at Stanford. Dean gets concussed while hunting; he's pretty out of it, rambles a lot about Sam. John misses his youngest and can't handle the reminders and in a moment of weakness leaves Dean alone in the motel room. Obv. he gets a reality check and goes back to do the dad thing.
The bar was a bad idea. For a start, the whiskey was crap. The trucker on the stool next to him was begging for a mouthful of knuckles, and to be fair, if John had any inclination to listen to a stupefied jackass sounding off about shit he didn't want to hear, he coulda just stayed back at the motel room with Dean.
And yes - merciless-Mary-on-my-everloving-shoulder - he was well aware he should have just stayed with his son. Right now, specifically, the one who was nursing a fresh concussion and a disturbingly flimsy grasp on the current calendar month.
The kid was fine. John wouldn't have left him alone if he thought otherwise. But enough was enough, and the third time Dean mistook him for Sam, John’s keen awareness of his two-day-old sobriety had begun to outweigh his parental concern. Plus the sonuvabitch had kneed him in the groin while he was putting his disoriented ass to bed.
Bruised balls felt pretty par for the course lately. Sam had shot through like the proverbial kick to the gonads and Dean had taken it hard. His entire life felt like a satellite breaking up on re-entry, so it made sense John couldn’t even get a quiet goddamn drink on Christmas Eve. It wasn’t like the Winchester Christmas tradition was steeped in any status quo, but the three of them sure as shit usually spent it in the same state. Mostly, they spent it in the same state. More or less. Okay, fine. They didn’t always spend it in the same state. But John never planned it that way. Not like Sam had.
Which reminded him. He hadn’t bought anything for Dean.
Fuck it. It’s not like the kid knew what day it was anyway.
“I’m sorry,” he told the trucker as he alighted from his stool and tossed a twenty on the bar. “If I don’t leave right now, I’m gonna punch you in the mouth.”
The guy slapped a drunken hand on the mahogany. “Fair enough. You have yourself a merry Christmas.”
John blinked at him. “Not likely.”
The road was dark and the weather bleak. There wouldn’t be any snow for Sam in California, but John and Dean were in for a white Christmas after all. Snowflakes flew like wasps at the windshield. Swirled and fell to pad the world and all of tomorrow's sharp edges.
John parked outside the orange glow of their motel window. He took a moment to tie the second-hand tinsel he’d snatched from the bar-top Christmas tree around the neck of the fifth he’d bought for Dean. He stashed the gift in the inside pocket of his jacket and cracked the creaking door of his pick-up.
Dean was curled over the head in the bathroom, puking. He was wearing only the trackpants John had left him in, and his knobbled spine flexed along his goose-pimpled back with each muscular spasm. John stepped back into the room and hooked a blanket from the bed, draped it over his son’s shoulders.
“Jesus, aren’t you cold?”
“Sorry,” Dean coughed. He retched, and John got down on one knee to keep a better grip of him.
“’S okay.” He waited while his son lost a series of weak, bile-tinged splashes down the bowl. “You done?” he asked, when Dean’s forehead had resorted to the cool porcelain of the seat.
“Sammy, I’m sorry,” Dean mumbled miserably, and then he puked again.
John rocked back on his heels, let his ass hit the tiles and his back find the wall. He rubbed his temple with tired fingers, twisted his wrist and checked his watch.
12:03am.
He sighed, pulled the fifth from his pocket and unscrewed the cap.
“Merry Christmas, kiddo."
**********
Title: Book Moves
Word count: 740
Written for: spngenlove’s Delight in Dean comment fic meme
feliciakw’s prompt: Dean in a diner, having a piece of pie and a cup of damn fine coffee with Special Agent Dale Cooper from Twin Peaks.
“I have a theory this is where pies go when they die.”
Dean stretched an arm across the back of the diner booth, raised his coffee in an agreeable toast. “Oh, you should try the cherry.”
The suit rested his knife and fork on either side of the plate, steepled his fingers over the remainder of the dessert. He chewed thoroughly.
Dean took a hit of caffeine, waited. He’d dealt with enough Federal employees in his time, and this guy? That brand of sartorial OCD promised the full enchilada. This was a man who favored long, pregnant silences. The kind that stupid and guilty people felt compelled to fill.
“I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?” the agent asked, on the tail end of an exaggerated swallow. He was ferreting inside his suit jacket for a notebook.
Dean was neither stupid nor guilty. He was, however, a stupendous liar. “Mustaine,” he repeated obligingly. “David Mustaine.”
A slow smile tweaked the agent’s mouth as he wrote it down. “Did you know,” he enthused, “Nancy Sinatra had twenty-one singles charted on the Billboard Hot 100 between the years of 1965 and 1970?”
Dean returned his coffee to the table with a precise flourish, blew out a bored breath. “I was not aware of that. No.”
Agent Cooper looked up sharply. “And do you know the title of the second of those singles?”
Dean served up a pout, shook his head.
The Fed’s grin grew until Dean thought he might need a bigger face. “These Boots,” Cooper enunciated, as though the answer delighted him, “Are Made For Walkin’.”
Check. Strike one for the Fed. Dean kept his poker-face. “Fascinating.”
“Mr. Mustaine, I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve arranged for you to meet me here today.”
“To witness your pie?”
That smile again, the one that looked like a drawn gun. “Dave - can I call you Dave?”
Dean couldn't help his wry grin, had to chew it back. "Oh, please do.”
“Dave, as I understand it, you and your brother have been spending some time in Ghostwood Forest.”
Dean nodded, lifted his mug towards the diner windows. He made some dramatic detours through the air with the cup to indicate the general town. “This is some truly spectacular country,” he agreed.
Agent Cooper leaned a little toward him, eyes piercing and intent. “Isn’t it? They’re Douglas Firs.” He shook his head slowly in wonder. “Been here the better part of two years. I just cannot get over these trees.”
Dean raised both eyebrows, blinked at him. It actually sounded like the guy was for real. He blew a half-laugh across the top of his brew. “Yeah, you look like the wood type.”
“Mr. Mustaine, at this particular juncture, my specific interest is in one stand of trees. Twelve sycamores, to be exact.”
The coffee smelled suddenly bitter at his nose. Dean dropped the mug from his face, narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t discern anything from the Fed’s features beyond an air of quiet confidence, and Dean wanted nothing more than to strip it, just on principle.
“Sounds like you wanna talk to a botanist.”
“I’d rather talk to you. Mr. Mustaine, what can you tell me about a place known as the Black Lodge?”
Dean lost immediate interest in their little Queen’s Gambit. “You know what? I don’t have time for this. And you dumb fucks’ve got no idea what you’re dealin’ with.”
He pushed his coffee away, started to slide out of the booth. Snagged his keys off the table as he went.
“There have been several murders,” Cooper began, and Dean froze. “It’s my belief that these deaths were perpetrated by an entity known as BOB, who possesses people to commit his crimes. I believe this entity is from the Black Lodge. I think you and your brother are not only aware of this, but that you’ve also discovered a way to gain entry to this location.”
Dean’s ass hit the booth seat again. “Okay, I was wrong. You know exactly what you’re dealing with.”
Cooper leaned back without satisfaction, placed both palms flat on the table in front of him. “How long has your brother been trapped?”
Dean checked his watch. “Two days, four hours, and thirty-six minutes.” He tossed his keys back on the laminate, gave the Special Agent his full attention. “I’m listening.”
“Dean Winchester, I’d like to buy you a slice of that cherry pie.”
**********
Standard disclaimers apply. It's Kripke's world, we're all just living in it. *snaps fingers, points*
Title: Essential for Safety
Word count: 890
Written for: spn_hurtcomfort’s Christmas comment fic meme
marlowe78’s prompt: Gen, post-Hell. Dean is in hospital (concussion? head injury?). Due to some heavy outbursts, the psychiatrist (who then left for holiday and won't release him before the 26th) had him restrained and a guard set up. Sam and Dean 'celebrate' Christmas and Sam tries to take his mind off the fact that he is bound to the bed.
It’s the coffee. The hospital coffee’s got Sam twitchier than Dean, and Dean’s pretty damn twitchy. Even now, after they’ve stilled his arms with those padded straps that clearly aren’t padded enough. Sam can see from where he sits that Dean’s wrists are raw. And whoever makes restraints - the company that makes those things - they should probably look into that because after you lose your shit and end up on the floor with three security guys sitting on you, a little layer of foam isn’t cutting any mustard. Sure, those things might seem like they’re padded enough when you’re sane, or some requisitions guy staring at them on an internet catalogue, but…
Probably there isn’t any internet catalogue for restraints. Sam sets his empty coffee cup down on the bedside table. Probably he should drink water for a while.
The cup doesn’t go down loud, but Dean still flinches at the sound and then it’s a couple more minutes of struggling. He’s getting slower, less fierce, half because of the sedatives and half because he’s been going at it for an hour and he's just pluck out of steam. His wrists twist at an underwater pace and the back of his head knocks a steady, disconcerting beat against the hard mattress. They took away his pillow, and Sam didn’t ask why. He can’t decide if Dean’s going to make the concussion worse if he keeps doing that or not.
Probably things can’t get any worse than they are.
Dean stills again. He’s awake, and Sam knows because his chest is hitching up and down and he’s got a lackluster gaze aimed up at the ceiling. Sam watches a trickle of sweat slide across his brother’s temple and tries to think of something calming to say.
He decides on “It’s okay, you just have a concussion,” and that’s pretty lame, but it’s a shitload better than “Merry fucking Christmas,” which is the only other option that springs to mind. Because it’s the twenty-fourth of December, and Dean’s just had a Three Mile Island meltdown, and even if he snaps to and stops foaming at the mouth in the next twenty-four hours, they’re still going to be a Christmas miracle shy of getting out of here before Boxing Day.
Sam leans to deliver his chosen words of discomfit, and Dean makes a low, gravelly sound in the back of his throat that puts Sam in mind of a Black Dog. It raises the hairs on his nape and sends him out into the hall with a hand over his mouth.
He paces some, attempts to pin down all the different points at which he should have seen this coming. The accelerated drinking. The slowly worsening nightmares. The staring into space, and then yesterday at breakfast, he’d just about broken Sam’s wrist when he reached across the table to snap him out of his funk. It had all been there, short of a neon fucking sign, and Sam couldn’t even say he hadn’t noticed. He’d seen it coming just fine. He’d just had no clue what to do about it.
The security guard stationed outside Dean’s door taps his magazine as Sam passes him for the fifth time. “Try reading.”
“What?”
He shrugs. “We see a lot of this drug psychosis. Calms ‘em down sometimes.”
“He doesn’t have any drug psychosis,” Sam says defensively. “He’s been… He’s just been through a lot, okay?”
The security guard raises his eyebrows and makes a dubious face. “Okay,” he echoes.
Sam decides he needs another coffee after all. He stops in the hospital gift store next to the cafeteria on the way back and sips his brew in front of the magazines, trying to decide what Dean could stand to hear. They all look like the kind of crap Dean would punch him for, and it doesn’t seem fair when he’s restrained. There aren’t any editions of Busty Asian Beauties, which is a relief because as far as Sam’s concerned, there’s no level of psychosis that makes reading porn aloud to your brother okay.
He goes out to the car and roots around in the trunk, uncovers and discards a couple of his own tattered paperbacks before he finds what he’s after.
When he gets back to the room, Dean’s tugging on his restraints and laughing thinly up at the ceiling tiles.
“When are you?” he asks, and Sam ignores both the question and the icy finger it sends up his spine.
He sits in the chair beside the bed and cracks the well-loved hardcover in his lap to a random page, selects a spot and begins to read.
“‘In the summary given here the 1967 Chevrolet Impala ‘essential for safety’ items are shown in bold type. These must be attended to at the regular frequencies shown in order to avoid accidents or loss of life. Other neglect results in unreliability, increased running costs, more rapid wear and more rapid depreciation of the vehicle in general.’”
Sam pauses, touches his finger to his tongue and uses it to turn the page. Dean has fallen silent, head half-cocked toward the sound of his voice, and that's a start, at least.
“‘Every two hundred and fifty miles traveled, or weekly’,” Sam reads from the underlined typeface at the top, and continues on to the first heading. “‘Steering... ’”
**********
Title: God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
Word count: 620
Written for: spn_hurtcomfort’s Christmas comment fic meme
pedal_blur’s prompt: Dean, John, gen, preseries. First Christmas with Sam away at Stanford. Dean gets concussed while hunting; he's pretty out of it, rambles a lot about Sam. John misses his youngest and can't handle the reminders and in a moment of weakness leaves Dean alone in the motel room. Obv. he gets a reality check and goes back to do the dad thing.
The bar was a bad idea. For a start, the whiskey was crap. The trucker on the stool next to him was begging for a mouthful of knuckles, and to be fair, if John had any inclination to listen to a stupefied jackass sounding off about shit he didn't want to hear, he coulda just stayed back at the motel room with Dean.
And yes - merciless-Mary-on-my-everloving-shoulder - he was well aware he should have just stayed with his son. Right now, specifically, the one who was nursing a fresh concussion and a disturbingly flimsy grasp on the current calendar month.
The kid was fine. John wouldn't have left him alone if he thought otherwise. But enough was enough, and the third time Dean mistook him for Sam, John’s keen awareness of his two-day-old sobriety had begun to outweigh his parental concern. Plus the sonuvabitch had kneed him in the groin while he was putting his disoriented ass to bed.
Bruised balls felt pretty par for the course lately. Sam had shot through like the proverbial kick to the gonads and Dean had taken it hard. His entire life felt like a satellite breaking up on re-entry, so it made sense John couldn’t even get a quiet goddamn drink on Christmas Eve. It wasn’t like the Winchester Christmas tradition was steeped in any status quo, but the three of them sure as shit usually spent it in the same state. Mostly, they spent it in the same state. More or less. Okay, fine. They didn’t always spend it in the same state. But John never planned it that way. Not like Sam had.
Which reminded him. He hadn’t bought anything for Dean.
Fuck it. It’s not like the kid knew what day it was anyway.
“I’m sorry,” he told the trucker as he alighted from his stool and tossed a twenty on the bar. “If I don’t leave right now, I’m gonna punch you in the mouth.”
The guy slapped a drunken hand on the mahogany. “Fair enough. You have yourself a merry Christmas.”
John blinked at him. “Not likely.”
The road was dark and the weather bleak. There wouldn’t be any snow for Sam in California, but John and Dean were in for a white Christmas after all. Snowflakes flew like wasps at the windshield. Swirled and fell to pad the world and all of tomorrow's sharp edges.
John parked outside the orange glow of their motel window. He took a moment to tie the second-hand tinsel he’d snatched from the bar-top Christmas tree around the neck of the fifth he’d bought for Dean. He stashed the gift in the inside pocket of his jacket and cracked the creaking door of his pick-up.
Dean was curled over the head in the bathroom, puking. He was wearing only the trackpants John had left him in, and his knobbled spine flexed along his goose-pimpled back with each muscular spasm. John stepped back into the room and hooked a blanket from the bed, draped it over his son’s shoulders.
“Jesus, aren’t you cold?”
“Sorry,” Dean coughed. He retched, and John got down on one knee to keep a better grip of him.
“’S okay.” He waited while his son lost a series of weak, bile-tinged splashes down the bowl. “You done?” he asked, when Dean’s forehead had resorted to the cool porcelain of the seat.
“Sammy, I’m sorry,” Dean mumbled miserably, and then he puked again.
John rocked back on his heels, let his ass hit the tiles and his back find the wall. He rubbed his temple with tired fingers, twisted his wrist and checked his watch.
12:03am.
He sighed, pulled the fifth from his pocket and unscrewed the cap.
“Merry Christmas, kiddo."
**********
Title: Book Moves
Word count: 740
Written for: spngenlove’s Delight in Dean comment fic meme
feliciakw’s prompt: Dean in a diner, having a piece of pie and a cup of damn fine coffee with Special Agent Dale Cooper from Twin Peaks.
“I have a theory this is where pies go when they die.”
Dean stretched an arm across the back of the diner booth, raised his coffee in an agreeable toast. “Oh, you should try the cherry.”
The suit rested his knife and fork on either side of the plate, steepled his fingers over the remainder of the dessert. He chewed thoroughly.
Dean took a hit of caffeine, waited. He’d dealt with enough Federal employees in his time, and this guy? That brand of sartorial OCD promised the full enchilada. This was a man who favored long, pregnant silences. The kind that stupid and guilty people felt compelled to fill.
“I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?” the agent asked, on the tail end of an exaggerated swallow. He was ferreting inside his suit jacket for a notebook.
Dean was neither stupid nor guilty. He was, however, a stupendous liar. “Mustaine,” he repeated obligingly. “David Mustaine.”
A slow smile tweaked the agent’s mouth as he wrote it down. “Did you know,” he enthused, “Nancy Sinatra had twenty-one singles charted on the Billboard Hot 100 between the years of 1965 and 1970?”
Dean returned his coffee to the table with a precise flourish, blew out a bored breath. “I was not aware of that. No.”
Agent Cooper looked up sharply. “And do you know the title of the second of those singles?”
Dean served up a pout, shook his head.
The Fed’s grin grew until Dean thought he might need a bigger face. “These Boots,” Cooper enunciated, as though the answer delighted him, “Are Made For Walkin’.”
Check. Strike one for the Fed. Dean kept his poker-face. “Fascinating.”
“Mr. Mustaine, I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve arranged for you to meet me here today.”
“To witness your pie?”
That smile again, the one that looked like a drawn gun. “Dave - can I call you Dave?”
Dean couldn't help his wry grin, had to chew it back. "Oh, please do.”
“Dave, as I understand it, you and your brother have been spending some time in Ghostwood Forest.”
Dean nodded, lifted his mug towards the diner windows. He made some dramatic detours through the air with the cup to indicate the general town. “This is some truly spectacular country,” he agreed.
Agent Cooper leaned a little toward him, eyes piercing and intent. “Isn’t it? They’re Douglas Firs.” He shook his head slowly in wonder. “Been here the better part of two years. I just cannot get over these trees.”
Dean raised both eyebrows, blinked at him. It actually sounded like the guy was for real. He blew a half-laugh across the top of his brew. “Yeah, you look like the wood type.”
“Mr. Mustaine, at this particular juncture, my specific interest is in one stand of trees. Twelve sycamores, to be exact.”
The coffee smelled suddenly bitter at his nose. Dean dropped the mug from his face, narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t discern anything from the Fed’s features beyond an air of quiet confidence, and Dean wanted nothing more than to strip it, just on principle.
“Sounds like you wanna talk to a botanist.”
“I’d rather talk to you. Mr. Mustaine, what can you tell me about a place known as the Black Lodge?”
Dean lost immediate interest in their little Queen’s Gambit. “You know what? I don’t have time for this. And you dumb fucks’ve got no idea what you’re dealin’ with.”
He pushed his coffee away, started to slide out of the booth. Snagged his keys off the table as he went.
“There have been several murders,” Cooper began, and Dean froze. “It’s my belief that these deaths were perpetrated by an entity known as BOB, who possesses people to commit his crimes. I believe this entity is from the Black Lodge. I think you and your brother are not only aware of this, but that you’ve also discovered a way to gain entry to this location.”
Dean’s ass hit the booth seat again. “Okay, I was wrong. You know exactly what you’re dealing with.”
Cooper leaned back without satisfaction, placed both palms flat on the table in front of him. “How long has your brother been trapped?”
Dean checked his watch. “Two days, four hours, and thirty-six minutes.” He tossed his keys back on the laminate, gave the Special Agent his full attention. “I’m listening.”
“Dean Winchester, I’d like to buy you a slice of that cherry pie.”
**********