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31 July 2010 @ 02:38 pm
June/July Drabble Dump  
There are some points in the timestream where you're not supposed to interfere. This the Doctor knows. And so he does not interfere when the stones begin to move. He watches people die, he watches helicopters shot down, he watches volcanoes erupt, and and he does and says nothing. He hates every minute of it, but he also knows that Dr. Carla Leeds must take over the radio show once hosted by Dr. Jacob Glaser for the next achievement in human technological evolution to be reached. Soon there will be a caller to that show who will mention a method of space travel, and Dr. Leeds will have a brainstorm, and soon the two of them will pioneer the very method of interplanetary travel that rockets the human race off the face of the Earth and toward the stars.

But the Doctor's in Mexico for the eruption. He's in Indonesia, silent witness to the atrocities. He's never actually listened to the show.

You can bet he's at Stonehenge for the end, though. And that's the first time he hears of the robot head.

Jacob feels a body barrel into his. He's knocked away from the stones just as the lightning comes down and fries the redheaded fucker attached to it. He cries out, but he can only see the stranger above him wracked with pain as he absorbs all the electromagnetic energy the stones have to offer.

And then the stranger, who should be dead, opens his eyes. "Tell me about the robot head," he says.


The Doctor drops Jacob off a hundred years in the future, on the first Martian colony, where he passes himself off as the grandson of the original Dr. Glaser and becomes a pillar of the scientific community.

And the TARDIS speeds off into time and space with both the Doctor and his faithful companion K-9 in tow.

Jacob never said it was a human head, after all.

He buys Cas one because Cas strangely likes carrying guns after he gives that blunderbuss a try over at Niveus Pharmaceuticals.

Castiel's having trouble getting it on, though, and Dean's sitting across the room, trying not to look as leather strap wraps around dark cotton and slim thigh, buckles slide into holes, weight lies dead and heavy against leg.

He can barely stand it.

"Dean," Castiel says, and his voice is breathy like he's run a marathon. "I can't-- I need your help with this."

Dean, I can't---

Dean hears the words and they seem to come from a different situation, one his brain is very busily spinning up. He lumbers across the room and makes sure Cas can hear his grumbling, see the peeved look on his face.

When his fingers touch the leather he swears he can hear them sizzle.

"Here, stay still," he mutters. "You keep moving like that and I can't get it..." he's studiously ignoring the little sound Cas just made.... "get it tight."

Pull, shift, dark material molding around his oh God. Dean swallows hard and loud enough to make a noise.

Cas smirks. Just enough. Just enough that Dean knows.

"You sneaky bastard," he says, turning his eyes up to face Cas. "You did this on purpose."

Strong white hands haul him upward. The leather hugs Cas' thigh tight. The gun bumps against Dean's hip as he goes. Dean swears.

Five minutes later he puts the holster on Cas' leg a second time. This time his fingers touch skin instead of cotton. He pulls the buckles tight. Castiel makes that noise again, and Dean smiles.

The ball hit Dean in the ankles.

"Damn it!" That earned him a dirty look from both Lisa and five of the other parents on the playground. Two others laughed and gave him a silent thumbs up for bucking the system. It was a relatively liberal neighborhood.

The kid came up, retrieved the ball, and peered at him through green eyes. "Apologies," he said, and blond curls flounced as he ran back to the field.

"Apologies?" Dean glanced at Lisa. "What kind of kindergartener says apologies?"

"The kind whose parents dress him in suspenders and plaid pants, maybe?"

"Hm. Point taken." Dean barely had room to shrug before the ball hit him again. "Ow!"

The kid ran up and retrieved the ball a second time. "I don't think I'm cut out for this game," he said. His lips lisped a th around the s sound. "I think I'll go back to the swings now."

There was a gravity in his voice that unnerved Dean somewhat. "Where are your parents, kid?" he demanded, standing up. His ankles smarted as he went. They were going to swell up from the force of the impact.

The child smiled slightly. "My father is watching," he said. "I think he was probably telling me to pay more attention to you, Dean. I can do that better from the swings anyway. Sorry about your feet." He ran off and found a swing where he could stare Dean down between ecstatic giggles as he went back and forth, higher and higher. Golden curls caught the sun.

Dean stared a minute, but he couldn't find it in his heart to be disturbed. It'd take him until evening to realize the child had called him by name.

The "Angel's Flight" roller coaster was the clincher. Gabriel knew right then that he'd found a home away from home. Oh, the place needed some sprucing up, certainly, but that was nothing he couldn't handle.

First thing was to get rid of of the roller coaster's cars. If you were supposed to fly, you couldn't be sitting down. That'd be like dancing a jig with your ankles tied together. Which Gabriel had tried, in an Amish community just before the turn of the 20th century, when he'd come in and talked up the imminent emergence of cell phones, just to fuck with them.

Next problem: merry-go-round. Who wanted to ride on boring old horses? Gabriel replaced them with any number of mythical beasts. Leviathan. Kraken. Minotaur. Hell, he even threw Bigfoot in there, though Bigfoot didn't exist. He rather liked their expressions, even if they tended to make children cry.

Ferris wheel? Boring! Gabriel made it a Moebius strip. By the time you were done riding it, you'd turned inside out.

The House of Mirrors was fun. He thought a long time about what to do with that. show you what you'd look like when you got old? What you'd look like with no teeth, or three arms? But in the end he went for something a little more fun: each mirror showed you doing something that you never dared to imagine yourself doing. Starring you, as the serial killer. The crooked politician. The perv on the side of the road exposing himself to traffic. A glimpse at the little bit of evil in everyone. But it wasn't all bad. He threw in ninja and pirate, just for laffs.

The Haunted House. Delicious idea. Gabriel made it even scarier. Instead of vampires and witches and ghosts, you were assaulted by subprime mortgages. High blood pressure. Alimony payments. The sort of things that really spooked people.

What he did to the Tunnel of Love cannot be printed in most publications.

And just on a whim, for no particular reason and with no particular point, he made all the bumper cars Impalas.

"He's impossible."

"Don't be like that, Dean-o," Zachariah counseled.

"That, that is not a righteous man. Not the Vessel and not the guy we're looking for. He's screwed up in the head, Zach. He hasn't got any emotions. Any passion."

"He was in Hell a long time," Zachariah said with a non-committal shrug, picking an apple up from the fruit bowl and tossing it handily into the air. "You of all people should know what that was like."

"Hmmph." Dean looked away. It was true, he had really no right to criticize anyone who'd been on the rack. Not after he had come back to earth as a vengeful spirit and very nearly murdered a bus full of children before Zachariah showed up, all encouragement, telling him that he had a chance to atone for the terror he'd inspired by serving as a messenger of God to the one who would bring Paradise to Earth. A man so righteous, the Scripture said, that his eyes would blaze with frozen fire and he would extend his hand to crush armies of resistance, to bring Heaven to Earth.

It had said nothing about the plain, banal, boring tax accountant who, other than having an odd middle name, seemed to be not terribly much interested in anything, and certainly not in saving the world.

Dean reached into the fruit bowl. Now it was piled high with sliders, and he munched on one wax-paper-wrapped heap of meat and carbohydrates as he stared at Zachariah. "Fine. I'll go have another talk with him. But I'm telling you, this will not end well."

"Nobody said we wanted it to end well," Zachariah said. "We just want it to end."

J.C. Novak woke up to what he could have sworn were the strains of Led Zeppelin. "The hell?" he squinted into the dark, and then groaned. "You again."

"Yo again, Jimmy," Dean was still licking the ketchup off his fingers. He tossed the ball of wax paper into J.C.'s garbage, pumping his fist when the wad went in.

"I told you," J.C. said, "that's not my name."

"Right. James Castiel Novak. But J.C.... you don't think that's a little ironic? Considering. I mean, you might not be him, but you're kind of close." When he smacked his lips, J.C. shuddered.

"Do me a favor, then Call me James. Better yet, how about Mr. Novak? If you need me to fulfill your heavenly plan or whatever, you ought to show me some respect."

"That's a hell of a thing to say to an emissary from the big man himself." Dean shrugged. "But I don't care. I've been both places. Makes no odds to me. Naw, I don't like James, and Mister just sounds stupid no matter what name you put it to. I think I'll use your middle one. Castiel."

"Fine." Weary hands rubbed creases into J.C.'s brow. "If you really did bring me back, I gues-"

"Naw, that's too long," Dean cut him off. "How 'bout Cas? That works. So, Cas. Given any more thought to my offer?"

"I have not thought about it at all." Deadpan. "Why would I pay any mind to a crazy person who happened to be there when I woke up from my coma and who thinks I can save the world."

"Because I'm not a crazy person. Do you want me to set your dog on fire again?"

Cas glowered. "Leave Sam out of this."

"I like that dog," Dean said. "Reminds me of someone. Big eyes. Stubborn to a fault. Oh, hey, that's you." He walked over to the desk where Cas was standing, where he'd been dozing, drooling on 1040s, before Dean had abruptly woken him up. His eyes darkened. "You know I'm what I say I am. You know because you dream about the memories you can't quite repress. The time you spent in hell, that's what you're dreaming about. I know it, you know it. So you can try and fool yourself, but you can't fool me."

Castiel signed. "Why me, anyway? I'm nobody special."

"Not true." Dean rolled his eyes, the menace gone from his voice. "You're very special. In the special-bus kind of way."

"Then why are you bothering with me?"

"Honestly?" Dean gazed at him, a sharp glance, and their eyes locked for an instant. "I don't know. It's something in your bloodline, I guess, but I don't see what it is that makes you such great shakes. You're a nerd."

"And you're a bully." Cas' shoulder jutted forward. "I know your kind. You're in it with some game in mind. You think I don't know a scumbag when I see one?"

Dean stared at him, his face grave. "You think I want to be down here trying convince your stubborn-ass ... ass.... to play hero? I could be eating hamburgers in hamburger heaven. And there is such a place, and it's fucking amazing."

A smile popped onto thin lips. "I'm surprised angels can swear."

"Humans made up those rules," Dean said, his eyes slitting sideways. "Not God."

"Oh." Cas was very nearly letting it go when an odd look came over his face and he shifted toward Dean. "What other rules did us humans make up?"

"Oh, shitloads." Dean shrugged. "The hell makes Sunday so special? You think each day of Creation was really a day long? We didn't even have a sun and moon 'til day four, geniuses. And then there's all kinds of crap about shellfish and tithing and..."

A hand grabbed his arm. Fingers stretching over the muscle of his bicep. Dean made a sound and sucked in a breath. Cas yanked on the back of his neck, pulled him in, and kissed him.

Warm lips parted his. Dean tried to break free, couldn't muster up the power. His knees wobbled as suddenly he was pushed against the desk, arched backward over the mountains of tax forms, a slippery wet tongue between his lips and hot hands bracing on his back. Dean groaned. He hadn't felt anything like this in so long. And he'd been completely, completely wrong about Cas having no passion.

"Tell me that's not against the rules," Castiel said. His eyes were burning frozen fire.

Dean shook his head dumbly. Castiel smiled and held out his hand. Dean lost all hope of resistance. And before long, heaven was falling.

Lucifer wins.

The fight goes on and on, and Sam is barely conscious anymore inside the body that's been bruised and battered beyond recognition, and after months and years and millennia with blood and sweat thrown everywhere Michael looks up through Adam's eyes and says, "What have you done to me?"

There's fear in those eyes. Sam doesn't understand. But above and around him Lucifer smiles. "You're in Hell, my brother," he says, sweeping Sam's arms out grandly. "Did you think you would not fall at last to sin?"

"No," says Michael. Adam's gaze is full of horror. His lips are trembling.

Lucifer captures them with Sam's lips, and Michael despite himself moans and falls into them. Somewhere deep inside them the souls of Sam and Adam recoil in horror. But they have been in Hell too, and they have felt the temptation that soaks through every stone here. The desire, as Michael raises Adam's hand to rip Sam's clothes, to give in and finally fall. The hopelessness, as a hot mouth sears the pink flesh of Adam's skin, that leads a soul to take whatever pleasure he can find. There is no grand reward left for being virtuous now. Might as well give in.

Lucifer keens as Adam's teeth graze his thigh. When he whispers hot in Adam's ear, Michael keens. "You've ruined me, brother."

"I've done no such thing," Lucifer murmurs, honey-sweet, as he rakes a hand across Adam's chest and reels him in. "I've simply won."

Lucifer wins. And lost in the groans and silk touch-thrusts of skin and muscle, breathing fast, feeling the brimstone rise through their blood, Sam and Adam find they can't bring themselves to feel bad about it.

In the end, it isn't free will or the power of love that averts the Apocalypse. It is sheer GQ badass motherfuckery.

Here's how it works. Gabriel remembers the schtick about the Horsemen's rings and puts in a call to the savviest collector he knows. Crowley advises that there's at least one soul in Hell that could probably nick the rings. Gabriel rolls his eyes and borrows Crowley's keys; he comes back from Hell with a crap-ass sunburn but a lovely thief by his side. Bela and Crowley size each other up (and have what Gabriel politely terms "eye sex") before settling in to work out a plan.

The boys have got War and Famine's. Gabriel steals those plenty easily when he crashes the gods' party at the Elysian Fields Motel. Pestilence is Crowley's purview; he fucks with his handler a bit and, once the Brady-shaped demon is sufficiently terrified of torture by hellhound, he does the dirty work of snagging the old guy's ring and hands it right over. There are some times all you need is leverage for your negotiations.

And then there are sometimes when all the leverage in the world won't help. That's Bela's job. They go over it a thousand times with her, but she never quite seems to get it. So they look at each other, astounded, when she comes sauntering out of a Chicago pizza parlor spinning a thick black ring on one slender finger.

"I don't know what you're so surprised about," she says, handing it over. "It's not the first time I've cheated Death."

"We're on a what." Dean's tone didn't sound like a question at all, despite the last word.

"A spaceship. Look, I know it's a mite hard to believe..."

"Hard to believe? It's impossible. That's impossible."

Arthur coughed. "Not impossible... just very improbab--"

He didn't make it to the next syllable. "What are you?" Dean pinned him against the wall of the thing-that-couldn't-possibly-(or-at-least-probably)-be-a-spaceship. "A trickster? A djinn?" He looked over his shoulder and glared at Sam. "This has to be one of your stupid geek fantasies!"

Sam shrugged and adjusted the duffel bag on his shoulder. "Let him go, Dean. If he's any of those things, threatening him isn't going to do much good anyway." He sighed, looking around. A doleful-looking robot sat in one corner. Sam gazed at him and immediately felt an odd kinship.

Dean backed off. Arthur adjusted his collar and coughed again, clearing his windpipe. "Look, I'm not much good at explaining all this, but such as it is, my understanding is that the Infinite Improbability Drive has picked up on some commonality, something that's integral to both of our dimensions, and taken it upon itself to link the two through that common denominator. It all sounds so pedantic when I say it..."

"What?" Sam squinted. "What could you possibly have in common with us?" On a hunch, he slung the duffel off his shoulder and unzipped it. The first thing he pulled out was a dingy white towel he'd swiped from the last motel. The hotel's logo was stitched on the corner.

Heart of Gold Motel.

"Mm-hm," Arthur said, slapping his palm against his forehead, "that would do it."

Dean tastes like dust and death. These are not desirable things. These are things that the angels have long prided themselves on standing far above. They are not imperiled by mortality -- though they can be killed they do not die, not naturally, and in the beginning and through the long days of the universe they have lived without fear of change or carnage. It is only in the days near the end that this has changed. And it has shaken the foundations of the immortal world.

Castiel knows that Dean is the epitome of everything earthly, everything that he himself is not. He was dead when Castiel first made his acquaintance. He will die again, someday, and it will be a stronger hand than Castiel's that brings him to his reward. And even before that, the changes will come. One day, before long, the strong hands on his face will grow weak and knotted, the clear eyes will grow clouded with cataracts, and the legs that have carried him through endless chases and fights will become useless as brittle tree limbs. The strong lines of his face will wither and pucker into wrinkles, and in the end, he may not even recognize his own reflection.

Or, worse, there will be no change but a single moment of violence, cutting Dean down and condemning him to eternal youth in Castiel's memories as all the strength of the body against his is ground down, useless, into dust.

When Dean touches him, when the soft lips plump with youth catch his and a hand slides beneath the folds of his trenchcoat to catch his waist and hold him firm, it's a stolen moment that can never last, that's gone, to Castiel's eternal mind, nearly as quickly as it begins.

He envies the certainty of change, envies that Dean is of the earth, will return to it. In these apocalyptic days Castiel has no such certainty for himself. Dean, as mortal and brittle as he is, is the closest Castiel can come to a sure thing. So he holds on just as tightly as he can.

Take What You Can Get
He was allowed to dream.

Call it an oversight, a hole in security of a fringe benefit of playing host to the Big Bad himself, but in between thousand-day-long bouts of torture and battle, Sam was given the freedom to dream. And his dreams were tactile, full of sound and sensation, and better yet, Sam had full control over them.

Maybe Dean was the more likely of the two to visit strip clubs in his slumber, but Sam was no fool, and he took advantage.

He'd never tell Dean, but he'd always been kind of partial to Buffy. Sarah Michelle Gellar doing a striptease sure took the edge off the ultimate ultimate-fighting showdown. Soft sinewy shoulders, a feather boa sliding off and snaking to the floor... a come-hither look and a purse of tight-set lips.... yeah. Maybe it wasn't the limits of his imagination, but when you're in Hell, there's not much of a premium placed on cleverness. Take what you can get.

And Sarah was stunning. The way she moved, the looks she gave Sam like she knew him, it was all breathtaking. After a few dreams she began coming down off the stage to get closer. Dream number four and he had his hands on her waist as she gave him a lap dance, angel-white lacy panties itching against the tips of his fingers. She leaned over him, smelling of baby powder and caramel, and whispered in his ear, "Wouldn't you like to get out of here, Sam?"

"Hell, yes," he said, gathering her up as he got to his feet, but she laughed and wriggled out of his grasp.

"That's what I mean," she said. "Hell. Wouldn't you like to get out?"

Sam blinked. This part of the dream wasn't under his control. As a rule, he didn't torture himself with dreams of ever escaping. This was as much escape as he'd ever get. So why was Sarah Michelle Gellar suddenly opining on the subject?

Actually, at the moment, Sarah was sucking seductively on a popsicle she'd pulled from nowhere in particular. "So good," she said. "Nice and cool. You even remember what life was like below the boiling point? Makes you wish Hell really would freeze over."

His brain chugged slowly into gear. "You're not Sarah."

"No, but if I'd known earlier how sweet you were on her, I might have switched vessels. Much easier to grab your attention." She smiled coyly and bit off the end of the popsicle with a viciousness that made Sam's loins twinge in terror.

"Vessel?" He squinted. "So you're an angel?"

"Not just any angel, boyo." The tone was familiar, even if the voice was too high. And suddenly Sam could see the resemblance. The upturned, pert nose, the quirky little mouth -- it was all too recognizable. Sam's eyes widened, and his jaw opened. But before he could speak, the erstwhile vampire slayer had laid a hand on his lips. "Let's keep this discreet. Neither one of us is supposed to be intact right now."

"But you-- you died!"

"Shh!" Blue eyes danced. "Just sit back and enjoy the show, Sammykins." She gyrated her hips against his. "If we are going to get you out of here, it's going to take some serious planning, and that means we're going to have to spend some quality time together. Don't pretend you're not enjoying it--"

And the angel-in-slayer's-clothing cut herself off and gaped at how readily Sam sat down, how widely he grinned.

"What?" He beckoned to her. "You're right. I'm enjoying it."

She plopped onto his lap and stared at him critically. "Well, you've changed a bit."

He grabbed at the hem of those deliciously lacy panties and tugged her close. "That's one thing I've learned down here," he whispered, his lips brushing her mouth. "Take what you can get."

A happy little family? One out of three. Maybe.

To start off with, they're not family. Never mind having the same parents, only half of them have parents at all. Unless you count in the broadest metaphysical sense. Gabriel and Castiel say they're brothers, but if they're brothers, Dean and Sam must be the same freaking person by comparison. They'd be hilarious if Dean didn't have to put up with them 24 hours a day. And that's no exaggeration. They don't sleep. Bedtime for Dean and Sam is just the start of Gabriel's second wind. Dean's woken up at 4 a.m. any number of times to hear the two of them arguing about something that could equally be a fine point of philosophy and the plot of the drive-in movie they went to the other night. It's enough to drive a man out of his mind.

Little? Little is comparative. You know what feels little these days? The freaking car. To their credit, the angels don't tend to drop crumbs all over Dean's baby, or get the leather wet. But they make their presence known in other ways. Appearing and disappearing, heckling and offering stern advice, telling bad jokes, not getting the good ones. And occasionally changing the music. Dean nearly drove the car off the road once when he suddenly found himself listening to some crazy shit Gabriel identified as the soundtrack to "Avenue Q." It was pretty freaking funny, but still, a little warning would have been nice. Long story short: while Dean doesn't feel quite like the little old woman who lived in the shoe, but he still has the impression more often than not that he's shepherding a kindergarten class across the country.

Last, but not least. Happy. With what they've been through? With what they all know they have yet to face? Happy moments are few and far between, and none of them expects to have many...

...like the time Castiel knew the names of every star Dean pointed to, but Dean knew the constellations, and Castiel's eyes filled with wonder...

...like the time he and Gabriel teamed up to tie Sam's shoes together in his sleep, but Sam was so out of it that he actually shuffled around for a good fifteen minutes in the morning before finally trying to take a step and falling flat on his face..

...like the ill-fated Scrabble game between Sam and Castiel that wound its way late into the night, long after Dean had passed out from the shots he'd promised to take every time they played a word he didn't know...

...like the time Sam commented, offhandedly, that you'd never guess it but Gabriel was actually a pretty good listener, once you pinned him down...

...OK, so, yeah, maybe they had a few more happy moments than expected. That doesn't make them a happy little family.

So it's decidedly weird that when Gabriel refers to them in that way, over beers and around a campfire one night in New Mexico, Sam and Castiel both nod like they know exactly what he's talking about.

Weirder still that Dean not only agrees readily, but raises his can to toast the concept.

But when four cans meet with a metallic clink, he believes it completely.
Emily.  Just Emily.: SPN - Mary Winchesterdarth_firefly on July 31st, 2010 07:29 pm (UTC)
Drabble Dump is full of awesome win. Loved 'em.

I've come to the conclusion as of late that Bela is full of win.
Tiptoe39: dinahtiptoe39 on August 2nd, 2010 11:23 am (UTC)
It's true. She truly is. <3

Thanks so much!
(Deleted comment)
Tiptoe39: Sam - Jaredtiptoe39 on August 2nd, 2010 11:23 am (UTC)
Why thank you dear! :3