[SPN Fic] Burning Questions
TITLE: Burning Questions
AUTHOR: researchgrrrl
WARNINGS: Rude words
SUMMARY: Wrapping up this stupid hunt would be so much easier if Dean would just hand over the goddamned gun.
DISCLAIMER: Neither profit nor copyright infringement intended.
NOTES: A quick (and unbeta'd) fic for inmyriadbits because she's just so damned cute. (And also because of the latest entry posted at the fantastic dear_dean advice comm.)
robin1618 wrote:
'Where's the gun, Dean?'
'In my pants. Wanna get it out?'
"Oh, fuck you," Sam said automatically. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes, wrinkling his nose as he felt the cobwebs that had been stuck in his hair now cling to his wrist and drag across his forehead.
Sam hated when shit got on his forehead. God, that's why he wore his hair so long in the first place.
"You know, for a guy who claims to be such a swinging-big-dick-stud, you sure do have a lot of room left over for keeping all sorts of stuff in your pants," Sam continued. The small abandoned diner, the air already humid and stale, was beginning to reek of naphthalene and some weirdly boggy smell.
"That's not what your new girlfriend and her sister said," Dean said, easily sidestepping the sluggish brown-black blood oozing from the fallen ghoul's neck. "But then it was hard to understand, what with their mouths being so full at the time."
"Shut up." With practiced ease, Sam flipped the scimitar's leather-wrapped handle to his left hand and beheaded another pallid, moaning ghoul lumbering up on Dean as Dean swung himself over the dusty countertop. "That Missy chick is not my girlfriend."
"Not any more," Dean said happily as he ducked down to check his reflection in a dirty pane of glass.
"Seriously, Dean, could you get the lead out?" Sam called. Another flex of his wrist and, on the backstroke, he took out the two closest ghouls. The blade passed easily through all of the papery skin, desiccated tendons, and brittle bone; the putrefying heads of both ghouls fell to the filthy checkered tile floor with almost wooden klonking sounds. "We made those bullets just for shit like this."
"Easy there, Turbo." Dean was casually inspecting what appeared to be an old ice cream freezer, the kind that you could still find at gas stations and truckstops. "There's no need to waste that ammo when there's an even cheaper, easier way to get rid of these fuckers."
"Yeah, have me cut 'em all up while you've got your thumb up your ass," Sam muttered.
"What was that, Sammy?"
Sam ignored him, still muttering under his breath. Wrapping up this stupid hunt would be so much easier if Dean would just hand over the goddamned gun. He shot a grim look at Dean as his jackass brother kept looking for something to use as lighter fluid.
Sam beheaded three more of the ghouls, then said "ah, shit" when his shoe squelched in the brownish-black ichor still sluggishly oozing from the neck of the first ghoul that he'd beheaded.
Fuck, Sam thought, lopping off the hand of that brushed his forearm with a mothwing's touch before he decapitated that ghoul, too. He switched the scimitar back to his right hand, dragging a barstool with rusted legs and a torn vinyl seat that might have once been cherry red out of his way. That's just perfect.
He'd never get the stench of naphthalene that always came out of these nasty things off his shoe. And, what, did they pack themselves in mothballs during the day? They couldn't go with those little lavender sachets like the ones Jess had liked to use, or even try cedar chips or something?
"Dean, I swear to God if you don't hurry up, I'm going to--"
"Ha!" At the sound, Sam spared a glance over his shoulder to see Dean heft a faded blue five-gallon propane cylinder on the counter. Dean, always aware when he had an audience, grinned over at Sam. "What say we watch these motherfuckers fall into a burnin' ring of fire, Sammy?"
"I don't believe it," Sam said, relieved to now be backing toward the cracked front door as Dean joined him. He caught the Zippo lighter that Dean tossed him with his free hand as Dean liberally sloshed propane on every surface of the diner and any advancing ghouls within reach. Sam sparked the lighter, the metal case glinting dully under the sodium street lights, until it lit. As he and Dean finally cleared the building, Dean threw the empty propane cylinder at the lead ghoul. The thing staggered under the weight and Sam took the opportunity to toss the lighter.
The smell as the propane and necrotized flesh began to burn was horrific, but even Sam had to admit that nothing else blazed with the same beautiful green-tinged flames as the soulless, animated corpses of the dead.
Handing the scimitar to Dean, Sam began to pick out gritty strands of cobweb from his bangs, trying not to cringe as he felt clumps of his sticky hair lift away from his brow. He cut a look at Dean, who was watching the conflagration spread through the diner with a serene, almost enraptured, expression.
The fire had begun to burn in earnest.
"Seriously," Sam said, "there wasn't a gas grill in the kitchen. Hell, there wasn't even a stove any more. Where the hell did you find that propane?"
"In my pants," Dean replied immediately.
AUTHOR: researchgrrrl
WARNINGS: Rude words
SUMMARY: Wrapping up this stupid hunt would be so much easier if Dean would just hand over the goddamned gun.
DISCLAIMER: Neither profit nor copyright infringement intended.
NOTES: A quick (and unbeta'd) fic for inmyriadbits because she's just so damned cute. (And also because of the latest entry posted at the fantastic dear_dean advice comm.)
robin1618 wrote:
'Where's the gun, Dean?'
'In my pants. Wanna get it out?'
"Oh, fuck you," Sam said automatically. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes, wrinkling his nose as he felt the cobwebs that had been stuck in his hair now cling to his wrist and drag across his forehead.
Sam hated when shit got on his forehead. God, that's why he wore his hair so long in the first place.
"You know, for a guy who claims to be such a swinging-big-dick-stud, you sure do have a lot of room left over for keeping all sorts of stuff in your pants," Sam continued. The small abandoned diner, the air already humid and stale, was beginning to reek of naphthalene and some weirdly boggy smell.
"That's not what your new girlfriend and her sister said," Dean said, easily sidestepping the sluggish brown-black blood oozing from the fallen ghoul's neck. "But then it was hard to understand, what with their mouths being so full at the time."
"Shut up." With practiced ease, Sam flipped the scimitar's leather-wrapped handle to his left hand and beheaded another pallid, moaning ghoul lumbering up on Dean as Dean swung himself over the dusty countertop. "That Missy chick is not my girlfriend."
"Not any more," Dean said happily as he ducked down to check his reflection in a dirty pane of glass.
"Seriously, Dean, could you get the lead out?" Sam called. Another flex of his wrist and, on the backstroke, he took out the two closest ghouls. The blade passed easily through all of the papery skin, desiccated tendons, and brittle bone; the putrefying heads of both ghouls fell to the filthy checkered tile floor with almost wooden klonking sounds. "We made those bullets just for shit like this."
"Easy there, Turbo." Dean was casually inspecting what appeared to be an old ice cream freezer, the kind that you could still find at gas stations and truckstops. "There's no need to waste that ammo when there's an even cheaper, easier way to get rid of these fuckers."
"Yeah, have me cut 'em all up while you've got your thumb up your ass," Sam muttered.
"What was that, Sammy?"
Sam ignored him, still muttering under his breath. Wrapping up this stupid hunt would be so much easier if Dean would just hand over the goddamned gun. He shot a grim look at Dean as his jackass brother kept looking for something to use as lighter fluid.
Sam beheaded three more of the ghouls, then said "ah, shit" when his shoe squelched in the brownish-black ichor still sluggishly oozing from the neck of the first ghoul that he'd beheaded.
Fuck, Sam thought, lopping off the hand of that brushed his forearm with a mothwing's touch before he decapitated that ghoul, too. He switched the scimitar back to his right hand, dragging a barstool with rusted legs and a torn vinyl seat that might have once been cherry red out of his way. That's just perfect.
He'd never get the stench of naphthalene that always came out of these nasty things off his shoe. And, what, did they pack themselves in mothballs during the day? They couldn't go with those little lavender sachets like the ones Jess had liked to use, or even try cedar chips or something?
"Dean, I swear to God if you don't hurry up, I'm going to--"
"Ha!" At the sound, Sam spared a glance over his shoulder to see Dean heft a faded blue five-gallon propane cylinder on the counter. Dean, always aware when he had an audience, grinned over at Sam. "What say we watch these motherfuckers fall into a burnin' ring of fire, Sammy?"
"I don't believe it," Sam said, relieved to now be backing toward the cracked front door as Dean joined him. He caught the Zippo lighter that Dean tossed him with his free hand as Dean liberally sloshed propane on every surface of the diner and any advancing ghouls within reach. Sam sparked the lighter, the metal case glinting dully under the sodium street lights, until it lit. As he and Dean finally cleared the building, Dean threw the empty propane cylinder at the lead ghoul. The thing staggered under the weight and Sam took the opportunity to toss the lighter.
The smell as the propane and necrotized flesh began to burn was horrific, but even Sam had to admit that nothing else blazed with the same beautiful green-tinged flames as the soulless, animated corpses of the dead.
Handing the scimitar to Dean, Sam began to pick out gritty strands of cobweb from his bangs, trying not to cringe as he felt clumps of his sticky hair lift away from his brow. He cut a look at Dean, who was watching the conflagration spread through the diner with a serene, almost enraptured, expression.
The fire had begun to burn in earnest.
"Seriously," Sam said, "there wasn't a gas grill in the kitchen. Hell, there wasn't even a stove any more. Where the hell did you find that propane?"
"In my pants," Dean replied immediately.