Christmas card drabbles!
Since no one seemed to have a problem with sharing and caring, I present to all, the Great Christmas Drabbles of '07!
For mkitty3, gen, 200 words: "I'd love a schoompy drabble of Dean and Sam exchanging gifts!" (A/N: requested before A Very Supernatural Christmas aired, so yeah)
When Sam was four, Dean swiped the lunch money off three school bullies, just a taste of their own medicine. He got extra training sessions when his principal called Dad, but it was worth it when Sammy tore away the comic section wrapping paper on Christmas morning to find the stuffed stegosaurus he'd been begging Dad for the last two months.
When Dean was sixteen, Sam skipped classes to sneak to the mall. On the twenty-fifth, Dad handed Dean his own keys to the Impala, and Sam gave his brother a silver keychain engraved with D.W. It's still wrapped in a sock in a pocket of Dean's duffel because he never wanted it to get even a scratch.
When Sam was seventeen, he unwrapped a leather bound unabridged Oxford dictionary with the "important" words already highlighted, making it worthy of an NC-17 rating. It wasn't until he was at Stanford that he noticed the aborted yellow smudge by the definition "noun: a man or boy in relation to other children of his parents."
This Christmas, there's no meaningful gifts. Just two brothers sharing a bottle of Jack in the warmth of a motel room. Christmas is about family, after all.
For rei_c, gen, 100 words: "Maybe...maybe some RICHARD, because I LOVE HIM?" (A/N: Richard being the demon in I Am the Very Model...)
It takes hours for him to find a compatible host, and his first breath of brimstone-free air is so heady, he falls on his ass. It’s too clean, too fresh. He’s not expecting it.
He’s out, thank hellfire. No more waiting for the enraged to reach the banks before he can jab them in the eye with a pointy stick. Freedom.
He needs a name. Something that doesn’t sound like it’s missing six vowels. Richard’s good. He likes Richard. But the first person who calls him Dick is getting his spleen ripped out.
Alright, time to get down to business.
For dahliablue, gen, 100 words: "If you write anything about Metallicar, I'm a happy woman."
She's no spring chicken. She knows it. It takes a little incentive to get her going sometimes, but at least she gets there. It's more than she can say about some teenagers she's met.
Sure, she's had to get work done. Her joints creak these days, and yeah, she could use a makeover, just to freshen up, but what woman doesn't?
She's still one of the hardest workers around, and she's damn proud of that. If her boys need to go cross-country in a day, then she'll find a way to do it.
Let's see an oh-eight model handle that.
For juno_baby, j2, 500 words: J2 and the end of the world (A/N: This may be turned into a full length fic at some point, because if you look at the word count in comparison, obviously my muse didn't want to shut up with this.)
You know one of the good things about working on a show about demons, ghosts, and other things that go bump in the night? Knowledge. Experience. Some sort of clue of what to do when the whole world goes to Hell in a handbasket, literally.
Salt actually works, thank goodness and Kripke, as both a shield and a weapon. When the riots start and the rest of the world's population focuses on looting guns, knives, and sixty inch televisions, Jared cleans out three supermarkets in the nearby vicinity. No one gives a second thought about the tall guy leaving the store with carts full of kosher salt.
Jensen heads straight to home improvement stores, grabbing the bags of rock salt originally intended for de-icing roads. He gets enough to pour a solid ring a couple inches thick and deep around Jared's place in Vancouver. It’s become their home base, their oasis, and they want to protect it.
They encourage their family and friends to do the same, and no one argues. You should trust the experts, right?
Jared destroys two shotguns before he concedes the fact they can't properly fill the shells with salt. Instead, he constructs a sturdy facsimile of a slingshot, with a makeshift sight and everything just because he wants one, and fills flimsy pouches. They explode on contact with their targets, and Jensen is so impressed he has Jared make another one for him. They still keep two handguns loaded with regular ammo, just in case.
Forget EMF readers. They couldn't have a better early detection system than Harley and Sadie. Two days after the Incident (Jensen still can't bring himself to say Apocalypse), both dogs suddenly start growling low, hackles raised. An hour later, they're barking like mad, and Jared glances out the window, sees a swirling black haze hovering just beyond their sodium-chloride barrier. The animals don't calm down until it's long gone and, as a reward, they get hamburger instead of dog food for dinner. Jared and Jensen get their first night of decent sleep, completely entwined in one another, knowing they're well protected.
They're both kicking themselves for not paying closer attention to the little details -- how to draw a proper Key of Solomon, the Latin used to bless Holy Water -- and they flirt with the idea of sneaking back to the set to search for notes. That plan gets ditched the night the fires break out. Instead, they hit Wikipedia and hope the information there is correct.
The television goes out first, no one around to man the studios, but not before filling their heads with images of the world’s major cities burning to ash. They both manage to get hold of their families to confirm everyone's okay -- parents and siblings safe behind similar protection -- before the phones and Internet fails. It's only a matter of time before the electricity goes too.
It's not called living anymore, it's surviving. But it's them together, and you know what? They can handle that.
For regala_electra, gen, 100 words: "Sam finding a pair of knitting needles in Dean's bag."
It's not that weird, really. Sam knows soldiers need some sort of activity, hobby, whatever, to distract them from the daily grind. He'd even put down money Dad was the one who taught Dean the ropes. Or yarn, as the case may be.
But they're heavy, pure iron if he had to guess. And smoothly sharpened to lethal points. Learning how to work them without injuring himself must have taken Dean forever.
So he's not freaking about finding the knitting needles in Dean's bag. It's the fact that Dean turned them into veritable weapons.
What can he say to that?
For mkitty3, gen, 200 words: "I'd love a schoompy drabble of Dean and Sam exchanging gifts!" (A/N: requested before A Very Supernatural Christmas aired, so yeah)
When Sam was four, Dean swiped the lunch money off three school bullies, just a taste of their own medicine. He got extra training sessions when his principal called Dad, but it was worth it when Sammy tore away the comic section wrapping paper on Christmas morning to find the stuffed stegosaurus he'd been begging Dad for the last two months.
When Dean was sixteen, Sam skipped classes to sneak to the mall. On the twenty-fifth, Dad handed Dean his own keys to the Impala, and Sam gave his brother a silver keychain engraved with D.W. It's still wrapped in a sock in a pocket of Dean's duffel because he never wanted it to get even a scratch.
When Sam was seventeen, he unwrapped a leather bound unabridged Oxford dictionary with the "important" words already highlighted, making it worthy of an NC-17 rating. It wasn't until he was at Stanford that he noticed the aborted yellow smudge by the definition "noun: a man or boy in relation to other children of his parents."
This Christmas, there's no meaningful gifts. Just two brothers sharing a bottle of Jack in the warmth of a motel room. Christmas is about family, after all.
For rei_c, gen, 100 words: "Maybe...maybe some RICHARD, because I LOVE HIM?" (A/N: Richard being the demon in I Am the Very Model...)
It takes hours for him to find a compatible host, and his first breath of brimstone-free air is so heady, he falls on his ass. It’s too clean, too fresh. He’s not expecting it.
He’s out, thank hellfire. No more waiting for the enraged to reach the banks before he can jab them in the eye with a pointy stick. Freedom.
He needs a name. Something that doesn’t sound like it’s missing six vowels. Richard’s good. He likes Richard. But the first person who calls him Dick is getting his spleen ripped out.
Alright, time to get down to business.
For dahliablue, gen, 100 words: "If you write anything about Metallicar, I'm a happy woman."
She's no spring chicken. She knows it. It takes a little incentive to get her going sometimes, but at least she gets there. It's more than she can say about some teenagers she's met.
Sure, she's had to get work done. Her joints creak these days, and yeah, she could use a makeover, just to freshen up, but what woman doesn't?
She's still one of the hardest workers around, and she's damn proud of that. If her boys need to go cross-country in a day, then she'll find a way to do it.
Let's see an oh-eight model handle that.
For juno_baby, j2, 500 words: J2 and the end of the world (A/N: This may be turned into a full length fic at some point, because if you look at the word count in comparison, obviously my muse didn't want to shut up with this.)
You know one of the good things about working on a show about demons, ghosts, and other things that go bump in the night? Knowledge. Experience. Some sort of clue of what to do when the whole world goes to Hell in a handbasket, literally.
Salt actually works, thank goodness and Kripke, as both a shield and a weapon. When the riots start and the rest of the world's population focuses on looting guns, knives, and sixty inch televisions, Jared cleans out three supermarkets in the nearby vicinity. No one gives a second thought about the tall guy leaving the store with carts full of kosher salt.
Jensen heads straight to home improvement stores, grabbing the bags of rock salt originally intended for de-icing roads. He gets enough to pour a solid ring a couple inches thick and deep around Jared's place in Vancouver. It’s become their home base, their oasis, and they want to protect it.
They encourage their family and friends to do the same, and no one argues. You should trust the experts, right?
Jared destroys two shotguns before he concedes the fact they can't properly fill the shells with salt. Instead, he constructs a sturdy facsimile of a slingshot, with a makeshift sight and everything just because he wants one, and fills flimsy pouches. They explode on contact with their targets, and Jensen is so impressed he has Jared make another one for him. They still keep two handguns loaded with regular ammo, just in case.
Forget EMF readers. They couldn't have a better early detection system than Harley and Sadie. Two days after the Incident (Jensen still can't bring himself to say Apocalypse), both dogs suddenly start growling low, hackles raised. An hour later, they're barking like mad, and Jared glances out the window, sees a swirling black haze hovering just beyond their sodium-chloride barrier. The animals don't calm down until it's long gone and, as a reward, they get hamburger instead of dog food for dinner. Jared and Jensen get their first night of decent sleep, completely entwined in one another, knowing they're well protected.
They're both kicking themselves for not paying closer attention to the little details -- how to draw a proper Key of Solomon, the Latin used to bless Holy Water -- and they flirt with the idea of sneaking back to the set to search for notes. That plan gets ditched the night the fires break out. Instead, they hit Wikipedia and hope the information there is correct.
The television goes out first, no one around to man the studios, but not before filling their heads with images of the world’s major cities burning to ash. They both manage to get hold of their families to confirm everyone's okay -- parents and siblings safe behind similar protection -- before the phones and Internet fails. It's only a matter of time before the electricity goes too.
It's not called living anymore, it's surviving. But it's them together, and you know what? They can handle that.
For regala_electra, gen, 100 words: "Sam finding a pair of knitting needles in Dean's bag."
It's not that weird, really. Sam knows soldiers need some sort of activity, hobby, whatever, to distract them from the daily grind. He'd even put down money Dad was the one who taught Dean the ropes. Or yarn, as the case may be.
But they're heavy, pure iron if he had to guess. And smoothly sharpened to lethal points. Learning how to work them without injuring himself must have taken Dean forever.
So he's not freaking about finding the knitting needles in Dean's bag. It's the fact that Dean turned them into veritable weapons.
What can he say to that?