SPN FIC - Gremlins
Christmas 1995. Dean and Sam decide to bag John an unusual Christmas gift.
Characters: Dean and Sam
Pairings: none
Spoilers: none
Rating: PG, for Dean's potty mouth
Length: 1392 words
Disclaimer: What Kripke doesn't own, Spielberg does. Kudos, gentlemen.
That was sort of cool, in a way: that the gremlin and Dean were hunting each other. Dean had the taser, but the gremlin had wicked sharp claws.
Gremlins
By Carol Davis
“Abraham Lincoln,” Sam said.
“What?”
“Abraham Lincoln. Everybody who plays him in the movies looks sort of like him.” When Dean didn’t reply, Sam sighed, “And that other guy.”
“What other guy? Could you be quiet?”
“How long do we have to sit here?”
Dean made the Pinched Purple Face of Imminent Death. “About eight more seconds. Until you open your mouth again, and I pound you.”
It was a totally stupid Christmas present, handling this hunt for Dad. Original, though. Dad hated gremlins - there was nothing much in the whole world that made him madder than having to sit around and wait for one of them to show itself so he could waste it.
Maybe he didn’t like them because they were sort of furry and blue. Cute in a weird kind of way, and they’d make a pretty interesting toy. Better than Cabbage Patch Kids, for sure. Of course, there’d already been a whole line of toys called Gremlins, back when the movie first came out, but they were modeled after Gizmo, and Gizmo was totally not a gremlin. If they wanted to call him a mogwai, then okay, but not a gremlin. Gizmo was so not a gremlin.
Which had brought about Dean’s point: that nobody ever looked like what they were playing in the movies. The movie people were always better looking. Like Gizmo, for instance. Cute and fuzzy, with that little singsong voice.
So not a gremlin.
“Dude,” Dean ground out.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re singing. You’re making that stupid Gizmo noise. I told you, it’s not gonna come out if you sing like fuckin’ Gizmo.”
“Mouth,” Sam said.
“It’s not gonna think you’re its girlfriend.”
“Gizmo is a boy.”
“Gizmo’s a fuckin’ puppet. Now be quiet.”
Scowling, Sam sank back into the corner. He would have tried to make himself comfortable, except that that might have made him fall asleep.
He was that bored.
“What if we don’t catch it?” he whispered. “What do we get Dad for Christmas then?”
“We’ll catch it.”
“But what if we don’t?”
Dean lifted his right hand. The one with the taser in it.
“You’re not supposed to mess with that,” Sam told him. “It’s a weapon. It -”
Something scritched, over on the other side of the Zimbalists’ attic. Might’ve been a mouse, or a squirrel. With a warning look at Sam that Sam could make out perfectly well thanks to the moonlight slanting in through the little window, Dean moved up into a crouch and began to creep carefully down the length of the attic.
The gremlin jumped him as soon as he got out into the open.
That was sort of cool, in a way: that the gremlin and Dean were hunting each other. Dean had the taser, but the gremlin had wicked sharp claws.
And, man, was it fast.
They fought over the taser for a good couple of minutes, the gremlin scritching and squealing in something that might have been a language, and Dean doing a lot of grunting and cursing. Dean probably sounded as weird to the gremlin as the gremlin did to them, Sam figured. Which, in a way, made him sad that they had to kill it. If they could figure out a way to talk to it - like the guy talked to Gizmo in the movie - maybe they could learn something from each other. They could teach the gremlin how to fix things instead of break them. Because that really wasn’t funny, breaking other people’s stuff, even if that kid Josh (or Joss or something) at school thought it was.
Dean got the gremlin down on the floor for a second, and it looked totally stupid, Dean straddling a blue furry thing like he was trying to have sex with it. The trouble was, he didn’t have a good grip on the taser, and while he was trying to turn it around, the gremlin shot out from under him and ran off toward the wall with Dean shrieking “Son of a bitch!” into its wake.
Sam knew enough not to say anything when Dean came crawling back into the corner. Just like a fighter at the end of Round One, only he wasn’t bleeding from his nose or his mouth.
He was bleeding from the arm, where the gremlin had bitten him.
“Damn thing’s probably got rabies,” he muttered.
Almost half an hour went by while they sat there listening to the gremlin scritch and giggle over in the wall.
“So…you can feed them after midnight,” Sam mused.
“Why would you want to feed it at all?”
“And water doesn’t hurt them.”
“No.”
“Why would they make up a movie like that if it’s all wrong?”
“Because it’s a movie, Sam.”
“Yeah, but you’d think they’d try to be accurate.”
Dean sat looking at the taser for a minute, then turned it around and held it out to Sam, who gave him a puzzled frown. “Kill me,” Dean said. “Put me out of my misery.”
“I’m not allowed to touch the taser.”
“Just this once.”
“We could go.”
“Not giving up,” Dean muttered.
“It’ll be light out soon. Then it goes back to sleep, right? ‘Cause it’s nocturnal.”
“Yeah,” Dean said sweetly. “Then we could tear the walls down to get at it. We’re gonna get it, Sam. I’m gonna get that thing if it fuckin’ kills me.”
“Are you gonna let it jump you again? You could do that, and I could use the taser.”
“And let you miss and taser me? Like so much hell.”
“You said you wanted me to taser you. Two minutes ago. You totally said that.”
“I could also let you walk back to the motel. It’s eight and a half miles.”
“I like walking,” Sam said stubbornly.
“You better. It’s like ten below zero out there.”
The sky outside - a little bit of which was visible through the little window - had begun to fade from black to dark gray. According to the newspaper Sam had checked before they got in the car to drive to the Zimbalists’, sunrise was less than an hour away. He wasn’t sure if the gremlin would conk out right at sunrise, or a little before, or a little after - but either way, they didn’t have a lot of time left to mess around with it.
Slowly, Sam moved to his knees and crawled a little ways out of the corner.
“Get back here,” Dean hissed.
“I want to try something.”
“Sam, that thing’s gonna be all over you. If I let it bite you, Dad’s gonna have me for lunch.”
When Dean reached for him, Sam pushed his brother away. He managed to fend Dean off long enough to pull a small box out of the pocket of his jeans. It had gotten kind of bashed, but its contents were still good.
“What -?“ Dean muttered. “Gimme a break.”
“Maybe they got one thing right,” Sam whispered. Carefully, he opened the box and dumped its contents into his palm.
Took one of the small objects and rolled it out into the middle of the floor.
Then another.
And a third.
He was going for a fourth when the gremlin came shooting across the attic, aimed straight for Sam’s bait.
Dean got it with the taser.
The trouble with gremlins was, sunlight didn’t do a damn thing to hurt them. Which sucked, because it would have been a lot easier. And neater. You could taser them with about a bazillion volts, but all it did was stun them.
Then you had to squash them.
Bash their brains in. Like a catfish.
Sam let Dean handle that part. And let him bag what was left of the gremlin, so they could haul it out of the Zimbalists’ attic. Dean didn’t complain, because, after all, they had killed it. Before sunrise. And they could present its furry-ish blue remains to Dad along with the new flashlight and the set of floormats for the car they’d bought for him at Pep Boys.
Dean had the thing almost all packaged up when Sam realized he hadn’t used up all his bait.
“Don’t get smug,” Dean said. “I hate it when you get smug.”
Sam popped a couple of Milk Duds into his mouth. And grinned.
Characters: Dean and Sam
Pairings: none
Spoilers: none
Rating: PG, for Dean's potty mouth
Length: 1392 words
Disclaimer: What Kripke doesn't own, Spielberg does. Kudos, gentlemen.
That was sort of cool, in a way: that the gremlin and Dean were hunting each other. Dean had the taser, but the gremlin had wicked sharp claws.
Gremlins
By Carol Davis
“Abraham Lincoln,” Sam said.
“What?”
“Abraham Lincoln. Everybody who plays him in the movies looks sort of like him.” When Dean didn’t reply, Sam sighed, “And that other guy.”
“What other guy? Could you be quiet?”
“How long do we have to sit here?”
Dean made the Pinched Purple Face of Imminent Death. “About eight more seconds. Until you open your mouth again, and I pound you.”
It was a totally stupid Christmas present, handling this hunt for Dad. Original, though. Dad hated gremlins - there was nothing much in the whole world that made him madder than having to sit around and wait for one of them to show itself so he could waste it.
Maybe he didn’t like them because they were sort of furry and blue. Cute in a weird kind of way, and they’d make a pretty interesting toy. Better than Cabbage Patch Kids, for sure. Of course, there’d already been a whole line of toys called Gremlins, back when the movie first came out, but they were modeled after Gizmo, and Gizmo was totally not a gremlin. If they wanted to call him a mogwai, then okay, but not a gremlin. Gizmo was so not a gremlin.
Which had brought about Dean’s point: that nobody ever looked like what they were playing in the movies. The movie people were always better looking. Like Gizmo, for instance. Cute and fuzzy, with that little singsong voice.
So not a gremlin.
“Dude,” Dean ground out.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re singing. You’re making that stupid Gizmo noise. I told you, it’s not gonna come out if you sing like fuckin’ Gizmo.”
“Mouth,” Sam said.
“It’s not gonna think you’re its girlfriend.”
“Gizmo is a boy.”
“Gizmo’s a fuckin’ puppet. Now be quiet.”
Scowling, Sam sank back into the corner. He would have tried to make himself comfortable, except that that might have made him fall asleep.
He was that bored.
“What if we don’t catch it?” he whispered. “What do we get Dad for Christmas then?”
“We’ll catch it.”
“But what if we don’t?”
Dean lifted his right hand. The one with the taser in it.
“You’re not supposed to mess with that,” Sam told him. “It’s a weapon. It -”
Something scritched, over on the other side of the Zimbalists’ attic. Might’ve been a mouse, or a squirrel. With a warning look at Sam that Sam could make out perfectly well thanks to the moonlight slanting in through the little window, Dean moved up into a crouch and began to creep carefully down the length of the attic.
The gremlin jumped him as soon as he got out into the open.
That was sort of cool, in a way: that the gremlin and Dean were hunting each other. Dean had the taser, but the gremlin had wicked sharp claws.
And, man, was it fast.
They fought over the taser for a good couple of minutes, the gremlin scritching and squealing in something that might have been a language, and Dean doing a lot of grunting and cursing. Dean probably sounded as weird to the gremlin as the gremlin did to them, Sam figured. Which, in a way, made him sad that they had to kill it. If they could figure out a way to talk to it - like the guy talked to Gizmo in the movie - maybe they could learn something from each other. They could teach the gremlin how to fix things instead of break them. Because that really wasn’t funny, breaking other people’s stuff, even if that kid Josh (or Joss or something) at school thought it was.
Dean got the gremlin down on the floor for a second, and it looked totally stupid, Dean straddling a blue furry thing like he was trying to have sex with it. The trouble was, he didn’t have a good grip on the taser, and while he was trying to turn it around, the gremlin shot out from under him and ran off toward the wall with Dean shrieking “Son of a bitch!” into its wake.
Sam knew enough not to say anything when Dean came crawling back into the corner. Just like a fighter at the end of Round One, only he wasn’t bleeding from his nose or his mouth.
He was bleeding from the arm, where the gremlin had bitten him.
“Damn thing’s probably got rabies,” he muttered.
Almost half an hour went by while they sat there listening to the gremlin scritch and giggle over in the wall.
“So…you can feed them after midnight,” Sam mused.
“Why would you want to feed it at all?”
“And water doesn’t hurt them.”
“No.”
“Why would they make up a movie like that if it’s all wrong?”
“Because it’s a movie, Sam.”
“Yeah, but you’d think they’d try to be accurate.”
Dean sat looking at the taser for a minute, then turned it around and held it out to Sam, who gave him a puzzled frown. “Kill me,” Dean said. “Put me out of my misery.”
“I’m not allowed to touch the taser.”
“Just this once.”
“We could go.”
“Not giving up,” Dean muttered.
“It’ll be light out soon. Then it goes back to sleep, right? ‘Cause it’s nocturnal.”
“Yeah,” Dean said sweetly. “Then we could tear the walls down to get at it. We’re gonna get it, Sam. I’m gonna get that thing if it fuckin’ kills me.”
“Are you gonna let it jump you again? You could do that, and I could use the taser.”
“And let you miss and taser me? Like so much hell.”
“You said you wanted me to taser you. Two minutes ago. You totally said that.”
“I could also let you walk back to the motel. It’s eight and a half miles.”
“I like walking,” Sam said stubbornly.
“You better. It’s like ten below zero out there.”
The sky outside - a little bit of which was visible through the little window - had begun to fade from black to dark gray. According to the newspaper Sam had checked before they got in the car to drive to the Zimbalists’, sunrise was less than an hour away. He wasn’t sure if the gremlin would conk out right at sunrise, or a little before, or a little after - but either way, they didn’t have a lot of time left to mess around with it.
Slowly, Sam moved to his knees and crawled a little ways out of the corner.
“Get back here,” Dean hissed.
“I want to try something.”
“Sam, that thing’s gonna be all over you. If I let it bite you, Dad’s gonna have me for lunch.”
When Dean reached for him, Sam pushed his brother away. He managed to fend Dean off long enough to pull a small box out of the pocket of his jeans. It had gotten kind of bashed, but its contents were still good.
“What -?“ Dean muttered. “Gimme a break.”
“Maybe they got one thing right,” Sam whispered. Carefully, he opened the box and dumped its contents into his palm.
Took one of the small objects and rolled it out into the middle of the floor.
Then another.
And a third.
He was going for a fourth when the gremlin came shooting across the attic, aimed straight for Sam’s bait.
Dean got it with the taser.
The trouble with gremlins was, sunlight didn’t do a damn thing to hurt them. Which sucked, because it would have been a lot easier. And neater. You could taser them with about a bazillion volts, but all it did was stun them.
Then you had to squash them.
Bash their brains in. Like a catfish.
Sam let Dean handle that part. And let him bag what was left of the gremlin, so they could haul it out of the Zimbalists’ attic. Dean didn’t complain, because, after all, they had killed it. Before sunrise. And they could present its furry-ish blue remains to Dad along with the new flashlight and the set of floormats for the car they’d bought for him at Pep Boys.
Dean had the thing almost all packaged up when Sam realized he hadn’t used up all his bait.
“Don’t get smug,” Dean said. “I hate it when you get smug.”
Sam popped a couple of Milk Duds into his mouth. And grinned.