SPN FIC - Superhero
This is for
leelust , who's having a birthday in a few days. Thank you for being here, my friend -- you help make this very large (and sometimes frightening) world a little bit smaller.
In his dreams, he is that guy.
Characters: Dean
Pairings: none
Spoilers: none
Rating: PG, for language
Length: 813 words
Disclaimer: It all belongs to Kripke. And Marvel and DC.
Superhero
By Carol Davis
In his dreams, he is that guy.
The one in the crazy spandex outfit. Which is…well, crazy, because he pulled on a pair of Cassie's pantyhose once, just to see (and, yeah, he was kind of drunk at the time). It wasn't good. It was confining. And the idea of being constricted like that over your whole body is just…
Yeah. Crazy.
But in the dreams, he figures, spandex is comfortable, like a glove. No pinching or pulling or squeezing. Just sleek and kind of there, like your skin. But more colorful.
He'd like the red and blue, he figures: not over-the-top flashy, and not gay-ish, like white would be. Red and blue is good. Patriotic. That's what these guys are all about, right? Patriotism. Defending truth, justice, and the American Way. The only one who goes for the dark colors is Batman, and while there's something cool and mysterious and shadow-like about black, there's no getting around the fact that Batman? Has some serious psychological issues.
Batman's got that excellent car, true. Having a remote of some kind that would make the Impala come to him when he needed her would be awesome, and he's always been fond of the idea of nuclear afterburners - something like that would have to radically improve gas mileage.
Having money piled up to his ass like Bruce Wayne wouldn't hurt, either.
But the dude watched his folks die. And that's a little too close to home.
So in his dreams, he's one of the red-and-blue guys. Spiderman. Superman. The ones who get their pictures taken and have ticker-tape parades thrown in their honor. The ones who can look into any crowd and see a little kid wearing a t-shirt with them on it instead of Mickey Mouse or whatever the hell it is that little kids like to have on shirts these days.
Sammy had a Mickey Mouse t-shirt once. It was red. Dad bought it at Goodwill for a buck.
In his dreams, he can fly: either on his own or with the help of some spidey-silk. He can soar down the canyons of city streets and see people point and cheer. He can fly, way faster than a bird, with a rush of joy and freedom and purpose. Go up, down, riding the wind like it's a wave and he's the most fucking awesome surfer the world has ever seen. It makes adrenaline pound through his body, makes his heart race, Jesus, makes it sing.
As he goes by, they cheer and wave and point. The little kids, and some of the women, get almost hysterical. If he comes to ground near them, his feet settling gently onto the earth like he's a dancer, they get that funny glazed look that says they might keel right the hell over because he's there, right there, it's him and ohmygod. They ask for his autograph and if he'll pose for a picture with them. If they can give him a hug or a kiss on the cheek.
Sometimes he can see in the women's eyes that they want more than that. They want him, for a few minutes, for an hour, for the night, it doesn't matter. Five minutes or five hundred, they can blog the hell out of that in the morning.
Because he's that guy. So he'd be everything they ever wanted.
In his dreams, he never gets there too late. Never has to think I tried, or Next time. He always puts out the fire, rescues the damsel in distress, saves the innocent from the ruthless supervillain.
In his dreams, he always wins.
In his dreams, people he doesn't know cheer his name. Give him the key to the city. Nudge each other aside - but always politely - for the chance to shake his hand. They do not call him murderer or psycho. They do not yearn to lock him away (or worse) because he is a menace to society, to all the things they hold dear. They talk of him in glowing terms, bless the day he first appeared. They look for him in the sky, and when they find him, they are thrilled.
He is everyone's hero.
In his red and blue, in the outfit that fits like another skin, he watches over them, protects them, fights their battles for them. Always, always, he comes out on top - and without bullet wounds or broken arms or long lacerations that will scar him, lie on his pale body like thick pieces of string. He does not have to be wary of taking too many pills for fear that next time, they will have no effect. He is always unhurt, undaunted, unafraid.
He needs to lie about nothing.
In his dreams, he is everything he believes he is not.
In his dreams, he is that guy.
leelust , who's having a birthday in a few days. Thank you for being here, my friend -- you help make this very large (and sometimes frightening) world a little bit smaller.
In his dreams, he is that guy.
Characters: Dean
Pairings: none
Spoilers: none
Rating: PG, for language
Length: 813 words
Disclaimer: It all belongs to Kripke. And Marvel and DC.
Superhero
By Carol Davis
In his dreams, he is that guy.
The one in the crazy spandex outfit. Which is…well, crazy, because he pulled on a pair of Cassie's pantyhose once, just to see (and, yeah, he was kind of drunk at the time). It wasn't good. It was confining. And the idea of being constricted like that over your whole body is just…
Yeah. Crazy.
But in the dreams, he figures, spandex is comfortable, like a glove. No pinching or pulling or squeezing. Just sleek and kind of there, like your skin. But more colorful.
He'd like the red and blue, he figures: not over-the-top flashy, and not gay-ish, like white would be. Red and blue is good. Patriotic. That's what these guys are all about, right? Patriotism. Defending truth, justice, and the American Way. The only one who goes for the dark colors is Batman, and while there's something cool and mysterious and shadow-like about black, there's no getting around the fact that Batman? Has some serious psychological issues.
Batman's got that excellent car, true. Having a remote of some kind that would make the Impala come to him when he needed her would be awesome, and he's always been fond of the idea of nuclear afterburners - something like that would have to radically improve gas mileage.
Having money piled up to his ass like Bruce Wayne wouldn't hurt, either.
But the dude watched his folks die. And that's a little too close to home.
So in his dreams, he's one of the red-and-blue guys. Spiderman. Superman. The ones who get their pictures taken and have ticker-tape parades thrown in their honor. The ones who can look into any crowd and see a little kid wearing a t-shirt with them on it instead of Mickey Mouse or whatever the hell it is that little kids like to have on shirts these days.
Sammy had a Mickey Mouse t-shirt once. It was red. Dad bought it at Goodwill for a buck.
In his dreams, he can fly: either on his own or with the help of some spidey-silk. He can soar down the canyons of city streets and see people point and cheer. He can fly, way faster than a bird, with a rush of joy and freedom and purpose. Go up, down, riding the wind like it's a wave and he's the most fucking awesome surfer the world has ever seen. It makes adrenaline pound through his body, makes his heart race, Jesus, makes it sing.
As he goes by, they cheer and wave and point. The little kids, and some of the women, get almost hysterical. If he comes to ground near them, his feet settling gently onto the earth like he's a dancer, they get that funny glazed look that says they might keel right the hell over because he's there, right there, it's him and ohmygod. They ask for his autograph and if he'll pose for a picture with them. If they can give him a hug or a kiss on the cheek.
Sometimes he can see in the women's eyes that they want more than that. They want him, for a few minutes, for an hour, for the night, it doesn't matter. Five minutes or five hundred, they can blog the hell out of that in the morning.
Because he's that guy. So he'd be everything they ever wanted.
In his dreams, he never gets there too late. Never has to think I tried, or Next time. He always puts out the fire, rescues the damsel in distress, saves the innocent from the ruthless supervillain.
In his dreams, he always wins.
In his dreams, people he doesn't know cheer his name. Give him the key to the city. Nudge each other aside - but always politely - for the chance to shake his hand. They do not call him murderer or psycho. They do not yearn to lock him away (or worse) because he is a menace to society, to all the things they hold dear. They talk of him in glowing terms, bless the day he first appeared. They look for him in the sky, and when they find him, they are thrilled.
He is everyone's hero.
In his red and blue, in the outfit that fits like another skin, he watches over them, protects them, fights their battles for them. Always, always, he comes out on top - and without bullet wounds or broken arms or long lacerations that will scar him, lie on his pale body like thick pieces of string. He does not have to be wary of taking too many pills for fear that next time, they will have no effect. He is always unhurt, undaunted, unafraid.
He needs to lie about nothing.
In his dreams, he is everything he believes he is not.
In his dreams, he is that guy.