[Supernatural ficlet] a billion chinese people can't be wrong
A little late, in my time zone, but my heart is always out on the west coast anyway, so it counts.
joyfulgirl41 ran a Supernatural Friday the 13th challenge (low key) and I wrote a slight ficlet for it. My first (and probably last) Supernatural fic.
Title: a billion chinese people can't be wrong
Author: Carla
Disclaimer: Characters from Supernatural belong to David Kripke and others.
Dedication: To Sarah, for dealing with my snark.
Distribution: Please ask
Rating: 13+
Summary: "What are we--just a couple of guys watching horror films and drinking beer?"
“Chinese food and The Lost Boys? Are we in the fucking movies now, Dean? Just a couple of guys watching horror films and drinking beer?” Sam huffed and threw his bag of dirty clothes on the bed. “Don’t we have better things to do? Laundry? Finding dad? Saving people?”
“Everyone needs a break.” Dean didn’t look perturbed; he sprawled across the bed, button-down shirt open over a t-shirt, feet crossed at the ankles, and a carton of fried rice balanced on his stomach.
“First, it’s Friday the Thirteenth, and probably not the best night to take off,” Sam argued. “And second, whether we need it or not, we don’t get a break when people could be out there dying.”
Dean grinned, and his teeth were very white in the gloom; the darkness was only broken by the dying light of the setting sun where it leaked through torn window shades, and the flashing, muted colors of the television.
“Would you believe me if I said bad things take the night off because it’s the big unlucky day?”
Sam didn’t have a response for that, but he crossed his arms and scowled. He practiced it in the mirror before his fast showers, not every day, but too often after the last time he tried to use it, only to make Dean laugh, ruffle his hair, and call him “cute little Sammy.”
“Okay, you caught me, Sammy.” He cracked another grin, and scooped a forkful of rice into his mouth. He didn’t want until he was done chewing before he spoke again, and little bits of food flecked away from the corners of his lips. It was disgusting, and pure big brother being annoying. Sam resolved to ignore it. “We’re not really taking the day off. While you were playing Nancy Drew in the library, I was Frank and Joe Hardy, doing the work of two in one. This town has problems, any Friday the Thirteenth, and it just gets worse when it’s almost the full moon.”
“What kind of problems?”
Dean nodded toward the rest of the boxes of Chinese food, scattered across the nightstand between the beds. The room phone was shoved back against the wall, out of the way, and already had streaks of soy sauce on the buttons.
“I didn’t choose dinner and a movie for fun. Thought it would get us in the mood.”
Sam had to think about it for a minute; he was never sure if Dean was deliberately obtuse, or just didn’t care if he got the point across. Whichever, he was certain it was more about being obnoxious than anything else.
“You think there are really vampires in Santa Cruz?”
“What better place to hide? It’s already famous for being the real city behind the ‘Murder Capital of the World’ and if anyone saw anything unusual, it can be discounted as crazy fans of a cult classic.”
“It’s The Lost Boys, not Dracula. How cult can it be?”
Dean smirked, and didn’t answer his question.
“Some people have been attacked and cut, lost a lot of blood. Maybe it was from the wound itself, but the cuts are never deep, and always on the throat. None of them ever happened in the daylight.”
“It could just be people pretending to be vampires. Deranged fans of your movie there, even.”
“Could be.” Dean finished the rice and tossed the box aside. “Could be the real thing, too. We’ll find out tonight. Toss me that bag.”
Sam didn’t like the way his brother worded his requests; they were really orders and they both knew it. They both knew, too, Sam didn’t follow orders well at all, but he scooped up the ratty backpack and tossed it across the room.
Dean pulled out thick pieces of wood about as long as his forearm, and a wood carving knife.
“Got the variety pack,” he said, “hawthorn, oak, apple, ash-legends vary too much to rely on one.”
Sam watched as Dean sharpened the tip of the first piece. After a second he sat down on the edge of his bed and scooped up one of the boxes of food. Sweet and sour chicken-his favorite, and untouched.
“You don’t really think they explode into goo around here, do you?”
“Hope not, or you’ll be doing more laundry than you thought.”
“I’m not washing your clothes again.”
“Sure.” Dean scooted higher on the bed, grinned bigger still, and picked up a second stake. “How about a little bet? Whoever does the most damage tonight gets to sleep while the younger loser brother does all the cleanup.”
“You’re on.” Sam chewed and swallowed. “The asshole older brother gets turned into a vampire, don’t you remember? Can’t win that way.”
“Younger brother needs to shut his cakehole and eat or he’s going to be useless like the girl in the movie. He’s already got the big frizzy hair down.”
Sam chucked a chunk of chicken at him. Dean batted it out of the way and threw a handful of the stakes onto the end of his bed. “Get to work.”
joyfulgirl41 ran a Supernatural Friday the 13th challenge (low key) and I wrote a slight ficlet for it. My first (and probably last) Supernatural fic.
Title: a billion chinese people can't be wrong
Author: Carla
Disclaimer: Characters from Supernatural belong to David Kripke and others.
Dedication: To Sarah, for dealing with my snark.
Distribution: Please ask
Rating: 13+
Summary: "What are we--just a couple of guys watching horror films and drinking beer?"
“Chinese food and The Lost Boys? Are we in the fucking movies now, Dean? Just a couple of guys watching horror films and drinking beer?” Sam huffed and threw his bag of dirty clothes on the bed. “Don’t we have better things to do? Laundry? Finding dad? Saving people?”
“Everyone needs a break.” Dean didn’t look perturbed; he sprawled across the bed, button-down shirt open over a t-shirt, feet crossed at the ankles, and a carton of fried rice balanced on his stomach.
“First, it’s Friday the Thirteenth, and probably not the best night to take off,” Sam argued. “And second, whether we need it or not, we don’t get a break when people could be out there dying.”
Dean grinned, and his teeth were very white in the gloom; the darkness was only broken by the dying light of the setting sun where it leaked through torn window shades, and the flashing, muted colors of the television.
“Would you believe me if I said bad things take the night off because it’s the big unlucky day?”
Sam didn’t have a response for that, but he crossed his arms and scowled. He practiced it in the mirror before his fast showers, not every day, but too often after the last time he tried to use it, only to make Dean laugh, ruffle his hair, and call him “cute little Sammy.”
“Okay, you caught me, Sammy.” He cracked another grin, and scooped a forkful of rice into his mouth. He didn’t want until he was done chewing before he spoke again, and little bits of food flecked away from the corners of his lips. It was disgusting, and pure big brother being annoying. Sam resolved to ignore it. “We’re not really taking the day off. While you were playing Nancy Drew in the library, I was Frank and Joe Hardy, doing the work of two in one. This town has problems, any Friday the Thirteenth, and it just gets worse when it’s almost the full moon.”
“What kind of problems?”
Dean nodded toward the rest of the boxes of Chinese food, scattered across the nightstand between the beds. The room phone was shoved back against the wall, out of the way, and already had streaks of soy sauce on the buttons.
“I didn’t choose dinner and a movie for fun. Thought it would get us in the mood.”
Sam had to think about it for a minute; he was never sure if Dean was deliberately obtuse, or just didn’t care if he got the point across. Whichever, he was certain it was more about being obnoxious than anything else.
“You think there are really vampires in Santa Cruz?”
“What better place to hide? It’s already famous for being the real city behind the ‘Murder Capital of the World’ and if anyone saw anything unusual, it can be discounted as crazy fans of a cult classic.”
“It’s The Lost Boys, not Dracula. How cult can it be?”
Dean smirked, and didn’t answer his question.
“Some people have been attacked and cut, lost a lot of blood. Maybe it was from the wound itself, but the cuts are never deep, and always on the throat. None of them ever happened in the daylight.”
“It could just be people pretending to be vampires. Deranged fans of your movie there, even.”
“Could be.” Dean finished the rice and tossed the box aside. “Could be the real thing, too. We’ll find out tonight. Toss me that bag.”
Sam didn’t like the way his brother worded his requests; they were really orders and they both knew it. They both knew, too, Sam didn’t follow orders well at all, but he scooped up the ratty backpack and tossed it across the room.
Dean pulled out thick pieces of wood about as long as his forearm, and a wood carving knife.
“Got the variety pack,” he said, “hawthorn, oak, apple, ash-legends vary too much to rely on one.”
Sam watched as Dean sharpened the tip of the first piece. After a second he sat down on the edge of his bed and scooped up one of the boxes of food. Sweet and sour chicken-his favorite, and untouched.
“You don’t really think they explode into goo around here, do you?”
“Hope not, or you’ll be doing more laundry than you thought.”
“I’m not washing your clothes again.”
“Sure.” Dean scooted higher on the bed, grinned bigger still, and picked up a second stake. “How about a little bet? Whoever does the most damage tonight gets to sleep while the younger loser brother does all the cleanup.”
“You’re on.” Sam chewed and swallowed. “The asshole older brother gets turned into a vampire, don’t you remember? Can’t win that way.”
“Younger brother needs to shut his cakehole and eat or he’s going to be useless like the girl in the movie. He’s already got the big frizzy hair down.”
Sam chucked a chunk of chicken at him. Dean batted it out of the way and threw a handful of the stakes onto the end of his bed. “Get to work.”