gwendolyngrace (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gwendolyngrace) wrote2007-11-02 11:53 am
gwendolyngrace) wrote2007-11-02 11:53 am
Entry tags:
- fic,
- fic-or-treat,
- flopsies,
- gwenfic,
- hp,
- r/s,
- s3,
- spn,
- teen!chesters
Fic Post: Fic-or-Treat fics and some 1st line drabbles
Herein are the little flopsies (and one drabble) I wrote for my Fic-or-Treat presents. These are all basically flash fiction - unbeta'd, barely proofread, and I didn't even attempt to make them drabble-length because that's just too much work. Except for the R/S drabble, because that just kind of happened and didn't require hardly any effort to make it a drabble.
However, at the end of this post are also three drabbles I wrote using![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ficwriter1966's first lines from her First Lines meme/challenge.
For Teffy
Remus pulled up short at the sight of a boy in a Wolfman mask. It was his second Halloween in America, and still he could not quite get used to the casual way in which the Muggles here conjured up people’s worst nightmares in celebration of the end of the harvest season.
He pulled out the piece of parchment again to double-check the address. Merrimac, who taught Muggle Studies in the posh Boston Back Bay wizards’ school where Remus was working, had invited him for a drink where they could “watch the nightlife” – apparently there were a number of block parties planned in the area. Children traveled in packs around him as he walked up to the awning of the pub.
“Remus!” Merrimac called cheerfully. It looked like he hadn’t waited to start celebrating. Remus held up his hand in acknowledgment and joined him.
“I was thinking you decided to stand me up,” Merrimac said as Remus sat down.
“No. Just, still learning the T,” Remus admitted.
“I can give you a ride home later,” Merrimac offered.
Remus didn’t quite know whether Merrimac would be able to fly a broomstick drunk, or whether he meant he had Muggle transport, but for the moment, he simply said, “Thanks, we’ll see.”
They ate – Merrimac was right about the chowder and the fresh tilapia – and Remus watched the skies grow darker as the more adult crowd emerged. Mostly it seemed a leather and vinyl crowd, featuring the occasional Naughty Nurse in white. The women all wore Frankenstein boots and as little clothing as possible, all cinched tight to make the most of their bosoms and the least of their waists. The men all chose Byronic, brooding Dracula capes or long dusters like the cyberpunk craze had been popularizing.
“Crazy, aren’t they? Those Muggles,” Merrimac observed, looking out the window with him. “Still, it’s the one day a year they’re free to be something they’re not.”
“Mm,” Remus agreed. Merrimac’s hand touched his and Remus flinched away. “Sorry?”
Merrimac didn’t appear to be put off by Remus’s rebuff. “For us, though, it’s the one day a year we’re free to be what we are. Eh?”
Remus studied Merrimac’s face, his unspoken offer. It was all there to be seen, and it had been long enough that it tempted Remus tremendously. Especially at this time of year. “Did you…say you had transportation?” he asked.
“Yeah, just out the back,” Merrimac said. He dropped several bills on the table, muttering, “Let’s get out of here.”
Remus fumbled for his money clip, but Merrimac touched his arm, “We’ll settle up later,” he promised in a voice that made Remus shiver, and not with the draft from the open door.
He followed Merrimac to the back, watching the other man walk to gauge how steady he really was. He seemed able to keep a straight line, at least; perhaps the food had absorbed some of the alcohol. Remus himself felt heady and not a little reckless, but the goading voice in his head (which was not really Sirius, he told himself, not really) kept daring him to have a little fun. Live for the moment. Forget the significance of the date, for once, and grab opportunity while it was standing still enough to catch.
Merrimac led him to a monster motorcycle. Remus stopped in his tracks.
“Ever been on a bike like this?” Merrimac asked, mistaking Remus’s reluctance for fear.
“Often,” Remus told him, but his feet were pulling him away. “Sorry…this…this is a mistake. I wish I could, but…not tonight. Not…. Sorry.” He forced himself to stop babbling, and with a muttered, “I’ll see you at work,” he found his way out of the carpark and back to the subway station.
For aoibhe
“Look, Remus, I…I just wanted to say that…I’m really….” Sirius trailed off in the force of Remus’s glare. “Yeah. I’ll just go then, shall I?” He slunk back toward the dormitory door.
“It’s just a bloody game, Sirius,” Remus told him. “Honestly, what does it matter that you support the Tornadoes and I support Caerphilly?”
Sirius had the grace to look abashed. “Doesn’t, I suppose. But honestly, Moony, the Catapults? The only player they’ve got worth two knuts is Dunmore Junipertwee, and half the commentators on the WWN can’t even say his name without a fit of the giggles.”
Remus crossed his arms. “I don’t care,” he said indignantly. “And anyway, I thought you were groveling?”
“I’m not groveling,” Sirius answered, trying to stay calm. “I’m…I’m explaining.”
“Oh. Well, your explaining sounds an awful lot like arguing.”
Sirius’s eyebrows wagged mischievously. “So…you’d prefer me…on my knees?” he asked.
Remus bit the side of his cheek to keep from grinning at the lascivious look on Sirius’s face. “That’s a start,” he admitted.
“If I crawled to you…?” Sirius did so, stopping just in front of Remus’s knees where he sat on his bed. After a moment, Remus opened his legs and Sirius inched between them.
“And if I begged you to forgive me for saying we could never watch a match together, because anyone who supports the Catapults clearly doesn’t know his arse from a Golden Snitch?”
Remus’s eyes flashed, but with amusement rather than ire. “Mm…I think that last would be more effective if you didn’t repeat your vulgar assessment of my sporting acuity,” he said. “Better yet, what if you were to apologise without saying anything at all?”
Sirius smirked. “I could do that,” he said confidently.
Unlike most people, Remus knew that Sirius’s talented tongue wasn’t nearly as good at glib talking than…other things. And Sirius made himself busy proving it.
For doomette
“Fifteen years,” Sirius said, opening a bottle from his mother’s cellar. Remus merely nodded. Sirius poured out two glasses.
“To James and Lily,” he said, raising his glass.
“To James and Lily,” Remus echoed. They touched their goblets rims gently and both tipped back and drained the contents in one go.
Sirius sighed appreciatively. “Did you…” he began to say, then cut himself off.
“No,” Remus answered the unvoiced question. “But I’ve never been so happy to be wrong.”
He took the glass from Sirius’s hands. “Rather than feeling sorry for ourselves, I say we make up for lost time.”
For heartfelt_angel
Impala vs. Tardis:
- Bigger on the inside than the outside (Impala: 0; Tardis: 1)
- Has a secret cache of (seemingly endless) weapons (Impala: 1; Tardis: 0)
- Has a sexy exterior (Impala: 1; Tardis: 0)
- Has soft, buttery leather seats (Impala: 1; Tardis: 0)
- Can travel through time and space (Impala: 0; Tardis: 1)
- Can travel through time when Dean’s driving (Impala: 1; Tardis: 1)
- Has a snarky driver (Impala: 2; Tardis: 10)
- Makes a really cool noise when operating (Impala: 1; Tardis: 1)
- Has a state-of-the-art sound system (Impala: 0; Tardis: 0)
- Usually has Sam and Dean (Impala: 2; Tardis: 0)
- Includes The Greatest Hits of Mullet Rock (Impala: 1; Tardis: 0)
- Is nearly always in great working order (Impala: 1; Tardis: 0)
- When it does break down, its owner can fix it (Impala: 1; Tardis: 0)
- Chicks dig it (Impala: 1; Tardis: 1)
- Is “Back in Black” (Impala: 1; Tardis: 0)
- Blends in but still stands out (Impala: 1; Tardis: 0)
Total: Impala 15; Tardis 15
It’s a tie!
For elethoniel
“Sammy?” Dean knocked and opened the door simultaneously. “Oh, God!” he said in embarrassment at the sight before his eyes. Jeanne Kramer’s shirt was on the floor between the door and the bed. Jeanne Kramer’s bra was draped over the coverlet near the foot of the bed, and Jeanne Kramer was topless on top of his brother. At the interruption, she squeaked in equal mortification, covering herself with her arms, while Sam sat up fast and cracked his forehead against hers.
“Sorry!” he said, catching her biceps in his big ham hands. “Sorry!” he repeated. “Dean, get out!” he yelled, but Dean had already retreated back into the hallway. Where the distinct sound of his laughter could be heard on the other side of the door.
“You said we’d be alone!” Jeanne accused him, jumping off the bed and grabbing her bra.
“We were—Dean wasn’t supposed to—Sorry!” Sam spluttered.
“You said no one would find out!” Jeanne shrieked.
“I didn’t—Dean’s not—he’s okay!”
“OKAY?” she fired back, pulling her polo shirt back on and tucking it into her designer jeans. “You think your brother walking in on us is OKAY?”
“No, that’s not what I meant—I mean, he won’t—he’ll be discreet,” Sam finished in desperation, rising off the bed. Outside, he heard Dean snicker. “Or I’ll kill him,” Sam added pointedly.
“All decent in there, little bro?” Dean hooted from the hall. “Cause you know, Dad’s about an hour behind me, so….”
Jeanne turned red. She yanked the door open. Dean was leaning on the jamb and still laughing. “You think this is FUNNY, you big creep?”
Dean blinked. He looked from Sam, still half-dressed with his jeans fly open, to Jeanne, her eyes narrowed and her hands on her hips. “Uh…not the part about you, sweetheart. Just the part about Sammy.”
“Dean, you suck, just get the fuck out wouldja?” Sam pointed at the door. Then his pants fell down.
“Sam Winchester, don’t even THINK about talking to me ever again!” Jeanne declared and with a glare at Dean, who shifted for her, she stormed from the room. A couple seconds later they heard the apartment door slam.
Sam angrily pulled his pants back up and zipped the fly over his fading erection. “Thanks a LOT, Dean,” he grumped, fixing Dean with his best bitchface.
“Sorry, Sammy, it’s just…I never figured you’d—” Dean broke off when Sam sank onto the bed, huffing at that. “That’s not what I meant. But…you gotta admit this is not your style. Right?”
Sam rolled his eyes. He muttered something. “Wuztryntabemorlyoo,” it sounded like.
“What?” Dean asked, coming to sit on the foot of the bed next to him.
Sam sighed. “I was trying to be more like you,” he said, blushing.
“Oh, Sammy, don’t worry,” Dean told his brother, smacking his bare chest. “You do just fine.”
Sam’s snort was all he cared to say about the subject.
“Listen, you still like her? Talk to her tomorrow. Bet you can get her to give you another shot. And if not? We can get you better than an A cup, anyway.” He sauntered back to the door, but turned just as he came through it. “Oh, and next time? Sock on the door, my brother.”
For afrocurl
“…But he’s not, right?” Sam asked for about the fifth time since they left Cicero.
“No, Sam, he’s not.” Dean had given up on yelling; it wasn’t going to stop Sam’s questions, anyway. Never did. He did turn up the music, but Sam immediately turned it back down.
“Dean.”
“What?”
“Well, doesn’t it… I mean, don’t you ever worry about anyone else you might have… you know… left with a surprise?”
Dean eyed his brother. “You know, I had the safe sex talk from Dad when I was fourteen. Sure as hell not going through it again with you; once was embarrassing enough.”
“I’m sure you’re always careful,” Sam capitulated. “But doesn’t it make you wonder? Yeah, you dodged a bullet with Ben—”
“Is that what you think?” Dean spat the words out before he’d even really registered them. “You think Ben’s a bullet to be dodged?”
Sam’s eyes narrowed and he swallowed nervously. For the first time, he seemed to realize he needed to back off. “Dean. Sorry, man, I—”
Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah, well. Ben’s a good kid. He was sure helpful back in that basement. And did you see the way he got the others out before he left? Kid’s a natural.”
Sam said nothing, but Dean could feel his eyes on him. But Dean was always better at filling silence than Sam, and eventually Sam said, “You kinda wish, maybe, you and Lisa hadn’t been quite so careful?”
Dean’s mouth twisted. “Nah,” he said after a deep breath and long exhale. “I mean, taking a kid out on the road, raising him to hunt evil things, that’s crazy. Who does that?” His lips pulled back into a smile and he winked at Sam. “Anyway, dying in a year, Sammy; that’s no time to play house with an instant family.”
So far, the “I’m Dying” card generally shut Sam up even better than blasting Cheap Trick. He was still staring at Dean, though.
“Sam, blink, man.”
“…You’re sure he’s not—”
“Sammy. He’s not. Would you leave it?”
“Sorry. Just…you’re so proud of him.” He shook his head. “I don’t think you were ever that proud of me.”
Dean rolled his eyes, but patted Sam’s thigh across the bench. “Oh, Sammy. That’s ‘cause you sucked. Bitch.”
“Jerk.” Sam flipped open a book and let Dean drive.
For wendy
Sam kicked the ball hard, and it spun off toward the goalpost. He ran off in pursuit, but Tommy Nicholson caught up with him first. Tommy tried to kick the ball out from between Sam’s feet, and tripped him up instead. Sam could have bet it was deliberate. He rolled away and got back to his feet, agile from practice despite the stubborn ring of baby fat that still hadn’t quite given itself to muscle. Tommy was slower to rise, giving Sam a chance to take the ball back in his control.
He dribbled up the field and passed to Matt Trilby, who passed it back just as Sam crossed the midpoint of the field. He saw Tommy coming at his flank, but too late to swerve. Tommy checked him to the body this time. Even ready for it, the blow knocked Sam off his course and Tommy kicked the ball away.
Coach Swann blew his whistle. “Foul!” he shouted. Sam’s scrimmage team kicked the ball over and Coach Swann set it down in front of Sam. Sam kicked it back into play. He glared at Tommy when he ran for the ball.
Tommy and his friends, including Jake Gillis who was in 8th grade, jumped Sam coming out of the locker room after practice.
He held back. He really did. But by the time he got away, Tommy still had a black eye, and Mikey probably had a dislocated finger. Jake had narrowly missed a broken nose.
Sam’s own state was hardly pristine. They’d torn his jacket and he had his own shiner, and a bloody nose as well as the marks of a sound pummeling to his ribs and the scrapes on his knuckles. He’d kicked Jake only to get his ankle wrenched for his trouble, so he was limping, which meant he’d be benched for at least the next couple games. So in the end, Tommy got part of what he’d probably wanted.
Dean was waiting for him in the Impala when Sam finally made his way to the parking lot.
“What the hell, Sam?” Dean asked as Sam climbed into the shotgun seat.
“Tommy Nicholson, Jake Gillis, and Mike Stevermeyer,” Sam muttered. “Is Dad home?”
“No,” Dean said, sounding like he thought it was a good thing, too. “Did they all jump you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Sam shrugged. “Tommy doesn’t like that Coach Swann asked me to play starting center in next week’s match.”
“Damn, Sammy, soccer’s a rough game,” Dean observed. “Want me to—”
“What, and have everyone at school think I’m just your bitch? No, Dean,” Sam said dejectedly. “Know what sucks?”
“You’re gonna get a note from the principal?” Dean guessed.
Sam ignored his attempt at levity. “Screw that,” he said, scoffing. “No, what sucks is that I could have messed them up a lot more, and a lot quicker, if I coulda just fought for real.”
Dean sucked his teeth. “Yeah, that does suck,” he agreed. “But look at it this way: You did mess them up, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And it was self-defense?”
“Yeah, but it’ll be my word against theirs,” Sam mumbled.
“True. But hey, you held your own, Sammy.” Dean turned the car away from the dingy little duplex they’d been calling home. “I think that calls for a celebratory pizza.”
Dean drove to a local joint they’d discovered a few days into their stint in this town. The pizzas were homemade with fresh toppings, not too heavy on the sauce, and a crust that teetered on the edge of being too thick. Just the way they liked it. As they got out and walked into the restaurant, Dean punched Sam’s stomach lightly and said, “You know you’re not just my bitch, right?”
Sam slapped Dean’s arm.
For starxd_sparrow
Dean prided himself on being able to navigate in any city, anywhere, day or night.
So how the hell had he managed to get totally freaking lost in Homestead?
He followed the evacuation route signs until he found Route 8, then back-tracked up to Fifth. The rain was pelting, and everywhere he looked, there were hills, and if not hills, friggin’ rivers.
If Sam had been here, he would have pulled out the map by now (always such a damn girl), and would be navigating him straight to the target. But then even Sam would have agreed that the geography around here was seriously whacked.
He came to a red light and by its glow double-checked the address he’d scribbled. The gas station attendant he’d asked had told him the house was somewhere in Shadyside. Okay, great. But where the heck was that? He took a deep breath and turned, trusting his instincts.
Ten blocks later, he was fairly certain he’d headed the wrong way. “Waterfront?” he asked himself. “The hell? Everything in this darn town is a waterfront!” Still, it didn’t look all bad. At least there were signs of civilization, including an Eat-N-Park. If he could figure out how the heck to even get down to it. Then he saw the ramp.
He managed to get down, get fed, and get more directions. Back the way he’d come (only not, because damn, was there nowhere in this place one could go straight?), up over the insta-plaza with its yuppie shopping and freakin’ P.F. Chang’s, for chrissakes, and back onto the same darn hill he’d just been down. The Impala protested the incline.
“Okay, baby,” he purred to the car, coaxing her up and over the steep climb. He followed the street right and finally, near the entrance to the interstate, picked up a road sign. “Shady, thank God,” he muttered.
Still, it took three more wrong turns before he found the little house, and then he feared the car might never survive being parked on that steep a hill. “Jeez, and I thought San Francisco was bad,” he told himself, carefully cocking the wheels as far as they would go, and cranking the parking brake, which he hardly ever used, to protect his baby.
Just as he shut off the engine, his phone rang. “Hey, Dad,” he said into it.
“How’s it going?” his father’s voice clattered through the tinny speakers.
“Just found the house,” Dean said.
“Just now? It’s…what, after 11:00 Eastern. What took so long?”
Dean sighed. “Tellin’ ya, Dad, I think it’s not just this house. I think the whole darn city’s under a labyrinthine spell or something.”
He heard his father laugh. “Kid, can’t tell you how many times I’ve gotten lost in Pittsburgh.”
For sea0tter12
John was all too aware of the sheriff watching him closely while he made his one phone call. When Jim answered, John said guardedly, “Jim, it’s Jasper Wolcott, just listen: I need a few favors.”
“John?” Jim asked.
“Yep,” John said.
“What’s wrong?” Jim cut right to the heart of things.
“Local law enforcement seems to think I’m doing more in this town than investigating the murders of the last couple months.”
“Are you being arrested?”
John glanced over at the sheriff, whose hand was fingering his gun. “Not clear yet,” John hedged. “They didn’t take too kindly to my carrying protection. I told them there’s a murderer on the loose, but I don’t think it helped any.”
“I can imagine your very trustworthy smiling face didn’t help any, either,” Jim observed wryly. “What do you need?”
“See if you can get a call in to Roman; I know they can’t hold me forever on the murder thing, seeing as you and I know I didn’t do it—”
“But the carrying concealed and the fake IDs are going to be harder to get out of. Check. I’ll send him over. You’re still in Anadarko?”
“That’s a firm,” John said. “Next: Might as well tell Harvey to help out the constabulary. Sheriff mentioned wanting to check out my credentials. I’m sure he’d appreciate a call or two to establish my bona fides.”
“Harvelle to call sheriff posing as your…editor?” Came the confirmation.
“Right.” John nodded even though Jim couldn’t see him through the phone line. “Last, and most important: I need you to look in on Calvin and Hobbes.”
“Okay…. What’s the address?” Jim asked immediately.
John gave it to him. “They should be okay for another day or so, but I’d hoped to wrap up this fact-finding by then.”
Jim assured him he’d catch up to the boys and see that they were provided for in the short-term. He confirmed the number for Dean’s pager and then said, “Be careful, Jasper,” before the sheriff sauntered back over to cut off the call.
“Who are Calvin and Hobbes?” he asked immediately. “Your partners? Some kind of code name?”
John looked him straight in the eye and didn’t flinch. “My cats.”
This last one incorporates a joke I've had in mind for a long time, but I don't know if I'll ever actually write the fic about it. I talked about it in the comments to one of my Monday Metas over at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wee_chesters here.
And then here are the drabbles:
1.
This would have been easier, Dean thought, if it hadn't been for the damn chocolate chip cookies.
Dad’s head was buried under the hood of the Impala, listening to the timing belt, adjusting it before they took off down yet another road, toward yet another town. Sam was tossing the last of their laundry—taking full advantage of the included washer/dryer—into the duffels.
And Dean was staring at a plate of cookies, still warm from the oven. “Thanks, Carly,” he said. “Listen—”
“Just bring the plate to school tomorrow,” Carly said, smiling.
“Uh…Got a paper plate?” Dean asked.
~*~*~*~
2.
The minute Dean started singing the Greatest Hits of the Beach Boys, Sam knew the night wouldn't end well.
“Take my ha-a-a-and….” Dean lurched. If not for the handrails, he would’ve tumbled out of the bed.
“Easy, tiger,” Sam said, pushing him back against the pillow. “Just get some rest, huh?”
Dean whooped at the top of his range. “Barbara-Ann, Sammy!” he crowed. “What’re the odds? Got me a hot nurse.”
Sam smirked. Had he ever seen Dean this loopy before? Maybe the dislocated shoulder in ‘92. Between the Darvocet and the morphine, Dean didn’t need a plane to fly.
~*~*~*~
3.
Really, there's nothing left to be done. Yesterday, he’d cashed Mike’s check for his half, told the realtor he’d call weekly until the house sold. She didn’t think it’d take long, even with the damage.
Kate brings Sammy out, bundled up against the November chill. Dean trails her, hanging on to her trousers, but when he sees John, he breaks and runs to him. John picks him up as Kate joins them.
“Mike’s—”
“So’m I,” John grunts. He puts Dean down and takes Sammy from his friend’s wife. As they pull away, Dean cries silently. “It’s okay,” John chants.
:collapses
However, at the end of this post are also three drabbles I wrote using
ficwriter1966's first lines from her First Lines meme/challenge. For Teffy
Remus pulled up short at the sight of a boy in a Wolfman mask. It was his second Halloween in America, and still he could not quite get used to the casual way in which the Muggles here conjured up people’s worst nightmares in celebration of the end of the harvest season.
He pulled out the piece of parchment again to double-check the address. Merrimac, who taught Muggle Studies in the posh Boston Back Bay wizards’ school where Remus was working, had invited him for a drink where they could “watch the nightlife” – apparently there were a number of block parties planned in the area. Children traveled in packs around him as he walked up to the awning of the pub.
“Remus!” Merrimac called cheerfully. It looked like he hadn’t waited to start celebrating. Remus held up his hand in acknowledgment and joined him.
“I was thinking you decided to stand me up,” Merrimac said as Remus sat down.
“No. Just, still learning the T,” Remus admitted.
“I can give you a ride home later,” Merrimac offered.
Remus didn’t quite know whether Merrimac would be able to fly a broomstick drunk, or whether he meant he had Muggle transport, but for the moment, he simply said, “Thanks, we’ll see.”
They ate – Merrimac was right about the chowder and the fresh tilapia – and Remus watched the skies grow darker as the more adult crowd emerged. Mostly it seemed a leather and vinyl crowd, featuring the occasional Naughty Nurse in white. The women all wore Frankenstein boots and as little clothing as possible, all cinched tight to make the most of their bosoms and the least of their waists. The men all chose Byronic, brooding Dracula capes or long dusters like the cyberpunk craze had been popularizing.
“Crazy, aren’t they? Those Muggles,” Merrimac observed, looking out the window with him. “Still, it’s the one day a year they’re free to be something they’re not.”
“Mm,” Remus agreed. Merrimac’s hand touched his and Remus flinched away. “Sorry?”
Merrimac didn’t appear to be put off by Remus’s rebuff. “For us, though, it’s the one day a year we’re free to be what we are. Eh?”
Remus studied Merrimac’s face, his unspoken offer. It was all there to be seen, and it had been long enough that it tempted Remus tremendously. Especially at this time of year. “Did you…say you had transportation?” he asked.
“Yeah, just out the back,” Merrimac said. He dropped several bills on the table, muttering, “Let’s get out of here.”
Remus fumbled for his money clip, but Merrimac touched his arm, “We’ll settle up later,” he promised in a voice that made Remus shiver, and not with the draft from the open door.
He followed Merrimac to the back, watching the other man walk to gauge how steady he really was. He seemed able to keep a straight line, at least; perhaps the food had absorbed some of the alcohol. Remus himself felt heady and not a little reckless, but the goading voice in his head (which was not really Sirius, he told himself, not really) kept daring him to have a little fun. Live for the moment. Forget the significance of the date, for once, and grab opportunity while it was standing still enough to catch.
Merrimac led him to a monster motorcycle. Remus stopped in his tracks.
“Ever been on a bike like this?” Merrimac asked, mistaking Remus’s reluctance for fear.
“Often,” Remus told him, but his feet were pulling him away. “Sorry…this…this is a mistake. I wish I could, but…not tonight. Not…. Sorry.” He forced himself to stop babbling, and with a muttered, “I’ll see you at work,” he found his way out of the carpark and back to the subway station.
For aoibhe
“Look, Remus, I…I just wanted to say that…I’m really….” Sirius trailed off in the force of Remus’s glare. “Yeah. I’ll just go then, shall I?” He slunk back toward the dormitory door.
“It’s just a bloody game, Sirius,” Remus told him. “Honestly, what does it matter that you support the Tornadoes and I support Caerphilly?”
Sirius had the grace to look abashed. “Doesn’t, I suppose. But honestly, Moony, the Catapults? The only player they’ve got worth two knuts is Dunmore Junipertwee, and half the commentators on the WWN can’t even say his name without a fit of the giggles.”
Remus crossed his arms. “I don’t care,” he said indignantly. “And anyway, I thought you were groveling?”
“I’m not groveling,” Sirius answered, trying to stay calm. “I’m…I’m explaining.”
“Oh. Well, your explaining sounds an awful lot like arguing.”
Sirius’s eyebrows wagged mischievously. “So…you’d prefer me…on my knees?” he asked.
Remus bit the side of his cheek to keep from grinning at the lascivious look on Sirius’s face. “That’s a start,” he admitted.
“If I crawled to you…?” Sirius did so, stopping just in front of Remus’s knees where he sat on his bed. After a moment, Remus opened his legs and Sirius inched between them.
“And if I begged you to forgive me for saying we could never watch a match together, because anyone who supports the Catapults clearly doesn’t know his arse from a Golden Snitch?”
Remus’s eyes flashed, but with amusement rather than ire. “Mm…I think that last would be more effective if you didn’t repeat your vulgar assessment of my sporting acuity,” he said. “Better yet, what if you were to apologise without saying anything at all?”
Sirius smirked. “I could do that,” he said confidently.
Unlike most people, Remus knew that Sirius’s talented tongue wasn’t nearly as good at glib talking than…other things. And Sirius made himself busy proving it.
For doomette
“Fifteen years,” Sirius said, opening a bottle from his mother’s cellar. Remus merely nodded. Sirius poured out two glasses.
“To James and Lily,” he said, raising his glass.
“To James and Lily,” Remus echoed. They touched their goblets rims gently and both tipped back and drained the contents in one go.
Sirius sighed appreciatively. “Did you…” he began to say, then cut himself off.
“No,” Remus answered the unvoiced question. “But I’ve never been so happy to be wrong.”
He took the glass from Sirius’s hands. “Rather than feeling sorry for ourselves, I say we make up for lost time.”
For heartfelt_angel
Impala vs. Tardis:
- Bigger on the inside than the outside (Impala: 0; Tardis: 1)
- Has a secret cache of (seemingly endless) weapons (Impala: 1; Tardis: 0)
- Has a sexy exterior (Impala: 1; Tardis: 0)
- Has soft, buttery leather seats (Impala: 1; Tardis: 0)
- Can travel through time and space (Impala: 0; Tardis: 1)
- Can travel through time when Dean’s driving (Impala: 1; Tardis: 1)
- Has a snarky driver (Impala: 2; Tardis: 10)
- Makes a really cool noise when operating (Impala: 1; Tardis: 1)
- Has a state-of-the-art sound system (Impala: 0; Tardis: 0)
- Usually has Sam and Dean (Impala: 2; Tardis: 0)
- Includes The Greatest Hits of Mullet Rock (Impala: 1; Tardis: 0)
- Is nearly always in great working order (Impala: 1; Tardis: 0)
- When it does break down, its owner can fix it (Impala: 1; Tardis: 0)
- Chicks dig it (Impala: 1; Tardis: 1)
- Is “Back in Black” (Impala: 1; Tardis: 0)
- Blends in but still stands out (Impala: 1; Tardis: 0)
Total: Impala 15; Tardis 15
It’s a tie!
For elethoniel
“Sammy?” Dean knocked and opened the door simultaneously. “Oh, God!” he said in embarrassment at the sight before his eyes. Jeanne Kramer’s shirt was on the floor between the door and the bed. Jeanne Kramer’s bra was draped over the coverlet near the foot of the bed, and Jeanne Kramer was topless on top of his brother. At the interruption, she squeaked in equal mortification, covering herself with her arms, while Sam sat up fast and cracked his forehead against hers.
“Sorry!” he said, catching her biceps in his big ham hands. “Sorry!” he repeated. “Dean, get out!” he yelled, but Dean had already retreated back into the hallway. Where the distinct sound of his laughter could be heard on the other side of the door.
“You said we’d be alone!” Jeanne accused him, jumping off the bed and grabbing her bra.
“We were—Dean wasn’t supposed to—Sorry!” Sam spluttered.
“You said no one would find out!” Jeanne shrieked.
“I didn’t—Dean’s not—he’s okay!”
“OKAY?” she fired back, pulling her polo shirt back on and tucking it into her designer jeans. “You think your brother walking in on us is OKAY?”
“No, that’s not what I meant—I mean, he won’t—he’ll be discreet,” Sam finished in desperation, rising off the bed. Outside, he heard Dean snicker. “Or I’ll kill him,” Sam added pointedly.
“All decent in there, little bro?” Dean hooted from the hall. “Cause you know, Dad’s about an hour behind me, so….”
Jeanne turned red. She yanked the door open. Dean was leaning on the jamb and still laughing. “You think this is FUNNY, you big creep?”
Dean blinked. He looked from Sam, still half-dressed with his jeans fly open, to Jeanne, her eyes narrowed and her hands on her hips. “Uh…not the part about you, sweetheart. Just the part about Sammy.”
“Dean, you suck, just get the fuck out wouldja?” Sam pointed at the door. Then his pants fell down.
“Sam Winchester, don’t even THINK about talking to me ever again!” Jeanne declared and with a glare at Dean, who shifted for her, she stormed from the room. A couple seconds later they heard the apartment door slam.
Sam angrily pulled his pants back up and zipped the fly over his fading erection. “Thanks a LOT, Dean,” he grumped, fixing Dean with his best bitchface.
“Sorry, Sammy, it’s just…I never figured you’d—” Dean broke off when Sam sank onto the bed, huffing at that. “That’s not what I meant. But…you gotta admit this is not your style. Right?”
Sam rolled his eyes. He muttered something. “Wuztryntabemorlyoo,” it sounded like.
“What?” Dean asked, coming to sit on the foot of the bed next to him.
Sam sighed. “I was trying to be more like you,” he said, blushing.
“Oh, Sammy, don’t worry,” Dean told his brother, smacking his bare chest. “You do just fine.”
Sam’s snort was all he cared to say about the subject.
“Listen, you still like her? Talk to her tomorrow. Bet you can get her to give you another shot. And if not? We can get you better than an A cup, anyway.” He sauntered back to the door, but turned just as he came through it. “Oh, and next time? Sock on the door, my brother.”
For afrocurl
“…But he’s not, right?” Sam asked for about the fifth time since they left Cicero.
“No, Sam, he’s not.” Dean had given up on yelling; it wasn’t going to stop Sam’s questions, anyway. Never did. He did turn up the music, but Sam immediately turned it back down.
“Dean.”
“What?”
“Well, doesn’t it… I mean, don’t you ever worry about anyone else you might have… you know… left with a surprise?”
Dean eyed his brother. “You know, I had the safe sex talk from Dad when I was fourteen. Sure as hell not going through it again with you; once was embarrassing enough.”
“I’m sure you’re always careful,” Sam capitulated. “But doesn’t it make you wonder? Yeah, you dodged a bullet with Ben—”
“Is that what you think?” Dean spat the words out before he’d even really registered them. “You think Ben’s a bullet to be dodged?”
Sam’s eyes narrowed and he swallowed nervously. For the first time, he seemed to realize he needed to back off. “Dean. Sorry, man, I—”
Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah, well. Ben’s a good kid. He was sure helpful back in that basement. And did you see the way he got the others out before he left? Kid’s a natural.”
Sam said nothing, but Dean could feel his eyes on him. But Dean was always better at filling silence than Sam, and eventually Sam said, “You kinda wish, maybe, you and Lisa hadn’t been quite so careful?”
Dean’s mouth twisted. “Nah,” he said after a deep breath and long exhale. “I mean, taking a kid out on the road, raising him to hunt evil things, that’s crazy. Who does that?” His lips pulled back into a smile and he winked at Sam. “Anyway, dying in a year, Sammy; that’s no time to play house with an instant family.”
So far, the “I’m Dying” card generally shut Sam up even better than blasting Cheap Trick. He was still staring at Dean, though.
“Sam, blink, man.”
“…You’re sure he’s not—”
“Sammy. He’s not. Would you leave it?”
“Sorry. Just…you’re so proud of him.” He shook his head. “I don’t think you were ever that proud of me.”
Dean rolled his eyes, but patted Sam’s thigh across the bench. “Oh, Sammy. That’s ‘cause you sucked. Bitch.”
“Jerk.” Sam flipped open a book and let Dean drive.
For wendy
Sam kicked the ball hard, and it spun off toward the goalpost. He ran off in pursuit, but Tommy Nicholson caught up with him first. Tommy tried to kick the ball out from between Sam’s feet, and tripped him up instead. Sam could have bet it was deliberate. He rolled away and got back to his feet, agile from practice despite the stubborn ring of baby fat that still hadn’t quite given itself to muscle. Tommy was slower to rise, giving Sam a chance to take the ball back in his control.
He dribbled up the field and passed to Matt Trilby, who passed it back just as Sam crossed the midpoint of the field. He saw Tommy coming at his flank, but too late to swerve. Tommy checked him to the body this time. Even ready for it, the blow knocked Sam off his course and Tommy kicked the ball away.
Coach Swann blew his whistle. “Foul!” he shouted. Sam’s scrimmage team kicked the ball over and Coach Swann set it down in front of Sam. Sam kicked it back into play. He glared at Tommy when he ran for the ball.
Tommy and his friends, including Jake Gillis who was in 8th grade, jumped Sam coming out of the locker room after practice.
He held back. He really did. But by the time he got away, Tommy still had a black eye, and Mikey probably had a dislocated finger. Jake had narrowly missed a broken nose.
Sam’s own state was hardly pristine. They’d torn his jacket and he had his own shiner, and a bloody nose as well as the marks of a sound pummeling to his ribs and the scrapes on his knuckles. He’d kicked Jake only to get his ankle wrenched for his trouble, so he was limping, which meant he’d be benched for at least the next couple games. So in the end, Tommy got part of what he’d probably wanted.
Dean was waiting for him in the Impala when Sam finally made his way to the parking lot.
“What the hell, Sam?” Dean asked as Sam climbed into the shotgun seat.
“Tommy Nicholson, Jake Gillis, and Mike Stevermeyer,” Sam muttered. “Is Dad home?”
“No,” Dean said, sounding like he thought it was a good thing, too. “Did they all jump you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Sam shrugged. “Tommy doesn’t like that Coach Swann asked me to play starting center in next week’s match.”
“Damn, Sammy, soccer’s a rough game,” Dean observed. “Want me to—”
“What, and have everyone at school think I’m just your bitch? No, Dean,” Sam said dejectedly. “Know what sucks?”
“You’re gonna get a note from the principal?” Dean guessed.
Sam ignored his attempt at levity. “Screw that,” he said, scoffing. “No, what sucks is that I could have messed them up a lot more, and a lot quicker, if I coulda just fought for real.”
Dean sucked his teeth. “Yeah, that does suck,” he agreed. “But look at it this way: You did mess them up, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And it was self-defense?”
“Yeah, but it’ll be my word against theirs,” Sam mumbled.
“True. But hey, you held your own, Sammy.” Dean turned the car away from the dingy little duplex they’d been calling home. “I think that calls for a celebratory pizza.”
Dean drove to a local joint they’d discovered a few days into their stint in this town. The pizzas were homemade with fresh toppings, not too heavy on the sauce, and a crust that teetered on the edge of being too thick. Just the way they liked it. As they got out and walked into the restaurant, Dean punched Sam’s stomach lightly and said, “You know you’re not just my bitch, right?”
Sam slapped Dean’s arm.
For starxd_sparrow
Dean prided himself on being able to navigate in any city, anywhere, day or night.
So how the hell had he managed to get totally freaking lost in Homestead?
He followed the evacuation route signs until he found Route 8, then back-tracked up to Fifth. The rain was pelting, and everywhere he looked, there were hills, and if not hills, friggin’ rivers.
If Sam had been here, he would have pulled out the map by now (always such a damn girl), and would be navigating him straight to the target. But then even Sam would have agreed that the geography around here was seriously whacked.
He came to a red light and by its glow double-checked the address he’d scribbled. The gas station attendant he’d asked had told him the house was somewhere in Shadyside. Okay, great. But where the heck was that? He took a deep breath and turned, trusting his instincts.
Ten blocks later, he was fairly certain he’d headed the wrong way. “Waterfront?” he asked himself. “The hell? Everything in this darn town is a waterfront!” Still, it didn’t look all bad. At least there were signs of civilization, including an Eat-N-Park. If he could figure out how the heck to even get down to it. Then he saw the ramp.
He managed to get down, get fed, and get more directions. Back the way he’d come (only not, because damn, was there nowhere in this place one could go straight?), up over the insta-plaza with its yuppie shopping and freakin’ P.F. Chang’s, for chrissakes, and back onto the same darn hill he’d just been down. The Impala protested the incline.
“Okay, baby,” he purred to the car, coaxing her up and over the steep climb. He followed the street right and finally, near the entrance to the interstate, picked up a road sign. “Shady, thank God,” he muttered.
Still, it took three more wrong turns before he found the little house, and then he feared the car might never survive being parked on that steep a hill. “Jeez, and I thought San Francisco was bad,” he told himself, carefully cocking the wheels as far as they would go, and cranking the parking brake, which he hardly ever used, to protect his baby.
Just as he shut off the engine, his phone rang. “Hey, Dad,” he said into it.
“How’s it going?” his father’s voice clattered through the tinny speakers.
“Just found the house,” Dean said.
“Just now? It’s…what, after 11:00 Eastern. What took so long?”
Dean sighed. “Tellin’ ya, Dad, I think it’s not just this house. I think the whole darn city’s under a labyrinthine spell or something.”
He heard his father laugh. “Kid, can’t tell you how many times I’ve gotten lost in Pittsburgh.”
For sea0tter12
John was all too aware of the sheriff watching him closely while he made his one phone call. When Jim answered, John said guardedly, “Jim, it’s Jasper Wolcott, just listen: I need a few favors.”
“John?” Jim asked.
“Yep,” John said.
“What’s wrong?” Jim cut right to the heart of things.
“Local law enforcement seems to think I’m doing more in this town than investigating the murders of the last couple months.”
“Are you being arrested?”
John glanced over at the sheriff, whose hand was fingering his gun. “Not clear yet,” John hedged. “They didn’t take too kindly to my carrying protection. I told them there’s a murderer on the loose, but I don’t think it helped any.”
“I can imagine your very trustworthy smiling face didn’t help any, either,” Jim observed wryly. “What do you need?”
“See if you can get a call in to Roman; I know they can’t hold me forever on the murder thing, seeing as you and I know I didn’t do it—”
“But the carrying concealed and the fake IDs are going to be harder to get out of. Check. I’ll send him over. You’re still in Anadarko?”
“That’s a firm,” John said. “Next: Might as well tell Harvey to help out the constabulary. Sheriff mentioned wanting to check out my credentials. I’m sure he’d appreciate a call or two to establish my bona fides.”
“Harvelle to call sheriff posing as your…editor?” Came the confirmation.
“Right.” John nodded even though Jim couldn’t see him through the phone line. “Last, and most important: I need you to look in on Calvin and Hobbes.”
“Okay…. What’s the address?” Jim asked immediately.
John gave it to him. “They should be okay for another day or so, but I’d hoped to wrap up this fact-finding by then.”
Jim assured him he’d catch up to the boys and see that they were provided for in the short-term. He confirmed the number for Dean’s pager and then said, “Be careful, Jasper,” before the sheriff sauntered back over to cut off the call.
“Who are Calvin and Hobbes?” he asked immediately. “Your partners? Some kind of code name?”
John looked him straight in the eye and didn’t flinch. “My cats.”
This last one incorporates a joke I've had in mind for a long time, but I don't know if I'll ever actually write the fic about it. I talked about it in the comments to one of my Monday Metas over at
wee_chesters here.And then here are the drabbles:
1.
This would have been easier, Dean thought, if it hadn't been for the damn chocolate chip cookies.
Dad’s head was buried under the hood of the Impala, listening to the timing belt, adjusting it before they took off down yet another road, toward yet another town. Sam was tossing the last of their laundry—taking full advantage of the included washer/dryer—into the duffels.
And Dean was staring at a plate of cookies, still warm from the oven. “Thanks, Carly,” he said. “Listen—”
“Just bring the plate to school tomorrow,” Carly said, smiling.
“Uh…Got a paper plate?” Dean asked.
~*~*~*~
2.
The minute Dean started singing the Greatest Hits of the Beach Boys, Sam knew the night wouldn't end well.
“Take my ha-a-a-and….” Dean lurched. If not for the handrails, he would’ve tumbled out of the bed.
“Easy, tiger,” Sam said, pushing him back against the pillow. “Just get some rest, huh?”
Dean whooped at the top of his range. “Barbara-Ann, Sammy!” he crowed. “What’re the odds? Got me a hot nurse.”
Sam smirked. Had he ever seen Dean this loopy before? Maybe the dislocated shoulder in ‘92. Between the Darvocet and the morphine, Dean didn’t need a plane to fly.
~*~*~*~
3.
Really, there's nothing left to be done. Yesterday, he’d cashed Mike’s check for his half, told the realtor he’d call weekly until the house sold. She didn’t think it’d take long, even with the damage.
Kate brings Sammy out, bundled up against the November chill. Dean trails her, hanging on to her trousers, but when he sees John, he breaks and runs to him. John picks him up as Kate joins them.
“Mike’s—”
“So’m I,” John grunts. He puts Dean down and takes Sammy from his friend’s wife. As they pull away, Dean cries silently. “It’s okay,” John chants.
:collapses