SPN Fics, Motorcade of Generosity
This post encompasses five different ficlets, and the grouping requires a little explanation. Sometime last year, I was simultaneously obsessed with the TV show Supernatural and the Cake album Motorcade of Generosity. I couldn't stop the two from getting mashed up in my brain a little, and Motorcade of Generosity became my reverse-engineered fan mix for season four of SPN. Last summer, I decided I was going to write a drabble to go with every song on the album, and throw them all up as a kind of suite. Of course, some of the songs ended up inspiring longer stories, while others inspired nothing at all. Here are the five that I was able to flesh out into something acceptable. My interpretation of some of the lyrics is pretty literal, but mostly it's more of a feeling that the song evokes. These all stand alone, do not form any kind of story, they do not necessarily even inhabit the same universe. You can read and understand (and hopefully enjoy) without any knowledge of the songs that inspired them, although I've provided links for the curious.
A big thank you to my wonderful beta dreamscapemusic, the roommate of my heart, who read this for me in the fall. Sorry for not posting these sooner, I appreciate your help as always.
Title: Ruby Sees All
Word Count: 290~
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, strong language and sexual situations
Summary: Ruby/Sam set between S3 and S4. Ruby stays in control, any way she can.
Ruby can tell that Sam is getting distracted.
She knows that most men fuck like they’re brushing their teeth or doing their taxes. It’s just maintenance, tinged with desperation. It’s not an issue when he’s still drowning in grief and whiskey, but once he’s dried out a little, Ruby notices his eyes following skirts again. He’s not really thinking about it, it’s a habit.
“Hey,” she says, snapping her fingers at him when his eyes are on the diner waitress’s ass instead of her. “Pay attention, I’m not talking for my health.”
Sam gives her this aw-shucks smile that makes her want to punch him. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
Ruby decides she had better do something about it, because she needs Sam to be focused. She needs to free Lucifer, and it’s been a long time since she’s needed anything else.
Seducing Sam turns out not only to be easy, but beneficial. Sex relaxes most people; Sam, it just winds tighter. That’s exactly what Ruby wants, so she keeps it up. Their lessons begin to go a bit better.
“Let’s stop for now.”
“Do we have to? I feel like I’m just about to make a breakthrough.”
“Your nose is bleeding. Let’s stop.”
She’s surprised to find that Sam doesn’t fuck like he’s brushing his teeth. It’s more like he’s drowning, and she’s the only thing that’s keeping him afloat. Ruby knows that’s not really it, what really keeps him going is anger and hurt and the dream of revenge. That’s enough, for now. Maybe someday he’ll be able to appreciate what she’s doing; maybe he’ll even thank her. Late at night she thinks about Hell, and having Sam’s face pressed into the crook of her neck seems like the smallest price she’s had to pay.
Title: Pentagram
Word Count: 720~
Rating/Warnings: PGish, strong language
Summary: Bobby's night out. Set S5ish.
Bobby’s hair is slicked back and he’s wearing a suit that doesn’t even smell like mothballs. He doesn’t get out much these days, so he figures he might as well do it right. He rings the doorbell at eight o’clock.
“Hi,” says the girl who answers the door. She’s a cute little blond thing who looks like she’s barely cracked her twenties. “Marelle’s still getting ready. She’ll be down in a minute.”
“Thanks. You must be Julie.”
She nods. “And you’re Bobby.”
Julie makes no move to invite him in, which is okay with Bobby. He doesn’t blame her for being unimpressed with her roommate’s choice of companion for the evening. They’ll be a mismatched pair, to be sure.
“Bobby, hi!” Marelle says, floating into the frame of the doorway like a vision. She’s a brunette, taller and curvier than her roommate, currently poured into a slinky black dress topped with a disarming smile.
“Marelle. You’re a vision.”
“Oh, stop it! You’re too much. See you later, Julie.” She breezes by her roommate and takes the arm that Bobby offers. “Where are you taking me? I was surprised when you told me to dress up.”
“It’s still a surprise,” he reminds her as he helps her into the car.
Marelle pouts fetchingly and wheedles for clues, and when they arrive she lets out a little gasp of pleased surprise. “Really? Here?”
“Only the best for you.”
The maître d’ doesn’t bat an eye, as though middle aged mechanics often dined here with beautiful women half their age. Instead he smiles. “Mr. Singer, so good to see you again. We’ve prepared your usual table, will that be acceptable?”
“Of course, Oliver, thank you,” Bobby says, slipping the man a tip that makes Marelle’s eyes go wide.
The expression of disbelief remains on her face as they are led to a table in a private room, seated, and presented with an expensive bottle of wine. Bobby waves the waiter off and pours for them himself.
“Cheers,” he says, raising the glass.
“Cheers to what?” Marelle asks.
“To you, of course.”
Marelle seems satisfied, and they both drink. It’s a nice cabernet, the kind of thing Bobby doesn’t usually indulge in. He’s glad he decided to go the extra mile tonight.
The waiter comes back. Marelle lets Bobby order for both of them. When they’re alone again, she dabs her lips with her napkin (doing nothing to help her teeth, which still stained with wine), and says, “Give me just a minute, I need to go freshen up.”
“Hurry back,” Bobby says, smiling.
Marelle slips out of her seat and gets a few steps away from the table before she hits an invisible barrier. “Shit!” Her eyes flash black and she whirls, launching herself at Bobby. He’s already out of his seat, and she hits another barrier before she reaches him. “You fucker, how did you-”
“My usual table, remember?” Bobby says, smirking. “There’s a devil’s trap under the carpet.”
The demon drops to her feet and begins to claw at the Persian rug, but it doesn’t budge. “What do you want?” she asks, settling back on her heels. “We can work something out, can’t we? I’ll give you anything, just let me go.” She angles her torso so he has the best possible view of her cleavage.
“Who sent you?” Bobby asks, undistracted.
“No one,” she says. “They’ve been whispering your name in Hell. I wanted to take down a hunter, and you seemed like the perfect target. Old, lonely…”
“Stop now,” Bobby says. This is a young demon, probably lacking in connections just as much as she lacks in finesse. “Regna terrae…”
The demon begins to spit pleas and insults, but Bobby finishes the exorcism. Once the black smoke has disappeared, he drops to the floor beside the crumpled body of Marelle.
“Is she going to make it?” asks a voice from the doorway. It’s Oliver, the maître d’.
“I think so. Unconscious, but breathing normally and strong pulse.” Bobby pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. “I’m going to call her parents.”
“You want me to do anything? All the other customers have cleared out.”
“Can we make her more comfortable?”
A few minutes later Marelle’s head was cushioned on a rolled up tablecloth. Bobby straightened up and reviewed the room. “Mind if I take that?” he asked Oliver, gesturing at the half-full bottle of wine on the table.
“Really, Bobby?”
“Gimme a break. I don’t get out much these days.”
Title: Haze of Love
Word Count: 1050~
Rating/Warnings: PGish, strong language, mildly gross body humor, general bad taste.
Summary: Sam and Dean encounter one of the more unusual dangers of hunting. Mostly Dean does.
A/N: Born out of my desire to write crossover fic with a certain short-lived late 90s kids' show about paranormal investigation. The connection is still there if you squint. A little more info about what they're after here.
Ellen’s friend, the expert in Irish lore, was unable to come in person to help with the case. Along with her apologies she sent a three page email containing all of her knowledge about the creatures, including links and references.
“Sounds like your type of girl, Sammy. Bookworm.”
“If you’re not reading that, can I have it back?”
Dean handed over the printouts. “How do you even pronounce that?”
“Gon-cah-nah,” Sam enunciated, tapping on the keys of his laptop. “Doesn’t matter how we say it, the most important thing is that we can’t let it touch us.”
“Right, we touch it and we’re fucked.”
“Yeah. Maybe literally.”
Dean shuddered.
Later that night, the Impala pulled up to a bar in a suburb. “Are you sure this is the place?” Sam asked.
“Everyone we talked to says he comes here every night,” Dean said. “Doesn’t look like it, though.”
“I guess no one said all monsters have to hang out in dives. Let’s go.”
The bar was small, so it was easy to spot their target. Mid-twenties, wearing a ratty cardigan and a wispy moustache. An unlit pipe was alternately clenched between his teeth and waved around in one hand as he talked. The only thing that made him stand out from the other men in the bar was the half a dozen women surrounding him, hanging on his every word.
Sam and Dean got four dollar PBRs from the bar and settled in to watch. “What’s he drinking?” Dean said.
“That pink thing. I just saw him take a sip.”
“You sure that’s not one of the girls’?”
“The fae like sugar. It’s his.”
“All right. You stay here, I’ll go roofie Fairy Boy.”
Dean sidled up to the bar and tried to talk to one of the women on the outskirts of the group. When she ignored him, he did his best to make it look like he was interested in what the man with the pipe was saying, creeping his hand ever closer to the pink drink sitting on the bar.
“Let’s not even talk about Death Cab. Everyone’s always going on about how they had so much potential, and now it’s wasted, but I’m convinced it was inevitable. They were going to sell out from day one. Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”
A hand grasped Dean’s wrist just as he had been about to tip a vial into the glass. Shit shit shit, Dean thought, but he was unable to struggle. He knew he should be panicking, but his muscles relaxed and a sense of calm washed through his brain. The hand didn’t leave his wrist, and when he looked up, there was the man with the pipe, the gancanagh, looking at him with interest.
“Well, aren’t you pretty,” the man said to Dean. “Want to go somewhere more private?”
“Yes,” Dean said, and the sick thing was that is was true. He couldn’t remember wanting anyone this badly since he’d been a teenager. The sharp, almost painful desire was anchored by the hand around his wrist, and he allowed himself to be led away from the bar, ignoring the glares of the angry women they left behind.
“My car’s this way,” Dean offered once they reached the parking lot.
The gancanagh still hadn’t let go of Dean’s wrist. “I don’t really do cars. No good for the environment, right? Follow me.”
Some part of Dean realized that of course a fairy would object to going anywhere in a box made of steel, but most of him was focused on the cluster of trees they were headed for with anticipation.
Once they were hidden in the shadows, Dean grabbed the gancanagh by the shoulders and pressed him up against a tree. They were kissing, open mouths, frantic tongues, hands fumbling at clothes. The gancanagh chuckled. “Excited? Ever been with another man before? Are you really ready for this?”
Dean didn’t answer, just screwed up the last of his will and drove a knife into the gancanagh’s stomach.
“What?” The gancanagh pushed Dean away, looking down at the wound. It was already beginning to smoke. “What did you do?”
“Iron knife.” Dean watched as the gancanagh tried to pull out the blade, only succeeding in burning his hands as well.
“You fucking prick!” the fairy gasped, falling to the ground in obvious pain. “Why did you do that?”
“Because you were killing people,” Dean said through gritted teeth. “And it’s my job.”
“Well fuck you,” the gancanagh wheezed. Now he was on his back, writhing in pain, making grabs for Dean’s ankles.
Running footsteps let him know that backup had arrived. “You all right? I didn’t want to interrupt,” Sam said.
“I’m fine. Got another knife?”
Without hesitation, Sam stepped forward and drove his own blade into the gancanagh’s unprotected throat. The fairy’s mouth worked wildly, but he was unable to scream as the flesh around the knife began to burn. Soon he was still, his neck and face a blackened, unrecognizable mess.
“What should we do with him?” Sam asked.
“Forget it for now. He touched me. You can fix this, right?”
“We can’t just leave him here. You’re not going to die.”
“Actually, Sam, I might.”
“He touched you fifteen minutes ago. It takes days. Let’s do this right.”
Dean twitched the while they disposed of the body. He only got worse once they were in the car. “I feel like my skin is too tight,” he complained. “Why didn’t it stop when we killed the bastard?”
“Because it’s not a spell. The gancanagh has a toxin in his skin that makes him irresistible to his victims. Now you need to detox.”
“How do I do that?”
“I have stuff ready.”
Back at the motel, Dean’s hands were shaking so hard that he needed Sam’s help to drink the thermos of bitter, tea-like liquid that was waiting for him. “Now what?” he asked when it was gone. “I still feel like I’m coming apart at the seams.”
Sam grinned. “Just wait a minute. You’ll feel it when it kicks in.”
“What’s it supposed to feel like?”
An answer came in the form of a loud gurgle from the direction of his stomach. Dean swore and made a run for the tiny bathroom. Sam burst into helpless laughter.
“You could have warned me, asshole,” Dean yelled through the closed door a few minutes later.
Sam wiped his streaming eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry, it’s not exactly glamorous. But hey, hunting can’t all be making out with hot guys, can it?”
Title: Jesus Wrote a Blank Check
Word Count: 430~
Rating/Warnings: PG
Summary: Dean/Cas, set early S4. Dean gets a second chance, but he's not quite sure what he's doing with it.
Dean is alone in the motel room, shirtless, inspecting himself in the mirror. Smooth skin, unmarked, except for… his fingers brush the anti-possession symbol that is still tattooed on his chest.
“I thought you might need it,” Castiel says.
Dean turns around. The angel has appeared behind him, unannounced as usual. “You scared me,” Dean says, rising out of his fighting stance.
“My apologies.”
“Why are you here?” Dean asks when Castiel offers nothing further.
“I wanted to check on your progress. Make sure you’re readjusting. Sam does not seem like he can attend to all of your emotional and spiritual needs right now.”
“If he’s not ‘attending’ to me, it’s because I told him not to. I’m fine.”
In response, Castiel steps closer. Without warning, he touches the tips of his fingers to Dean’s tattoo.
“A powerful symbol, if not exactly a holy one,” Castiel says. “I preserved it because I felt it might keep you safe.”
Dean twitches back, surprised by the contact. “It didn’t protect me in Hell.”
“That is not its purpose, as you well know.” Castiel has not moved his hand; his fingers hover in the air where Dean’s skin was seconds ago.
“And what about this?” Dean asks, indicating the lurid handprint branded into his shoulder.
“Another kind of safeguard. This marks you as one who is under the protection of an angel of The Lord.”
“Aw,” Dean says, trying to lighten the mood, to discharge the air, “I didn’t know you cared.”
“I didn’t know I would, either.” Castiel rests his hand on Dean’s shoulder, covering the brand so that it might not have been there at all.
The effect is electric. Dean feels lightheaded, or maybe he just feels light, high. But he is completely in control of his actions when he leans in to kiss Castiel.
It’s been a long time since Dean kissed another man, but despite his partner’s angelic nature, it feels much as he remembers it. A scratch of stubble on his face, a faint musky scent unmasked (in this case) by aftershave or cologne.
Later, Dean will recognize that this feels like the opposite of the kiss he gave the crossroads demon. Then something was taken out of him, now he’s getting something back. In the moment, however, he only thinks of warmth and the taste of Castiel’s lips as he tries to part them with his tongue.
Dean breaks the kiss, sensing resistance.
Castiel removes his hand. “I…” he says, then flickers out of existence without finishing the sentence or meeting Dean’s eyes.
The handprint on Dean’s shoulder is tingling, and he is left alone to wonder what the hell just happened.
Title: I Bombed Korea
Word Count: 220~
Rating/Warnings: PG, violence
Summary: Pre-series. John Winchester in the early days of his hunting career.
As John Winchester makes contacts, he finds out that a lot of hunters are also veterans. A career in the military gave them the combat training, and their tours of duty made them hard.
At first he only wanted the man with the yellow eyes who killed his wife, but in his travels he stumbled upon so many things that were just as unnatural, twisted, and dangerous. An enemy army living among us. With so few people who knew, or had the skills to fight it, John felt like it was his duty to help.
The first time he decapitates a vampire, all he feels is a fierce rush of satisfaction. Covered in blood splatters, he reflects on how he thought this would be harder than firing a gun at another man. It’s not. John the five drained corpses before he found the vamp, and he finds he doesn’t mind the way this job is up-close and personal.
There is something clean about salting and burning human remains, and a good exorcism makes him feel powerful. When he gets together with a group of hunters, they don’t talk about Korea, Vietnam, or Iraq- it’s always wendigos, shape-shifters, and djinn. John understands. Some people think killing should not be met with more killing, but for these hunters, it’s the only way.