Prompt Fic #1-4
That's the last for today, no more spamming the flist. After this, I'm going to bed. Nighty-night. Keep the typos. I'll fix'em tomorrow.
+
+
They meet in a bar, which is actually pretty par for the course for both of them. One lives on the road, the other is more or less a functioning alcoholic and has been for the past thousand years or so.
They sit next to each other, sipping beer, keeping their backs and their eyes on the room. One’s looking for a hunt, the other for hunters.
One’s got a brother waiting in a motel, the other’s got a friend with a couch with his name on it. Neither’s quite ready to leave, though.
Eventually, between midnight and morning, one of them gets jostled and spills his beer down the other’s pants. He apologizes, gets waved off, pays for the next round. They talk. Weather. Politics. Past loves and recent losses. Anything and everything that doesn’t have to do with that brother, that friend, or the weapons they both carry.
Sword. Gun. It’s all the same. All made to kill.
They get kicked out eventually, when the bar gets locked up in the wee hours of morning and they wrap their arms around each other to keep steady. It doesn’t quite work, but it’s the thought that counts, right?
“Ya know,” one of them says suddenly, “’M dyin’. Got three months left and then - ” he mimes cutting his throat with a single finger and the other man laughs.
“Don’t we all, my friend, don’t we all.”
They split at the next corner, one going straight ahead, the other turning left.
Tomorrow the one that turns left goes to hunt down a lead on how to get out of his deal and hits yet another dead end.
The day after tomorrow the other man gets shot in a mugging, dies and gets back up with nothing but a hole in his shirt to show for it.
They both keep walking.
+
+
“Know that warehouse down by the river?” Ruby asks by way of greeting, throwing herself into an empty love seat.
“There’s dozens down there,” Buffy points out, rolling her eyes.
“The one with the pin-up painted on the side.” Ruby leans forward across the table and snatches the other blonde’s drink, pulling it towards her and taking a sip. She grimaces at the sugary taste of the cocktail but doesn’t hand it back.
Buffy scrunches up her nose as she goes through her mental catalogue of empty warehouses. It takes longer than she’d like to admit. Finally she nods, eying the glass in the demon’s hand, wondering if it’s worth causing a scene over in the middle of a crowded night club. “Yeah, I know it. Why?”
“Bunch of demons planning mass homicide,” Ruby shrugs, twirling the straw between her fingers.
The slayer perks up. “When?”
Checking her watch, the demon frowns. “Midnight?”
Buffy reaches across the table, grabs the other woman’s wrist and twists it to check the time herself. Half past eleven.
“What the… Ruby!” She jumps to her feet, grabs her purse and takes off running.
She’s already halfway across the dance floor when Ruby kicks her booted feet up on the table and says, mostly to herself, “I’ll finish your drink then.”
+
+
Have you heard that saying, boys? The road to hell is paved with good intentions?
Well, have you? Of course you have. And I bet you thought, well, that’s not gonna happen to me. Didn’t you? Because you were sure, so sure that what you were doing was right. Angel, dear boy, you were only saving your people, weren’t you? Playing the game, taking over the enemy from the inside.
Right thing to do, yes? Has anyone ever told you that small evils are still evils? No? Well, they should have. A year with the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart, only a year, and you committed more of those small evils that some do in a life time. Still telling me it was necessary? That it served a purpose? All those souls you signed away with a wave of your hand? All the monsters you let roam free?
And you Sam, ah, I don’t think I have to tell you what you did. Drinking demon blood? Tsk, tsk, my boy. Bad form. And don’t tell me you did it for Dean because we both know that’s not the truth, don’t we? You did it because it felt good. Because it made you strong enough to finally stand up to big brother. Funny how you always felt the need to compete with someone who only ever tried to protect you.
But let’s not linger on the details, shall we? I don’t really care why you did what you did. Good intentions, bad intentions. In the end, it all worked out. For me, I mean.
Not for you, obviously. That’s the ‘hell’ part of the saying. One of you opened the door to my cage. The other one kicked down the main gates.
And all of hell spilled into the world like a plague.
Because of you, my beautiful, beautiful boys. Because you were being noble, were being righteous. Because you thought signing away your chance at redemption was the way to go. Self sacrifice is good, right? It’s the tool of saints all over the place. For the Greater Good. Should have read the fine print. Should have asked whose Greater Good we’re talking here because it sure as hell wasn’t that of humanity.
Whatever. You be nice and quiet now. Sit still and wait for me. I’ll be back in a while. Got a world to set on fire. Shouldn’t be too long. You made sure of that, didn’t you? I’m proud of you two. Couldn’t have done it better myself.
+
+
Mal doesn’t quite know what to make of them. The three of them are strong, willing, able fighters. They’re quiet and straight shooters, far as he can tell. All things he likes in a man, but still, he can’t seem to relax none around them.
Maybe it’s how they barely speak twenty words of Chinese between them - and fifteen of those come from the tall, shaggy guy. Maybe it’s the mysterious illness of the shortest one. They say they don’t know what it is that makes his nose bleed at odd moments and sends him into fainting spells like a damsel in distress, but the worry lines on their faces tell a different story. Maybe it’s how they seem to know very little of how the world really is.
Usually he’d bet his booty they’re rich kids from some core planet, come to play cowboys and Indians in the black, but that’s not right either. For one they have no clue at all about computers. And there ain’t no city boys can shoot and fight like them kids. Sam takes down Jayne like he’s still wet behind the ears and Dean dances with River in ways that make the good Doctor’s hands twitch. Pampered core-spawn don’t fight like that.
He shoulda kicked them off the ship as soon as he noticed those little discrepancies, shoulda shot them outta the airlock and been done with it. Shoulda. Why didn’t he?
As usual, it’s got to do with the crazy Reader flitting ‘round the Firefly’s belly. First time she saw their new passengers, she wept. All quiet like, tears rolling down her face, big, fat ones. Happy tears, she said. And whenever Cas is alone she’ll dance right up to him and curl into his side, smiling and purrin’ like a kitten.
So Mal leaves them be and keeps on wonderin’, right up until they work a job on some rock at the edge of oblivion and it goes belly up, as always. Sam and Dean show up suddenly, out of nowhere, guns blazing and they shoot down anything with a weapon in its hands like they were born to it, saving the whole crew and the ship to boot.
After they make their daring escape and the Firefly’s back in the black, safe and sound - or as sound as she ever gets - the two of them take off to their room.
Mal follows, because the way the Dean is stomping around spells trouble and he’s shooting them outta the airlock for real if they start anything on his ship, dong ma? There’s only so far he’s willing to go, even for his Albatross.
Sam closes their door softly and Dean slams something down hard. Probably his gun belt.
“Dean,” Sam says, “Calm down, man.”
“What the hell are we doing here, Sammy?! Huh? What?”
Mal can picture the shrug. The kid usually does it when Dean goes off. But it’s the sick one that answers. “You are safe here, Dean. We have talked about this.”
“Safe? I just had my brains almost blown out seven different ways, Cas. That’s not an inch safer than it was at home.”
“That is not what I meant by ‘safe’ and you know it.”
Dean rumbles some more, cussing under his breath. He’s creative, Captain will give him that.
“Get a grip, Dean.” Sam.
“I will not ‘get a grip’, Sam! Screw that. You know what we are? We’re not safe. We’re fucking useless!” He kicks something by the sound of it, and then launches into another round of swearing.
Cas coughs again, probably spitting blood. Nobody else says anything.
+
+
+
They meet in a bar, which is actually pretty par for the course for both of them. One lives on the road, the other is more or less a functioning alcoholic and has been for the past thousand years or so.
They sit next to each other, sipping beer, keeping their backs and their eyes on the room. One’s looking for a hunt, the other for hunters.
One’s got a brother waiting in a motel, the other’s got a friend with a couch with his name on it. Neither’s quite ready to leave, though.
Eventually, between midnight and morning, one of them gets jostled and spills his beer down the other’s pants. He apologizes, gets waved off, pays for the next round. They talk. Weather. Politics. Past loves and recent losses. Anything and everything that doesn’t have to do with that brother, that friend, or the weapons they both carry.
Sword. Gun. It’s all the same. All made to kill.
They get kicked out eventually, when the bar gets locked up in the wee hours of morning and they wrap their arms around each other to keep steady. It doesn’t quite work, but it’s the thought that counts, right?
“Ya know,” one of them says suddenly, “’M dyin’. Got three months left and then - ” he mimes cutting his throat with a single finger and the other man laughs.
“Don’t we all, my friend, don’t we all.”
They split at the next corner, one going straight ahead, the other turning left.
Tomorrow the one that turns left goes to hunt down a lead on how to get out of his deal and hits yet another dead end.
The day after tomorrow the other man gets shot in a mugging, dies and gets back up with nothing but a hole in his shirt to show for it.
They both keep walking.
+
+
“Know that warehouse down by the river?” Ruby asks by way of greeting, throwing herself into an empty love seat.
“There’s dozens down there,” Buffy points out, rolling her eyes.
“The one with the pin-up painted on the side.” Ruby leans forward across the table and snatches the other blonde’s drink, pulling it towards her and taking a sip. She grimaces at the sugary taste of the cocktail but doesn’t hand it back.
Buffy scrunches up her nose as she goes through her mental catalogue of empty warehouses. It takes longer than she’d like to admit. Finally she nods, eying the glass in the demon’s hand, wondering if it’s worth causing a scene over in the middle of a crowded night club. “Yeah, I know it. Why?”
“Bunch of demons planning mass homicide,” Ruby shrugs, twirling the straw between her fingers.
The slayer perks up. “When?”
Checking her watch, the demon frowns. “Midnight?”
Buffy reaches across the table, grabs the other woman’s wrist and twists it to check the time herself. Half past eleven.
“What the… Ruby!” She jumps to her feet, grabs her purse and takes off running.
She’s already halfway across the dance floor when Ruby kicks her booted feet up on the table and says, mostly to herself, “I’ll finish your drink then.”
+
+
Have you heard that saying, boys? The road to hell is paved with good intentions?
Well, have you? Of course you have. And I bet you thought, well, that’s not gonna happen to me. Didn’t you? Because you were sure, so sure that what you were doing was right. Angel, dear boy, you were only saving your people, weren’t you? Playing the game, taking over the enemy from the inside.
Right thing to do, yes? Has anyone ever told you that small evils are still evils? No? Well, they should have. A year with the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart, only a year, and you committed more of those small evils that some do in a life time. Still telling me it was necessary? That it served a purpose? All those souls you signed away with a wave of your hand? All the monsters you let roam free?
And you Sam, ah, I don’t think I have to tell you what you did. Drinking demon blood? Tsk, tsk, my boy. Bad form. And don’t tell me you did it for Dean because we both know that’s not the truth, don’t we? You did it because it felt good. Because it made you strong enough to finally stand up to big brother. Funny how you always felt the need to compete with someone who only ever tried to protect you.
But let’s not linger on the details, shall we? I don’t really care why you did what you did. Good intentions, bad intentions. In the end, it all worked out. For me, I mean.
Not for you, obviously. That’s the ‘hell’ part of the saying. One of you opened the door to my cage. The other one kicked down the main gates.
And all of hell spilled into the world like a plague.
Because of you, my beautiful, beautiful boys. Because you were being noble, were being righteous. Because you thought signing away your chance at redemption was the way to go. Self sacrifice is good, right? It’s the tool of saints all over the place. For the Greater Good. Should have read the fine print. Should have asked whose Greater Good we’re talking here because it sure as hell wasn’t that of humanity.
Whatever. You be nice and quiet now. Sit still and wait for me. I’ll be back in a while. Got a world to set on fire. Shouldn’t be too long. You made sure of that, didn’t you? I’m proud of you two. Couldn’t have done it better myself.
+
+
Mal doesn’t quite know what to make of them. The three of them are strong, willing, able fighters. They’re quiet and straight shooters, far as he can tell. All things he likes in a man, but still, he can’t seem to relax none around them.
Maybe it’s how they barely speak twenty words of Chinese between them - and fifteen of those come from the tall, shaggy guy. Maybe it’s the mysterious illness of the shortest one. They say they don’t know what it is that makes his nose bleed at odd moments and sends him into fainting spells like a damsel in distress, but the worry lines on their faces tell a different story. Maybe it’s how they seem to know very little of how the world really is.
Usually he’d bet his booty they’re rich kids from some core planet, come to play cowboys and Indians in the black, but that’s not right either. For one they have no clue at all about computers. And there ain’t no city boys can shoot and fight like them kids. Sam takes down Jayne like he’s still wet behind the ears and Dean dances with River in ways that make the good Doctor’s hands twitch. Pampered core-spawn don’t fight like that.
He shoulda kicked them off the ship as soon as he noticed those little discrepancies, shoulda shot them outta the airlock and been done with it. Shoulda. Why didn’t he?
As usual, it’s got to do with the crazy Reader flitting ‘round the Firefly’s belly. First time she saw their new passengers, she wept. All quiet like, tears rolling down her face, big, fat ones. Happy tears, she said. And whenever Cas is alone she’ll dance right up to him and curl into his side, smiling and purrin’ like a kitten.
So Mal leaves them be and keeps on wonderin’, right up until they work a job on some rock at the edge of oblivion and it goes belly up, as always. Sam and Dean show up suddenly, out of nowhere, guns blazing and they shoot down anything with a weapon in its hands like they were born to it, saving the whole crew and the ship to boot.
After they make their daring escape and the Firefly’s back in the black, safe and sound - or as sound as she ever gets - the two of them take off to their room.
Mal follows, because the way the Dean is stomping around spells trouble and he’s shooting them outta the airlock for real if they start anything on his ship, dong ma? There’s only so far he’s willing to go, even for his Albatross.
Sam closes their door softly and Dean slams something down hard. Probably his gun belt.
“Dean,” Sam says, “Calm down, man.”
“What the hell are we doing here, Sammy?! Huh? What?”
Mal can picture the shrug. The kid usually does it when Dean goes off. But it’s the sick one that answers. “You are safe here, Dean. We have talked about this.”
“Safe? I just had my brains almost blown out seven different ways, Cas. That’s not an inch safer than it was at home.”
“That is not what I meant by ‘safe’ and you know it.”
Dean rumbles some more, cussing under his breath. He’s creative, Captain will give him that.
“Get a grip, Dean.” Sam.
“I will not ‘get a grip’, Sam! Screw that. You know what we are? We’re not safe. We’re fucking useless!” He kicks something by the sound of it, and then launches into another round of swearing.
Cas coughs again, probably spitting blood. Nobody else says anything.
+