Supernatural fic: Heat of the Moment
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1125 words
Status: Complete
Warnings: Excessive swearing
Notes: Written for spnspringfling 2012
Heat of the Moment
They’re in Florida.
Sam fucking hates Florida.
Not because of the mosquitos the size of small airplanes, or the awful traffic and the endless hordes of tourists, or even the goddamned alligators. Come on. Let’s be real. Who the fuck wants to live in a place where giant carnivorous lizards wander up and make themselves at home in your backyard? No one sane, that’s for damn sure.
But it’s not the alligators. That’s not why he hates Florida.
He hates Florida because every single time they pass through the state, something like this happens.
This being a pissy ghost with two pissy ghost lackeys who all decided to pretend they were poltergeists to fuck with a nice little family with two kids and a dog.
They’d gone down because they’d gotten a call from one of Dad’s old hunting buddies, and Dean being Dean, couldn’t say no to anything Dad-related, so off they went.
To Florida.
Simple, low-level poltergeist. No big. In and out in two days, tops. Come on Sam, Dean said. It’ll be easy, Dean said.
They’ve been here for a week and a half, living in the scuzziest motel they’ve ever stayed at, and God is that saying something. It’s worse than the one in Kentucky that had the cockroach infestation. The one that Dad turned into a training exercise by telling them whoever killed the most roaches before they left got three days off of PT. Sam woke up in the middle of night to Dean standing over him, a shoe in one hand and a crazed light in his eyes, gunning for the roach that had taken up residence on Sam’s chest.
But back to Florida.
A week and a half, in which everything that could possibly have gone wrong, did.
Not a poltergeist, so Missouri’s mojo bags did exactly nothing. Well, nothing except piss the ghosts off enough to manifest and choke Sam -enough with all the choking already - and slam Dean into the wall five or six times. Back at the motel, they called the family to tell them that no, it’s not a poltergeist, who the fuck told you it was a poltergeist? Only to have the family decide that since it wasn’t a poltergeist, they were safe to move back in.
So they lost a day and a half to keeping the family out of the damn house, a day and a half in which the Impala’s water pump finally called it quits and they had to rent a car. If it’s even possible, the car is just as scuzzy as the motel. What the hell do people do to their rentals in Florida? No, don’t answer that. He doesn’t want to know.
So Dean was already pissed about the rental when the two kids thought it would be great to work out their frustration at not being back in the house by egging the dead Impala. Apparently, not having cable is a serious, serious issue. Their aunt’s place doesn’t have cable and they want to watch Adventure Time or some shit. That vein above Dean’s eye that gets all twitchy when people screw with his car was out in full force as he worked at hosing off the Impala - the paint, Sam, the paint! - muttering about how he should just let them go back to the house, they’d have their fucking adventure there.
Sam’s pretty sure the only reason he didn’t follow through with that is because of the dog. Dean’s got a soft spot for dogs.
So they didn’t let the family go back to the house. Sam hit the library while Dean went on a hunt for a water pump. He finally scrounged something up right around the time Sam figured out who the ghost was, some former historical society curator and his cousins. They wanted to preserve the house but died in the construction work on another old building before they got it registered. So naturally, they banded together to keep people out of the house they didn’t die in.
Naturally.
The sad thing is, this kind of stuff is par for the course in Florida.
So yeah, Sam hates Florida. But Dean does too - the less said about the debacle with the waitress, the better - and his precious car got egged and they’re digging three graves in air that’s so thick with humidity it feels like they’re trying to swim through soup. So why the everloving fuck is he singing?
It’s the chorus of the same fucking song, over and over and over again, for the last two graves. They’re about a quarter of the way through the last grave, and Dean is singing-
“Is that Asia?”
“I knew you had some decent musical taste in you, Sammy!” Dean crows, entirely too enthused about the whole thing.
And then goes right back to the chorus.
Sam knows this song. It’s that awful one that talks about dragons and disco and makes absolutely no sense. It has verses. Really, it does. That’s when they talk about the dragons.
It has to have verses. Why isn’t Dean singing the verses?
He stops digging and tries to run through the first verse, “I never meant to be so bad to you, one thing I said that I would never-”
He stops.
He’s standing over the partially dug grave of a crazed historical society curator, trying to remember the verses to a bad rock song that he’s never been all that fond of.
It occurs to him that they both might have just a touch of heat exhaustion.
Dean’s still belting out the chorus, but now he’s alternating between digging and using his shovel as an air guitar.
“It was the HEEEEEEAT of the MOOOOment! Tellin' me what your heart meant!”
Just a touch.
They’re not usually this loopy, even at the end of such a nasty hunt, so he forces a Gatorade on Dean after downing one himself as they drive back to the motel. He checks the temperature when they’re finally back in their scuzzy room - 98 degrees with 99 percent humidity. So yeah, he’s thinking heat exhaustion.
He makes a valiant attempt to ignore Dean’s continued singing, and falls asleep with the covers kicked to the floor and a pillow over his head.
When they hit the road the next morning, he’s never been so glad to hear that damn Black Sabbath tape in his entire life. He’s so glad, in fact, that he lets Dean crank it way past his usual noise tolerance level.
As long as they’re putting Florida and that damn song in the rearview mirror, he really doesn’t care.
Two years later, he wakes up in Broward County, Florida to Dean singing Asia.
Sam fucking hates Florida.
Feedback is love!
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1125 words
Status: Complete
Warnings: Excessive swearing
Notes: Written for spnspringfling 2012
Heat of the Moment
They’re in Florida.
Sam fucking hates Florida.
Not because of the mosquitos the size of small airplanes, or the awful traffic and the endless hordes of tourists, or even the goddamned alligators. Come on. Let’s be real. Who the fuck wants to live in a place where giant carnivorous lizards wander up and make themselves at home in your backyard? No one sane, that’s for damn sure.
But it’s not the alligators. That’s not why he hates Florida.
He hates Florida because every single time they pass through the state, something like this happens.
This being a pissy ghost with two pissy ghost lackeys who all decided to pretend they were poltergeists to fuck with a nice little family with two kids and a dog.
They’d gone down because they’d gotten a call from one of Dad’s old hunting buddies, and Dean being Dean, couldn’t say no to anything Dad-related, so off they went.
To Florida.
Simple, low-level poltergeist. No big. In and out in two days, tops. Come on Sam, Dean said. It’ll be easy, Dean said.
They’ve been here for a week and a half, living in the scuzziest motel they’ve ever stayed at, and God is that saying something. It’s worse than the one in Kentucky that had the cockroach infestation. The one that Dad turned into a training exercise by telling them whoever killed the most roaches before they left got three days off of PT. Sam woke up in the middle of night to Dean standing over him, a shoe in one hand and a crazed light in his eyes, gunning for the roach that had taken up residence on Sam’s chest.
But back to Florida.
A week and a half, in which everything that could possibly have gone wrong, did.
Not a poltergeist, so Missouri’s mojo bags did exactly nothing. Well, nothing except piss the ghosts off enough to manifest and choke Sam -enough with all the choking already - and slam Dean into the wall five or six times. Back at the motel, they called the family to tell them that no, it’s not a poltergeist, who the fuck told you it was a poltergeist? Only to have the family decide that since it wasn’t a poltergeist, they were safe to move back in.
So they lost a day and a half to keeping the family out of the damn house, a day and a half in which the Impala’s water pump finally called it quits and they had to rent a car. If it’s even possible, the car is just as scuzzy as the motel. What the hell do people do to their rentals in Florida? No, don’t answer that. He doesn’t want to know.
So Dean was already pissed about the rental when the two kids thought it would be great to work out their frustration at not being back in the house by egging the dead Impala. Apparently, not having cable is a serious, serious issue. Their aunt’s place doesn’t have cable and they want to watch Adventure Time or some shit. That vein above Dean’s eye that gets all twitchy when people screw with his car was out in full force as he worked at hosing off the Impala - the paint, Sam, the paint! - muttering about how he should just let them go back to the house, they’d have their fucking adventure there.
Sam’s pretty sure the only reason he didn’t follow through with that is because of the dog. Dean’s got a soft spot for dogs.
So they didn’t let the family go back to the house. Sam hit the library while Dean went on a hunt for a water pump. He finally scrounged something up right around the time Sam figured out who the ghost was, some former historical society curator and his cousins. They wanted to preserve the house but died in the construction work on another old building before they got it registered. So naturally, they banded together to keep people out of the house they didn’t die in.
Naturally.
The sad thing is, this kind of stuff is par for the course in Florida.
So yeah, Sam hates Florida. But Dean does too - the less said about the debacle with the waitress, the better - and his precious car got egged and they’re digging three graves in air that’s so thick with humidity it feels like they’re trying to swim through soup. So why the everloving fuck is he singing?
It’s the chorus of the same fucking song, over and over and over again, for the last two graves. They’re about a quarter of the way through the last grave, and Dean is singing-
“Is that Asia?”
“I knew you had some decent musical taste in you, Sammy!” Dean crows, entirely too enthused about the whole thing.
And then goes right back to the chorus.
Sam knows this song. It’s that awful one that talks about dragons and disco and makes absolutely no sense. It has verses. Really, it does. That’s when they talk about the dragons.
It has to have verses. Why isn’t Dean singing the verses?
He stops digging and tries to run through the first verse, “I never meant to be so bad to you, one thing I said that I would never-”
He stops.
He’s standing over the partially dug grave of a crazed historical society curator, trying to remember the verses to a bad rock song that he’s never been all that fond of.
It occurs to him that they both might have just a touch of heat exhaustion.
Dean’s still belting out the chorus, but now he’s alternating between digging and using his shovel as an air guitar.
“It was the HEEEEEEAT of the MOOOOment! Tellin' me what your heart meant!”
Just a touch.
They’re not usually this loopy, even at the end of such a nasty hunt, so he forces a Gatorade on Dean after downing one himself as they drive back to the motel. He checks the temperature when they’re finally back in their scuzzy room - 98 degrees with 99 percent humidity. So yeah, he’s thinking heat exhaustion.
He makes a valiant attempt to ignore Dean’s continued singing, and falls asleep with the covers kicked to the floor and a pillow over his head.
When they hit the road the next morning, he’s never been so glad to hear that damn Black Sabbath tape in his entire life. He’s so glad, in fact, that he lets Dean crank it way past his usual noise tolerance level.
As long as they’re putting Florida and that damn song in the rearview mirror, he really doesn’t care.
Two years later, he wakes up in Broward County, Florida to Dean singing Asia.
Sam fucking hates Florida.
Feedback is love!