FIC: Spiders from Mars (PG, Supernatural/Doctor Who Crossover)
Title: Spiders from Mars
Characters: Dean, Sam, Martha, Donna, Ten
Rating: PG, for crack
Word Count: 1161
Spoilers: General S3 for Supernatural, general S4 for Who (as in, the brothers Winchester have met Bela and are trying to wiggle out of The Deal, and the Companions are the above)
Summary: Dean wonders if all British women are completely deranged. Sure, his definition of normal includes demon fighting and hauntings. But time travel and aliens? A man's gotta draw the line somewhere.
Author's Note: I wrote the original version of this back in February, was vastly unhappy with it, and shelved it until now. Now I'm only mildly displeased with it, but that's enough. And shame on you if you can't work out the title.
Dean Winchester considered himself to be a pretty open-minded guy. After all, he actively spent his time fighting demons, ghosts, and urban legends, and he didn’t even have to live in a mental hospital. But seriously, even he had limits.
“Right,” he scoffed. “Aliens.”
“Dude,” Sam said, raising an eyebrow, “seriously? You got no problem with poltergeists, pagan gods, and demonic possession but you can’t accept the possibility of extraterrestrial life?”
“Uh, pretty much. Yeah.”
Sam turned back to the two women standing on the other side of the little cocktail table. “Sorry. My brother’s a little-er…” Both women nodded with a little too much understanding, and Dean was annoyed that no one seemed to acknowledge the black look he sent his brother.
The redhead laughed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, spends half ‘is time sticking his foot in it, does he?” she asked. She elbowed the taller black woman beside her and they shared a knowing look. “You must meet the Doctor, then.”
“You’ll get along famously,” the other woman agreed.
“And the aliens really aren’t even the half of it,” the redhead continued, “’cause then you’ve got the whole time and relative dimensions in space thing. Lit’rally. Time travel.”
“Bull,” Dean said abruptly.
She looked at him, a little hurt. “Well, isn’t exactly the kind of thing people lie about, is it?”
Dean scowled at his bottle. Seriously, were all British women completely deranged?
Sam, apparently, was fully willing to consider that this was the most normal thing they’d heard all day. He and the black woman struck up some smug intellectual conversation that Dean understood exactly none of, which was just as well because the other woman didn’t either. She just prattled on about alien sheep with lime green wool, and wasn’t it lovely that everyday household goods could be useful against dangerous aliens, and did he suppose that somewhere out there an alien world considered arsenic a good spice for their pot roasts?
Dean really had no idea how his day had so thoroughly found itself a handbasket and shipped itself off without his noticing.
The day had started innocently enough, with them investigating a case with all the usual signs of a simple, everyday haunting. Everything was going swimmingly until they noticed the yellow slime under their boots. Then there was yelling in another room of the abandoned factory and investigation yielded these two women squaring off with some beagle-sized, rodent-like creature with greasy yellowish fur. Dean supposed it was kind of cute, in a snarling, toothy, yellow hellhound kind of way. The black woman, the hottest chick Dean had seen in a while, confidently and rather condescendingly identified the thing as a “Coovayenta Six-ian Darcelmat” (or what-the-hell-ever). Then, he and Sam had just watched dumbly as the redhead sprung into action at this pronouncement, caught whatever the first woman tossed her direction, and sprinkled the contents on the creature. She noticed Dean and Sam and helpfully explained it was just common, everyday sugar, as the… the… thing and it let out this horrible kicked-puppy wail before shriveling up like a salted earthly slug.
“Didn’t even need the Doctor to almost get us killed on this one,” she’d said, turning to her companion and dusting her hands off on her thighs. Dean had been distracted by her cleavage. He was willing to bet her breasts were bigger than his head. He didn’t have a head the size of the moon, unlike other Winchesters he could mention, but still. Jesus.
“Really, I leave the console room to find a spare bit for the vertical vortex integrator and I come back and everyone’s gone. World end?”
The four of them turned as another accented voice approached, this one male and way too cheerful to be allowed in the dire-looking little bar. Considering the redhead had a streak of yellowish slime staining her top, they’d had to settle for less than luxurious digs. Not that Dean was complaining; a dive bar meant he and Sam could afford two or three beers each rather than total. Okay, and maybe one of those embarrassing girly drinks Sam liked so much, but Dean wasn’t ordering it.
Dean was surprised that the man was every bit as tall as Sam, but built like he hadn’t eaten in about three years. Not only was he literally bouncing as he walked, he was wearing a rather bizarre combination of (seriously ugly) dark suit and the type of Converse sneakers usually seen on angsty teenagers. The matching of the colors was questionable at best, and even Dean could make that judgment. Hell, he bet even Sam could, and that’s will some of the strange ass things that boy wore.
“Doctor,” the redhead-Donna, Dean thinks she said her name was-said, grinning.
“Took you long enough,” the other ribbed. Dean still hadn’t caught her name. She was marginally less insane than Donna and seemed fairly content to stand there with that eerie smirk on her face.
The man, who Dean judged to be around forty or so, had an overabundance of hair that he was clearly quite enamored of. Unlike Sam’s, which just sort of hung and swooped around his face like shabby drapery, this was some seriously well-styled ruffle. Dean was willing to bet good money on the fact you could probably smell the mousse in that coiffure from three feet away. The man came to stand between the two women, completely across the table from Dean, so he couldn’t test the matter further.
“Coovayenta Six-ian Darcelmat,” the black woman said abruptly, shooting a fierce glare at the newcomer that Dean was pretty glad wasn’t aimed at him.
“What?” the man squeaked.
“Got a bit of its goo on my shirt,” Donna said, holding the hem out to show him. She didn’t seem all that distressed. “Martha had some sugar, though, so all was well.”
“These are Sam and Dean Winchester,” Martha added, gesturing with her bottle. Sam offered a hand to shake, while Dean simply nodded. He wasn’t sure he wanted skin-to-skin contact with a man whose hair stuck up six inches from his scalp. Didn’t seem natural.
“I’m the Doctor,” the man said when he let go of Sam’s hand. He had an uncomfortably strong grip, if Sam’s wince and relieved shake-out was any evidence.
“They hunt ghosts and demons but they don’t believe in time travel,” Donna said, like she was imparting gossip about who was going to the prom with whom. She sounded mildly scandalized.
“Oh, and Dean?” Donna said, once the Doctor, the other woman and Sam had gotten caught up in a conversation about ghosts within time-space. He raised his eyebrows, bottle halfway to his mouth. She motioned for him to continue before she did. He should have known better. “The Doctor’s one of those aliens we mentioned, you know,” she said, howling with laughter at the sputtering and spitting of beer all over the table that followed.
Characters: Dean, Sam, Martha, Donna, Ten
Rating: PG, for crack
Word Count: 1161
Spoilers: General S3 for Supernatural, general S4 for Who (as in, the brothers Winchester have met Bela and are trying to wiggle out of The Deal, and the Companions are the above)
Summary: Dean wonders if all British women are completely deranged. Sure, his definition of normal includes demon fighting and hauntings. But time travel and aliens? A man's gotta draw the line somewhere.
Author's Note: I wrote the original version of this back in February, was vastly unhappy with it, and shelved it until now. Now I'm only mildly displeased with it, but that's enough. And shame on you if you can't work out the title.
Dean Winchester considered himself to be a pretty open-minded guy. After all, he actively spent his time fighting demons, ghosts, and urban legends, and he didn’t even have to live in a mental hospital. But seriously, even he had limits.
“Right,” he scoffed. “Aliens.”
“Dude,” Sam said, raising an eyebrow, “seriously? You got no problem with poltergeists, pagan gods, and demonic possession but you can’t accept the possibility of extraterrestrial life?”
“Uh, pretty much. Yeah.”
Sam turned back to the two women standing on the other side of the little cocktail table. “Sorry. My brother’s a little-er…” Both women nodded with a little too much understanding, and Dean was annoyed that no one seemed to acknowledge the black look he sent his brother.
The redhead laughed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, spends half ‘is time sticking his foot in it, does he?” she asked. She elbowed the taller black woman beside her and they shared a knowing look. “You must meet the Doctor, then.”
“You’ll get along famously,” the other woman agreed.
“And the aliens really aren’t even the half of it,” the redhead continued, “’cause then you’ve got the whole time and relative dimensions in space thing. Lit’rally. Time travel.”
“Bull,” Dean said abruptly.
She looked at him, a little hurt. “Well, isn’t exactly the kind of thing people lie about, is it?”
Dean scowled at his bottle. Seriously, were all British women completely deranged?
Sam, apparently, was fully willing to consider that this was the most normal thing they’d heard all day. He and the black woman struck up some smug intellectual conversation that Dean understood exactly none of, which was just as well because the other woman didn’t either. She just prattled on about alien sheep with lime green wool, and wasn’t it lovely that everyday household goods could be useful against dangerous aliens, and did he suppose that somewhere out there an alien world considered arsenic a good spice for their pot roasts?
Dean really had no idea how his day had so thoroughly found itself a handbasket and shipped itself off without his noticing.
The day had started innocently enough, with them investigating a case with all the usual signs of a simple, everyday haunting. Everything was going swimmingly until they noticed the yellow slime under their boots. Then there was yelling in another room of the abandoned factory and investigation yielded these two women squaring off with some beagle-sized, rodent-like creature with greasy yellowish fur. Dean supposed it was kind of cute, in a snarling, toothy, yellow hellhound kind of way. The black woman, the hottest chick Dean had seen in a while, confidently and rather condescendingly identified the thing as a “Coovayenta Six-ian Darcelmat” (or what-the-hell-ever). Then, he and Sam had just watched dumbly as the redhead sprung into action at this pronouncement, caught whatever the first woman tossed her direction, and sprinkled the contents on the creature. She noticed Dean and Sam and helpfully explained it was just common, everyday sugar, as the… the… thing and it let out this horrible kicked-puppy wail before shriveling up like a salted earthly slug.
“Didn’t even need the Doctor to almost get us killed on this one,” she’d said, turning to her companion and dusting her hands off on her thighs. Dean had been distracted by her cleavage. He was willing to bet her breasts were bigger than his head. He didn’t have a head the size of the moon, unlike other Winchesters he could mention, but still. Jesus.
“Really, I leave the console room to find a spare bit for the vertical vortex integrator and I come back and everyone’s gone. World end?”
The four of them turned as another accented voice approached, this one male and way too cheerful to be allowed in the dire-looking little bar. Considering the redhead had a streak of yellowish slime staining her top, they’d had to settle for less than luxurious digs. Not that Dean was complaining; a dive bar meant he and Sam could afford two or three beers each rather than total. Okay, and maybe one of those embarrassing girly drinks Sam liked so much, but Dean wasn’t ordering it.
Dean was surprised that the man was every bit as tall as Sam, but built like he hadn’t eaten in about three years. Not only was he literally bouncing as he walked, he was wearing a rather bizarre combination of (seriously ugly) dark suit and the type of Converse sneakers usually seen on angsty teenagers. The matching of the colors was questionable at best, and even Dean could make that judgment. Hell, he bet even Sam could, and that’s will some of the strange ass things that boy wore.
“Doctor,” the redhead-Donna, Dean thinks she said her name was-said, grinning.
“Took you long enough,” the other ribbed. Dean still hadn’t caught her name. She was marginally less insane than Donna and seemed fairly content to stand there with that eerie smirk on her face.
The man, who Dean judged to be around forty or so, had an overabundance of hair that he was clearly quite enamored of. Unlike Sam’s, which just sort of hung and swooped around his face like shabby drapery, this was some seriously well-styled ruffle. Dean was willing to bet good money on the fact you could probably smell the mousse in that coiffure from three feet away. The man came to stand between the two women, completely across the table from Dean, so he couldn’t test the matter further.
“Coovayenta Six-ian Darcelmat,” the black woman said abruptly, shooting a fierce glare at the newcomer that Dean was pretty glad wasn’t aimed at him.
“What?” the man squeaked.
“Got a bit of its goo on my shirt,” Donna said, holding the hem out to show him. She didn’t seem all that distressed. “Martha had some sugar, though, so all was well.”
“These are Sam and Dean Winchester,” Martha added, gesturing with her bottle. Sam offered a hand to shake, while Dean simply nodded. He wasn’t sure he wanted skin-to-skin contact with a man whose hair stuck up six inches from his scalp. Didn’t seem natural.
“I’m the Doctor,” the man said when he let go of Sam’s hand. He had an uncomfortably strong grip, if Sam’s wince and relieved shake-out was any evidence.
“They hunt ghosts and demons but they don’t believe in time travel,” Donna said, like she was imparting gossip about who was going to the prom with whom. She sounded mildly scandalized.
“Oh, and Dean?” Donna said, once the Doctor, the other woman and Sam had gotten caught up in a conversation about ghosts within time-space. He raised his eyebrows, bottle halfway to his mouth. She motioned for him to continue before she did. He should have known better. “The Doctor’s one of those aliens we mentioned, you know,” she said, howling with laughter at the sputtering and spitting of beer all over the table that followed.