5 Ficlets: SPN gen, J2 RPF, & BBT gen (PG)
All right, so here are my responses to the call for prompts from the other night. Feel free to hit me over the head if I've made any grammar/spelling mistakes. ;-)
For egotists, Jared holding Jensen
Implied J2, ~500 words
It's a scene played out too often, a routine that Jensen would rather forget.
The director of the week yells cut, we're good, but Jensen's slow stream of tears remains steady, won't stop as long as Dean is still this vocal, this living in his head. Dean's emotions, they're always a maze, a deep tunnel, but on days like this, the places Jensen goes for them… they're anything but easy to get back from. It's familiar, the panic - this bone-deep sadness, a blade-edged guilt - like some clawed thing trying to burst forth from his (Dean's) chest each time Sam (Jared) is dying.
Jared praises Jensen's work as he hauls himself up from the ground with a grin, face smeared with dirt and fake blood, but Dean still cries out for his injured brother in every corner of Jensen's mind. It takes Jared only a look, a quickly spared glance before that old concern washes over his expression. With a gentle hand, he nudges Jensen towards the trailers and stalks off to demand they get a break.
Jensen does as he's urged, makes for the relative peace of his trailer. Inside, he sheds his costume bit by bit, wishing Dean would shrug off that easy every time. The necklace, the jacket, thrown carelessly onto the table in a pile to sort out later. He's kicking off Dean's boots when Jared arrives, face clean, shutting the door behind him before doing the same with Sam's clothes. When they're both just in jeans and t-shirts - the least Winchester they can look without a more suspicious strip-down - Jared flops down on the well-worn sofa and grabs Jensen's hand.
The couch isn't made for two guys their size, but Jared drags him down anyway, shifts and shuffles until Jensen's seated between his legs. They're pressed together, back to chest, and somewhere near his shoulder, Jensen can feel the soft thump of Jared's heart against him. Jared talks, a long ramble in a tone more upbeat than Sam could ever manage, letting his hands drift over Jensen's stomach, chest, thighs.
With each word, every touch, Jensen can feel a little piece of himself slot back into the forefront, the fear for Sam (Jared) receding a bit further as the moments pass. The thoughts of a beloved's blood and broken body fade faster now, and Jensen finally feels the tears stop as Jared continues his too-often practiced comfort.
By the time a PA comes knocking on the trailer door, Dean's angst is only lines on a page again, and Jensen untangles himself from Jared's limbs, ready to work. Before he can leave, Jared grabs his shoulders, holds him still to check over. Jensen gives him a smile, a little weak, but true, not a character. Apparently satisfied with what he sees, Jared lets him go and stands, and though Jensen doesn't say it, he misses Jared's hands on him.
But there's work still to do today, and more of that coveted touch wordlessly scheduled for tonight. They head back to set side by side.
For switch842, J2 adopting a new puppy
Implied J2, ~180 words
Predictably, Jared would take home every puppy in the shelter if he could, but he keeps coming back to a black lab mix with floppy ears and pleading eyes. With a smile, he thrusts the dog into Jensen's arms and says, "What about him? Does he look like our Eric Brady?"
The puppy squirms in his hands as Jensen sighs. "For Christ's sake, I told you we are not naming him that."
"How about Alec?"
"No."
"Jason?"
"Jared…"
"Priestly?"
"We already had this discussion, dumbass…"
"Tom?"
"Only if his middle name's Kinkade."
"Okay, maybe not," Jared concedes. He gestures to the dog and says, "But this one? Do you like him?"
Jensen looks down at the puppy, who's gone slack and sleepy in his arms. The dog yawns, a little squeak of a sound, and Jensen's heart maybe melts just a little. "Yeah, all right," he says. "But so help me god, if you try to name him after any part I've ever played, I'm training him to answer only to Cupcake and I'll make you yell for him when he gets out of the yard."
For egotists, 'I'm Not Alright' by Sanctus Real
SPN gen, ~290 words, finale spoilers, deals with addiction
Withdrawal's no easier the second time through, but Dean almost makes it feel like it could be.
Sam still isn't sure what Ruby meant with her fanatical devotion and Disney analogies, but the need's there, even now, burning-itching-goading somewhere under his skin. But the long battle's coming and he has to be clear; he needs this gone. The iron walls are as cold as they were before, the light as dim, and the cot as small, but Sam steps into the panic room - voluntarily, this time - with Dean right beside him, a guiding hand wrapped around his arm.
A willing detox is no smoother. There's pain and shaking and more than one terrifying moment when his body begins to rise off the bed and Dean has to hold him down. When he sees a second Dean, one who whispers sick words and slick promises, he knows it's a hallucination, that his real brother is the one who pets his hair, leaves a firm hand on his shoulder, who retells bad porno 'plots' as distracting tales of his own exploits. He knows which is real, but that doesn't make the other go away, doesn't stop him from bringing up every terrible, sordid little thing Sam's done this past year.
"Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry," Sam finds himself saying in between gasped-out sobs. Something he's said many times since Dean burst in that convent too late, since Castiel appeared to whisk them away in the last second. But he says it now, again, a steady chant as he grabs on to Dean, fingers clutching, drawing his brother close 'til there's no space left between them.
Dean clings back just as hard. "It'll be okay, Sammy," he says. "We'll get you through this."
For sgflutegirl, 'Back On Earth' by Ozzy Osbourne
SPN gen, ~430 words, past character death
The older children whisper that it's cursed; the parents say it's not safe, to stay away. What's left of that old Lawrence neighborhood is no place to play. There are stories, of course, about other kids who've snuck off there for fun, about ghosts and nameless things and a hurt so bad it could break your heart in two. But you're braver than most and anyway, Todd dared you to go; you can't back down.
In the deepest part of the night, it's easy for you and your friends to sneak past parents, away from your growing little town that's all that was left of Kansas when the war was over. Over heaved pavement and cracked sidewalks, through the rubble, you walk to the house with the gnarled tree in front, the only one of the old buildings still mostly standing.
"Do it," Todd says. "Stand in the spot or you're a chicken."
The spot. A perfect circle of scorched grass on the house's front lawn, a circle big enough for a man to lie in, the center to all the stories. Your dare.
Your friends urge you on and you swallow any fear that might be coming before you step on to the spot. Your feet hit that burnt grass, and for a moment, it's quiet, not even those usual night-sounds breaking the silence. You breathe easier when nothing seems to happen.
But then it's there, that feeling so many others in town have described, beating up through your blood and before your eyes. Something like sorrow, you think, like losing everything that's ever mattered, a sadness that runs too deep to ever describe in words. You see things, flashes too fast to catch them all. A little boy clinging to a baby, fire all around them. Fire, always fire as they grow older, grow apart, come back closer. Pain and love and sadness and men with yellow flames in their eyes. Someone, someone who means everything, light pouring into him, out of him, covering the world. A struggle, a battle, a killing blow with blood spreading out over your vision. And that sorrow, again, tinged with bile-bitter guilt as a voice says, sorry, Sammy.
As soon as it all came, it's done, and you're back standing in that patch of dead grass with tears you don't remember crying slowly tracking down your face. Your friends are gone, you don't know where, and so you run desperately away from that infamous house. You run away from the place they say Dean Winchester defeated Lucifer and his vessel so many years ago.
For lunachickk, BBT elevator
BBT gen, ~180 words
"You do realize that if this elevator were airtight, we'd have run out of oxygen by now? We'd have died a slow death from asphyxiation and it would be entirely your fault."
"Sheldon…"
"No, don't even try to argue with me. You noticed the out of order sign was gone, you goaded me into taking the elevator with you, and therefore it is your fault that we've been trapped in here for god knows how long."
"Sheldon…"
"And who even knows when or if someone will find us! I mean, clearly my presence will be soon missed, but who would ever think that I might possibly be stuck in this elevator? No one, that's who!"
"No, really, Sheldon…"
"We'll be trapped here until we begin to starve and then have to consider the merits of eating our own flesh! On my tombstone, it will read, 'Doctor Sheldon Cooper, resorted to cannibalism, died in an elevator, and didn't live long enough to win a Nobel Prize.'"
"Sheldon! Will you just listen? The doors opened by themselves like five minutes ago."
For egotists, Jared holding Jensen
Implied J2, ~500 words
It's a scene played out too often, a routine that Jensen would rather forget.
The director of the week yells cut, we're good, but Jensen's slow stream of tears remains steady, won't stop as long as Dean is still this vocal, this living in his head. Dean's emotions, they're always a maze, a deep tunnel, but on days like this, the places Jensen goes for them… they're anything but easy to get back from. It's familiar, the panic - this bone-deep sadness, a blade-edged guilt - like some clawed thing trying to burst forth from his (Dean's) chest each time Sam (Jared) is dying.
Jared praises Jensen's work as he hauls himself up from the ground with a grin, face smeared with dirt and fake blood, but Dean still cries out for his injured brother in every corner of Jensen's mind. It takes Jared only a look, a quickly spared glance before that old concern washes over his expression. With a gentle hand, he nudges Jensen towards the trailers and stalks off to demand they get a break.
Jensen does as he's urged, makes for the relative peace of his trailer. Inside, he sheds his costume bit by bit, wishing Dean would shrug off that easy every time. The necklace, the jacket, thrown carelessly onto the table in a pile to sort out later. He's kicking off Dean's boots when Jared arrives, face clean, shutting the door behind him before doing the same with Sam's clothes. When they're both just in jeans and t-shirts - the least Winchester they can look without a more suspicious strip-down - Jared flops down on the well-worn sofa and grabs Jensen's hand.
The couch isn't made for two guys their size, but Jared drags him down anyway, shifts and shuffles until Jensen's seated between his legs. They're pressed together, back to chest, and somewhere near his shoulder, Jensen can feel the soft thump of Jared's heart against him. Jared talks, a long ramble in a tone more upbeat than Sam could ever manage, letting his hands drift over Jensen's stomach, chest, thighs.
With each word, every touch, Jensen can feel a little piece of himself slot back into the forefront, the fear for Sam (Jared) receding a bit further as the moments pass. The thoughts of a beloved's blood and broken body fade faster now, and Jensen finally feels the tears stop as Jared continues his too-often practiced comfort.
By the time a PA comes knocking on the trailer door, Dean's angst is only lines on a page again, and Jensen untangles himself from Jared's limbs, ready to work. Before he can leave, Jared grabs his shoulders, holds him still to check over. Jensen gives him a smile, a little weak, but true, not a character. Apparently satisfied with what he sees, Jared lets him go and stands, and though Jensen doesn't say it, he misses Jared's hands on him.
But there's work still to do today, and more of that coveted touch wordlessly scheduled for tonight. They head back to set side by side.
For switch842, J2 adopting a new puppy
Implied J2, ~180 words
Predictably, Jared would take home every puppy in the shelter if he could, but he keeps coming back to a black lab mix with floppy ears and pleading eyes. With a smile, he thrusts the dog into Jensen's arms and says, "What about him? Does he look like our Eric Brady?"
The puppy squirms in his hands as Jensen sighs. "For Christ's sake, I told you we are not naming him that."
"How about Alec?"
"No."
"Jason?"
"Jared…"
"Priestly?"
"We already had this discussion, dumbass…"
"Tom?"
"Only if his middle name's Kinkade."
"Okay, maybe not," Jared concedes. He gestures to the dog and says, "But this one? Do you like him?"
Jensen looks down at the puppy, who's gone slack and sleepy in his arms. The dog yawns, a little squeak of a sound, and Jensen's heart maybe melts just a little. "Yeah, all right," he says. "But so help me god, if you try to name him after any part I've ever played, I'm training him to answer only to Cupcake and I'll make you yell for him when he gets out of the yard."
For egotists, 'I'm Not Alright' by Sanctus Real
SPN gen, ~290 words, finale spoilers, deals with addiction
Withdrawal's no easier the second time through, but Dean almost makes it feel like it could be.
Sam still isn't sure what Ruby meant with her fanatical devotion and Disney analogies, but the need's there, even now, burning-itching-goading somewhere under his skin. But the long battle's coming and he has to be clear; he needs this gone. The iron walls are as cold as they were before, the light as dim, and the cot as small, but Sam steps into the panic room - voluntarily, this time - with Dean right beside him, a guiding hand wrapped around his arm.
A willing detox is no smoother. There's pain and shaking and more than one terrifying moment when his body begins to rise off the bed and Dean has to hold him down. When he sees a second Dean, one who whispers sick words and slick promises, he knows it's a hallucination, that his real brother is the one who pets his hair, leaves a firm hand on his shoulder, who retells bad porno 'plots' as distracting tales of his own exploits. He knows which is real, but that doesn't make the other go away, doesn't stop him from bringing up every terrible, sordid little thing Sam's done this past year.
"Sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry," Sam finds himself saying in between gasped-out sobs. Something he's said many times since Dean burst in that convent too late, since Castiel appeared to whisk them away in the last second. But he says it now, again, a steady chant as he grabs on to Dean, fingers clutching, drawing his brother close 'til there's no space left between them.
Dean clings back just as hard. "It'll be okay, Sammy," he says. "We'll get you through this."
For sgflutegirl, 'Back On Earth' by Ozzy Osbourne
SPN gen, ~430 words, past character death
The older children whisper that it's cursed; the parents say it's not safe, to stay away. What's left of that old Lawrence neighborhood is no place to play. There are stories, of course, about other kids who've snuck off there for fun, about ghosts and nameless things and a hurt so bad it could break your heart in two. But you're braver than most and anyway, Todd dared you to go; you can't back down.
In the deepest part of the night, it's easy for you and your friends to sneak past parents, away from your growing little town that's all that was left of Kansas when the war was over. Over heaved pavement and cracked sidewalks, through the rubble, you walk to the house with the gnarled tree in front, the only one of the old buildings still mostly standing.
"Do it," Todd says. "Stand in the spot or you're a chicken."
The spot. A perfect circle of scorched grass on the house's front lawn, a circle big enough for a man to lie in, the center to all the stories. Your dare.
Your friends urge you on and you swallow any fear that might be coming before you step on to the spot. Your feet hit that burnt grass, and for a moment, it's quiet, not even those usual night-sounds breaking the silence. You breathe easier when nothing seems to happen.
But then it's there, that feeling so many others in town have described, beating up through your blood and before your eyes. Something like sorrow, you think, like losing everything that's ever mattered, a sadness that runs too deep to ever describe in words. You see things, flashes too fast to catch them all. A little boy clinging to a baby, fire all around them. Fire, always fire as they grow older, grow apart, come back closer. Pain and love and sadness and men with yellow flames in their eyes. Someone, someone who means everything, light pouring into him, out of him, covering the world. A struggle, a battle, a killing blow with blood spreading out over your vision. And that sorrow, again, tinged with bile-bitter guilt as a voice says, sorry, Sammy.
As soon as it all came, it's done, and you're back standing in that patch of dead grass with tears you don't remember crying slowly tracking down your face. Your friends are gone, you don't know where, and so you run desperately away from that infamous house. You run away from the place they say Dean Winchester defeated Lucifer and his vessel so many years ago.
For lunachickk, BBT elevator
BBT gen, ~180 words
"You do realize that if this elevator were airtight, we'd have run out of oxygen by now? We'd have died a slow death from asphyxiation and it would be entirely your fault."
"Sheldon…"
"No, don't even try to argue with me. You noticed the out of order sign was gone, you goaded me into taking the elevator with you, and therefore it is your fault that we've been trapped in here for god knows how long."
"Sheldon…"
"And who even knows when or if someone will find us! I mean, clearly my presence will be soon missed, but who would ever think that I might possibly be stuck in this elevator? No one, that's who!"
"No, really, Sheldon…"
"We'll be trapped here until we begin to starve and then have to consider the merits of eating our own flesh! On my tombstone, it will read, 'Doctor Sheldon Cooper, resorted to cannibalism, died in an elevator, and didn't live long enough to win a Nobel Prize.'"
"Sheldon! Will you just listen? The doors opened by themselves like five minutes ago."