bluebird of happiness (gen, 1299 words, g-rated)
I have the day off on Wednesday and I swear I will use at least some of it to answer at least some comments. I'm simply finding it hard to settle to anything right now. Also, watching the Pilot makes me cry. Dean is so happy and carefree. :(
Clearly I'm just going to be writing happy endings until we get season 4. This one is probably weirder than the other.
Bluebird of happiness
(gen, crack, g-rated, 1299 words, spoilers for 3.16)
Now, Dean's not saying that being torn apart by meathooks doesn't hurt. His thought processes are scrambled but he's not so far gone that he's unaware that having big, sharp metal objects driven through his flesh hurts like hell. Like Hell, even. And he doesn't want people to think that he's not suffering or in desperate need for the pain to stop.
He's not even saying that he's ready for some new and more imaginative form of torture. If dangling from meathooks over a great big load of stormy nothing is just the warm-up act, Dean doesn't want to get into the main event. Better the devil you know, right? And why is his brain suddenly full of nothing but cliche little phrases about Hell?
All he's saying is that, after a while, even through the excruciating, mind-shattering agony, a note of boredom creeps in when nothing fucking changes. Pain can be fucking boring, all right? There was that time Dean got punched in the mouth by an irate trucker and knocked a tooth loose (but not all the way out) and he got pretty goddamn bored of the toothache that followed. If the damn thing hadn't come out on its own, Dean would have been evicting it with pliers.
So, yeah, there he is, strung up on chains and meathooks, wracked with bored agony, and that's when the bluebird lands on his chest. It's a proper plump little Disney bluebird, rounded feathery chest and obnoxiously cheery expression. It doesn't weigh much but it's still careful to find a patch of unbroken skin on which to stand. It chirrups in a friendly, bright manner, with a mildly questioning tone.
Dean stares at it through glazed eyes. This could well be a whole new kind of torture.
But the bluebird just chirrups again and takes off into the lightning split void, a brilliant speck of colour disappearing into nothingness.
Dean considers the likelihood of pain-induced hallucinations in Hell taking the form of a bluebird.
He dangles there a while longer, listening to the wet, elastic snap of his sinews being torn apart, the grinding of his bones as his skeleton slowly contorts. Times passes. He thinks it does. It's hard to tell because he can't see his wristwatch from here and also, he's in Hell. Time kinda does its own thing.
Time might be passing.
The bluebird comes back. This time, it has a friend with it. The two bluebirds land on Dean's chest and begin twittering and chittering at each other, feathers fluffed up and tiny little feet pittering over Dean's skin. Every so often, one of them chirrups directly at Dean and he stares at them, horrified.
A third bluebird turns up and settles itself on the meathook in Dean's shoulder. It shuffles along the metal until it lean right into Dean's ear, and then it begins singing. Loudly and brightly and happily. The two other bluebirds quickly join in.
It's at this point that Dean notices something kind of weird. Weird besides the three bluebirds giving a dawn-chorus while he dangles from meathooks, he means. The lightning has stopped. As soon as Dean registers this fact, something weirder happens: the chains stop pulling. And when the chains inexplicably become thick plant vines, complete with big pink flowers, Dean doesn't really notice it happen. It's like one of those crappy Magic Eye pictures he could never totally got the hang of. His gaze just shifts and woah!
The meathook is no longer embedded in his skin and is, in fact, no longer a meathook. It's now a cloud of butterflies which seems quite happy to flutter off into the stormy void which, at some point, became a stretch of clear blue sky. The kind of sea-blue that you only get on that one perfect day of the summer.
The bluebirds have not stopped singing but they do eventually take off into a merry, feathery throng.
By now, Dean is no longer in the throes of agony. Not physical agony. Sure, he's not exactly in any shape to run a marathon or fight vampires but his prime anguish right now is mental. Because all the flowers and butterflies and birdsong is kinda driving him insane. While he tenses for the next development, he wonders if the meathook was really all that bad.
Balloons - huge fat sparkly ones - pop into existence, tied with big ribbony bows at his ankles and wrists. He slips free from the vines and Dean's weight is comfortably taken by the balloons, which begin a gradual descent. Overhead, Dean can see the vines twirling and spiralling away, lush flowers pretty much glowing in the sunlight(?) - does Hell have a sun?
The balloons carry him gently to the ground and Dean tries not to notice the fluttering of prettily-coloured butterflies or the playful sweeping of bluebirds through the air around him. Once the balloons have set him down, they untie themselves from him and sail away into the sky.
Nonplussed and completely out of his depth, Dean stands on the sidewalk of an adorable but deserted town and waits for something horrible to happen. Maybe his guts to explode out of his belly or red-hot pokers in his eyes. Because anything like that, he could handle. This? This is all kind of unsettling.
Dean presses his back to the wall of the nearest building and examines his surroundings. One library, a charming little cafe, something that's maybe an art gallery or maybe a museum, a petshop (complete with fluffy kittens playing with cute puppies) and two Starbucks. And whereas Dean is not exactly sure, he thinks he might have a vague idea of what's going on.
"Sam?" says Dean, wary and hopeful all at once.
:::
"It was totally obvious!" says Sam, taking a sip of his skinny hazelnut latte. They're sitting outside one of the Starbucks, in the pleasant shade of one of the large umbrellas.
Dean raises an eyebrow. Some demons gambol happily past them and Sam obligingly moves his legs out of their way.
"Define 'obvious'," says Dean.
"Of course the demons wanted to get out of Hell. Hell... totally sucked." Sam flushes and gestures lamely at Dean. "Sorry, of course you know it did. All I mean is, we spent all of our time sending demons back to Hell and they spent all of their time trying to get back out. And they were all unhappy because Hell was really horrid."
"Sam-"
"So I thought," says Sam, too caught up in what he's saying to notice Dean is losing his entire grip on the conversation. "What if I made Hell somewhere the demons didn't mind being? Made it somewhere nice?"
He grins at Dean, both smug and seeking approval. He looks so pleased with himself that Dean doesn't have the heart to mention how many centuries of theology Sam's screwed up. And really, Dean's never been one for sticking to the status quo, so the first person who gives Sammy any trouble for turning Hell all rainbows and sunshine is gonna get their ass kicked.
"I mean, look at it!" says Sam, waving a hand around expressively. "When you think about all the pollution back in the real world, who'd wanna live there when you could live in Hell?" He pauses, pulls a thoughtful little frown. "Maybe I should fix up the atmosphere back home?"
Dean looks around at the scenery and notices a very sanitary-looking but welcoming bar spring up across the street. Sam smiles at him serenely over his coffee. Dean leans back in his seat, into the sunshine, and lets out a contented sigh.
"Maybe later," he says. "Maybe we could kick back here for a while. I'm in no hurry."
Clearly I'm just going to be writing happy endings until we get season 4. This one is probably weirder than the other.
Bluebird of happiness
(gen, crack, g-rated, 1299 words, spoilers for 3.16)
Now, Dean's not saying that being torn apart by meathooks doesn't hurt. His thought processes are scrambled but he's not so far gone that he's unaware that having big, sharp metal objects driven through his flesh hurts like hell. Like Hell, even. And he doesn't want people to think that he's not suffering or in desperate need for the pain to stop.
He's not even saying that he's ready for some new and more imaginative form of torture. If dangling from meathooks over a great big load of stormy nothing is just the warm-up act, Dean doesn't want to get into the main event. Better the devil you know, right? And why is his brain suddenly full of nothing but cliche little phrases about Hell?
All he's saying is that, after a while, even through the excruciating, mind-shattering agony, a note of boredom creeps in when nothing fucking changes. Pain can be fucking boring, all right? There was that time Dean got punched in the mouth by an irate trucker and knocked a tooth loose (but not all the way out) and he got pretty goddamn bored of the toothache that followed. If the damn thing hadn't come out on its own, Dean would have been evicting it with pliers.
So, yeah, there he is, strung up on chains and meathooks, wracked with bored agony, and that's when the bluebird lands on his chest. It's a proper plump little Disney bluebird, rounded feathery chest and obnoxiously cheery expression. It doesn't weigh much but it's still careful to find a patch of unbroken skin on which to stand. It chirrups in a friendly, bright manner, with a mildly questioning tone.
Dean stares at it through glazed eyes. This could well be a whole new kind of torture.
But the bluebird just chirrups again and takes off into the lightning split void, a brilliant speck of colour disappearing into nothingness.
Dean considers the likelihood of pain-induced hallucinations in Hell taking the form of a bluebird.
He dangles there a while longer, listening to the wet, elastic snap of his sinews being torn apart, the grinding of his bones as his skeleton slowly contorts. Times passes. He thinks it does. It's hard to tell because he can't see his wristwatch from here and also, he's in Hell. Time kinda does its own thing.
Time might be passing.
The bluebird comes back. This time, it has a friend with it. The two bluebirds land on Dean's chest and begin twittering and chittering at each other, feathers fluffed up and tiny little feet pittering over Dean's skin. Every so often, one of them chirrups directly at Dean and he stares at them, horrified.
A third bluebird turns up and settles itself on the meathook in Dean's shoulder. It shuffles along the metal until it lean right into Dean's ear, and then it begins singing. Loudly and brightly and happily. The two other bluebirds quickly join in.
It's at this point that Dean notices something kind of weird. Weird besides the three bluebirds giving a dawn-chorus while he dangles from meathooks, he means. The lightning has stopped. As soon as Dean registers this fact, something weirder happens: the chains stop pulling. And when the chains inexplicably become thick plant vines, complete with big pink flowers, Dean doesn't really notice it happen. It's like one of those crappy Magic Eye pictures he could never totally got the hang of. His gaze just shifts and woah!
The meathook is no longer embedded in his skin and is, in fact, no longer a meathook. It's now a cloud of butterflies which seems quite happy to flutter off into the stormy void which, at some point, became a stretch of clear blue sky. The kind of sea-blue that you only get on that one perfect day of the summer.
The bluebirds have not stopped singing but they do eventually take off into a merry, feathery throng.
By now, Dean is no longer in the throes of agony. Not physical agony. Sure, he's not exactly in any shape to run a marathon or fight vampires but his prime anguish right now is mental. Because all the flowers and butterflies and birdsong is kinda driving him insane. While he tenses for the next development, he wonders if the meathook was really all that bad.
Balloons - huge fat sparkly ones - pop into existence, tied with big ribbony bows at his ankles and wrists. He slips free from the vines and Dean's weight is comfortably taken by the balloons, which begin a gradual descent. Overhead, Dean can see the vines twirling and spiralling away, lush flowers pretty much glowing in the sunlight(?) - does Hell have a sun?
The balloons carry him gently to the ground and Dean tries not to notice the fluttering of prettily-coloured butterflies or the playful sweeping of bluebirds through the air around him. Once the balloons have set him down, they untie themselves from him and sail away into the sky.
Nonplussed and completely out of his depth, Dean stands on the sidewalk of an adorable but deserted town and waits for something horrible to happen. Maybe his guts to explode out of his belly or red-hot pokers in his eyes. Because anything like that, he could handle. This? This is all kind of unsettling.
Dean presses his back to the wall of the nearest building and examines his surroundings. One library, a charming little cafe, something that's maybe an art gallery or maybe a museum, a petshop (complete with fluffy kittens playing with cute puppies) and two Starbucks. And whereas Dean is not exactly sure, he thinks he might have a vague idea of what's going on.
"Sam?" says Dean, wary and hopeful all at once.
:::
"It was totally obvious!" says Sam, taking a sip of his skinny hazelnut latte. They're sitting outside one of the Starbucks, in the pleasant shade of one of the large umbrellas.
Dean raises an eyebrow. Some demons gambol happily past them and Sam obligingly moves his legs out of their way.
"Define 'obvious'," says Dean.
"Of course the demons wanted to get out of Hell. Hell... totally sucked." Sam flushes and gestures lamely at Dean. "Sorry, of course you know it did. All I mean is, we spent all of our time sending demons back to Hell and they spent all of their time trying to get back out. And they were all unhappy because Hell was really horrid."
"Sam-"
"So I thought," says Sam, too caught up in what he's saying to notice Dean is losing his entire grip on the conversation. "What if I made Hell somewhere the demons didn't mind being? Made it somewhere nice?"
He grins at Dean, both smug and seeking approval. He looks so pleased with himself that Dean doesn't have the heart to mention how many centuries of theology Sam's screwed up. And really, Dean's never been one for sticking to the status quo, so the first person who gives Sammy any trouble for turning Hell all rainbows and sunshine is gonna get their ass kicked.
"I mean, look at it!" says Sam, waving a hand around expressively. "When you think about all the pollution back in the real world, who'd wanna live there when you could live in Hell?" He pauses, pulls a thoughtful little frown. "Maybe I should fix up the atmosphere back home?"
Dean looks around at the scenery and notices a very sanitary-looking but welcoming bar spring up across the street. Sam smiles at him serenely over his coffee. Dean leans back in his seat, into the sunshine, and lets out a contented sigh.
"Maybe later," he says. "Maybe we could kick back here for a while. I'm in no hurry."