Reposting: Out of the Frying Pan
Written in the dark days after the season three finale aired. For Lynne, with tongue firmly in cheek and the very sincerest of apologies.
The details: Supernatural fic, more or less. No one here is mine, no infringement or offense intended. A little over 1200 words. Mild to moderate spoilers through the end of season three. A few not-so-nice words. Seriously flowery language. Quite ridiculous levels of crack.
The sun rose as it always did these days, in the east of a perfect, cloudless, deep blue sky. When he'd first come here, the weather had seemed too good to be true, and for months he had regarded each beautiful day with a deep suspicion. Even now, he still woke up some mornings braced for another day of rain and fog and gloom and darkness. Expected to find himself in the latest of the old never ending parade of forgettable motel rooms, not in this warm and comfortable home.
"It's truly a new day," Sam had said two years ago at his wedding to the girl he met when he went back to law school. And it was terrible pun, given that he'd said it as a toast to his new wife, Dawn, but he'd looked so damn happy that Dean hadn't had the heart to harass him about it. And if coming here had given Sam a new day and new world and a new life, one lived in brightness and joy, well, it had also given Dean something to believe in.
OK, so maybe Sammy wasn't the only one capable of a cheap, goofy pun where the woman he loved was concerned.
Faith. She was amazing -- this gorgeous, phenomenal woman who could kick his ass and read his mind (though not in a freaky psychic way, just in a knowing him better then he knew himself way). He would have gone to hell and back for her, and for Dean Winchester, that was not the idle -- if heartfelt --hyperbole it was for most men.
This particular perfect California day was their anniversary, two years since he'd first seen her at the club and known instantly that if he didn't speak to her he would regret it for the rest of his life. And the celebration of this occasion would be uniquely them, because evil didn't take the night off just because one had other plans. So they'd have their dinner as a picnic in the graveyard, after he dug up an especially nasty spirit's bones, and while she waited for the latest undead to rise. These activities usually left them both wound up and flushed with adrenaline, leading to other, more pleasant activities which had nothing to do with hunting and slaying.
But pleasant anticipation did not get a picnic dinner made. In the kitchen, Dean hummed "Even the Nights Are Better" to himself as he fired up the blowtorch. He bent low over the table, watching carefully to make sure that the crème brûlée was perfectly browned, sugar melting into a bubbling, golden caramel. And then, with a smile, he said, "What the fuck is going on here?"
The dessert finished, he turned his attention to -- wait. What?
"I said, what the fuck is going on here?"
He could not have possibly said that.
"Yeah, well, I did. Look, when I broke out the blowtorch, I thought, hey, maybe there's some hope here, even with the Air Supply. Maybe I'm gonna go rescue Sammy from some sick suburban Stepford demons, because that is exactly the sort of shit he'd manage to get himself mixed up in. But, no, instead I'm making some sort of pansy-ass dessert. I don't even eat shit like this, lady, what makes you think I know how to make it?"
Dean had surprised both himself and Sam when he had enrolled in cooking school, but he was surprisingly good at it, all those years of assembling ritual components transferring easily to putting together meals. Besides, he liked the way Faith smiled when she tasted his recipes.
"That so had better be a particularly stupid euphemism. I don't cook. And who the hell is Faith?"
Faith, as has already been explained, was the one woman who had ever been able to keep hold of Dean's heart. It was like they were made for each other.
"She hot?"
She was a beautiful, powerful woman with a tragic past she had worked hard to overcome and a fragile emotional vulnerability that she hid from everyone but Dean, who she had never been able to lie to. Nor him to her.
"Yeah, but is she hot?"
One could also say that she was hot.
"OK, so I'm not saying I have any problem with, you know, hooking up with the hot chick, but I'm really not the settle down and play house type."
If there was a cloud in the perfect sky of Dean's life, it was his occasional tendency to argue with a woman who wasn't there, and who only wanted what was best for him, anyway. Other than that, he had everything he could ever have wanted -- the love of a beautiful woman he adored, help shouldering the heavy burden of saving the world, a house down the street from his brother's, and the endless promise that tomorrow would be better than today.
"Oh, sweetheart, would you listen to yourself? You are so lucky there's a fourth wall between you and me right now, because you're starting to seriously piss me off."
Really, Dean had to be forgiven for not realizing what was best for him, and for his thoughtlessness in refusing to go along with it. He had an inability to consider the feelings of all the people who loved him and worried when he did things like getting himself sent to hell over a hiatus. Because hell was the sort of place that did terrible things to a person, and it was understandable if he wanted to think about it as little as possible, now that he had this perfect life with a wonderful woman who helped him forget the agonies of what had come before.
"Wait is that what this is about? You pull me out of one hell and drop me in another? Hey, I appreciate the thought and all, but, come on. Sure, the other hell was no day at the beach, but at least no one expected me to pretend I liked it. You really think this is my idea of a perfect life? What the hell show are you watching, sister? Charmed?"
Dean hoped with all his heart that he could one day overcome the awful, hateful, cruel sarcasm that he used to hold people at arm's length, and knew that any progress he'd made along those lines was the result of the love and comfort he found here in his perfect life.
"OK, that's it. Way I see it, you just crossed the line into evil, and evil I know what to do with. See, there may not be a thing I can do about what happens in canon, but I'll be even more damned than I already am if I'm gonna hang around for this shit. Give me the keyboard."
What? No. You can't have the keyboard. There are rules here.
"I've never been much for rules, lady. Hand it over."
No. I -- what the --
dhsdfklgadfjkldfn lgefugjoeritu jfjklgvnfeotu8t0 jvnvn fo gyu thjfnlkvdfj v98efug 0tyj jklvndfljvh a08tju45tnmf l ncoghqer09tyu54pgjmf;dmdb;ahkl'
Then Dean rescued Sam from the evil suburban Stepford demons, and they got in the Impala and cranked up Zeppelin and left it all behind them, forever.
Except the blowtorch, because you never know when one of those is gonna come in handy.
The End.
P.S. The "author" saw the error of her ways and never wrote again.
The details: Supernatural fic, more or less. No one here is mine, no infringement or offense intended. A little over 1200 words. Mild to moderate spoilers through the end of season three. A few not-so-nice words. Seriously flowery language. Quite ridiculous levels of crack.
The sun rose as it always did these days, in the east of a perfect, cloudless, deep blue sky. When he'd first come here, the weather had seemed too good to be true, and for months he had regarded each beautiful day with a deep suspicion. Even now, he still woke up some mornings braced for another day of rain and fog and gloom and darkness. Expected to find himself in the latest of the old never ending parade of forgettable motel rooms, not in this warm and comfortable home.
"It's truly a new day," Sam had said two years ago at his wedding to the girl he met when he went back to law school. And it was terrible pun, given that he'd said it as a toast to his new wife, Dawn, but he'd looked so damn happy that Dean hadn't had the heart to harass him about it. And if coming here had given Sam a new day and new world and a new life, one lived in brightness and joy, well, it had also given Dean something to believe in.
OK, so maybe Sammy wasn't the only one capable of a cheap, goofy pun where the woman he loved was concerned.
Faith. She was amazing -- this gorgeous, phenomenal woman who could kick his ass and read his mind (though not in a freaky psychic way, just in a knowing him better then he knew himself way). He would have gone to hell and back for her, and for Dean Winchester, that was not the idle -- if heartfelt --hyperbole it was for most men.
This particular perfect California day was their anniversary, two years since he'd first seen her at the club and known instantly that if he didn't speak to her he would regret it for the rest of his life. And the celebration of this occasion would be uniquely them, because evil didn't take the night off just because one had other plans. So they'd have their dinner as a picnic in the graveyard, after he dug up an especially nasty spirit's bones, and while she waited for the latest undead to rise. These activities usually left them both wound up and flushed with adrenaline, leading to other, more pleasant activities which had nothing to do with hunting and slaying.
But pleasant anticipation did not get a picnic dinner made. In the kitchen, Dean hummed "Even the Nights Are Better" to himself as he fired up the blowtorch. He bent low over the table, watching carefully to make sure that the crème brûlée was perfectly browned, sugar melting into a bubbling, golden caramel. And then, with a smile, he said, "What the fuck is going on here?"
The dessert finished, he turned his attention to -- wait. What?
"I said, what the fuck is going on here?"
He could not have possibly said that.
"Yeah, well, I did. Look, when I broke out the blowtorch, I thought, hey, maybe there's some hope here, even with the Air Supply. Maybe I'm gonna go rescue Sammy from some sick suburban Stepford demons, because that is exactly the sort of shit he'd manage to get himself mixed up in. But, no, instead I'm making some sort of pansy-ass dessert. I don't even eat shit like this, lady, what makes you think I know how to make it?"
Dean had surprised both himself and Sam when he had enrolled in cooking school, but he was surprisingly good at it, all those years of assembling ritual components transferring easily to putting together meals. Besides, he liked the way Faith smiled when she tasted his recipes.
"That so had better be a particularly stupid euphemism. I don't cook. And who the hell is Faith?"
Faith, as has already been explained, was the one woman who had ever been able to keep hold of Dean's heart. It was like they were made for each other.
"She hot?"
She was a beautiful, powerful woman with a tragic past she had worked hard to overcome and a fragile emotional vulnerability that she hid from everyone but Dean, who she had never been able to lie to. Nor him to her.
"Yeah, but is she hot?"
One could also say that she was hot.
"OK, so I'm not saying I have any problem with, you know, hooking up with the hot chick, but I'm really not the settle down and play house type."
If there was a cloud in the perfect sky of Dean's life, it was his occasional tendency to argue with a woman who wasn't there, and who only wanted what was best for him, anyway. Other than that, he had everything he could ever have wanted -- the love of a beautiful woman he adored, help shouldering the heavy burden of saving the world, a house down the street from his brother's, and the endless promise that tomorrow would be better than today.
"Oh, sweetheart, would you listen to yourself? You are so lucky there's a fourth wall between you and me right now, because you're starting to seriously piss me off."
Really, Dean had to be forgiven for not realizing what was best for him, and for his thoughtlessness in refusing to go along with it. He had an inability to consider the feelings of all the people who loved him and worried when he did things like getting himself sent to hell over a hiatus. Because hell was the sort of place that did terrible things to a person, and it was understandable if he wanted to think about it as little as possible, now that he had this perfect life with a wonderful woman who helped him forget the agonies of what had come before.
"Wait is that what this is about? You pull me out of one hell and drop me in another? Hey, I appreciate the thought and all, but, come on. Sure, the other hell was no day at the beach, but at least no one expected me to pretend I liked it. You really think this is my idea of a perfect life? What the hell show are you watching, sister? Charmed?"
Dean hoped with all his heart that he could one day overcome the awful, hateful, cruel sarcasm that he used to hold people at arm's length, and knew that any progress he'd made along those lines was the result of the love and comfort he found here in his perfect life.
"OK, that's it. Way I see it, you just crossed the line into evil, and evil I know what to do with. See, there may not be a thing I can do about what happens in canon, but I'll be even more damned than I already am if I'm gonna hang around for this shit. Give me the keyboard."
What? No. You can't have the keyboard. There are rules here.
"I've never been much for rules, lady. Hand it over."
No. I -- what the --
dhsdfklgadfjkldfn lgefugjoeritu jfjklgvnfeotu8t0 jvnvn fo gyu thjfnlkvdfj v98efug 0tyj jklvndfljvh a08tju45tnmf l ncoghqer09tyu54pgjmf;dmdb;ahkl'
Then Dean rescued Sam from the evil suburban Stepford demons, and they got in the Impala and cranked up Zeppelin and left it all behind them, forever.
Except the blowtorch, because you never know when one of those is gonna come in handy.
The End.
P.S. The "author" saw the error of her ways and never wrote again.