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rahmiThe Devil is having a workful day and since she worked so hard to cheer me up, I wrote her a drabble. And then I remembered that Seaica also worked hard to cheer me up, and Tabaqui is just sort of awesome and loves my animals, and. Bah.
So, I decided to do drabbles today. Nothing terribly exciting, but I did one for each of the major girls in my life. Discounting the sister, because her drabble was being an obnoxious butthole and so did not get written. Oh, Shahryar, why must you be so poopy?
For the Devil - More puppy!demons, following after the last drabble I wrote. Here be Wincest-yness.
Dean wakes up with the mother of all hangovers. It's not really frickin' helped when he realizes that, hey, there's something heavy on his back. At first, he thinks he might have ended up crashing at one of the handful of girl's he'd fucked last nights houses, but then he sees Sam's back out of the corner of his eye.
The something heavy on his back squeaks. Like a rodent. Like there are multiple something heavys on his back. Like that was a rat tail he just felt slither across the back of his neck. It takes his heavy, morning after brain a few seconds to compute all of this, and then he's sitting up and flailing spastically because there are multiple demonic rats on his back.
He might even have let out a girlie shriek. Maybe. He's gonna deny it though if it turns out his fucktard of a brother is awake and using this as revenge for... something his brain seems to be hiding from him.
In the bed next to him, Sam rolls over and cracks open an eye. "Keep it down, man," he mutters, then, "Dude, get the hell off him. You know he hates rats."
Yes, the fuckers do know it. And they just scramble off of him and into his lap and if Sam doesn't get his pets off of him right the fuck now Dean wasn't gonna be responsible for his actions.
When one of them skitters across his dick, he loses it.
Ten seconds later, Sam's sitting up in bed with his arms crossed, looking up at the huge cloud of demon black that's suddenly materialized. He's bitching at them, Dean hopes, because they're sure as hell getting an earful of it from Dean.
Dean's got a hold of at least two of the little fuckers, with a third jammed headfirst into the glass of holy water that's always on his nightstand. It's making fucking squeaky noises still, flaily its legs around like a bug on its back, and Dean could not. Possibly. Care. Less.
There's a few tiny little bodies that've impacted with the wall and left bloody streaks down the fugly ocean themed wallpaper. Dean isn't sorry for it, except that he kind of feels bad for the maid that's gonna have to clean up the dead bodies.
"I told you to leave him alone," Sam says, long suffering. He's quiet for a second while Dean tries to get his flask out of his jacket pocket and open it up without letting the two squeaking, black-eyed little rats go. He doesn't even know if the nasty things are still possessed, but he's not taking any chances.
"Oh my God," Sam mutters suddenly. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and breathes out, once, slowly, like he's counting to ten in his head. "I'll deal with it. Stop! I don't want to see that, Zaebos. Gah."
It is, Dean reflects, not that strange that Sam gets taken for a crazy person everywhere they go. He's surprised more people don't pat him on the head and give him a coloring book to play with while they wait for their orders.
He takes the rat that's drowned in the holy water out of the glass and puts one of the ones he's still holdin' in. As soon as he pulls the dead rat out, its mouth opens and demon smoke pours out of its little throat to hover next to Sam's arm. It looks like it's pouting, and Dean throws the rat away in digust that he knows what pouting demons look like.
"You shouldn't have done it," Sam tells the demon trying to curl into him.
Dean throws the last rat at the wall and sits back on his bed, cradling his head on his knees. He doesn't get vomity like Sam does when he's got a hangover, but, oh, God, his head. There's a reason he did that, he knows, but it's still hiding in the back of his skull. Under a distinct memory of maybe nuzzling at his brother's dick. Erk.
Sam's heaving himself out of the bed by the time Dean's tracked down that particular memory to something he can maybe pass off as being drunken cuddling. Even though he never cuddles when he's drunk. He buries his head a little farther into his knees and tries not to think.
Course, that would be a little more effective if Sam hadn't decided that Dean's bed is more comfortable than his bed.
"Dude!" he exclaims when Sam throws himself on the bed next to him. His head? Does not thank Sam's ginormous ass for making it bounce up and down. Ow, ow, ow.
When he can open his eyes again without his brain screaming about the pain, he notices that the demons are gone. Skedaddled. Out of here. There's no black sand shifting against the ceiling and he's willing to ignore the scent of sulfur in the air if it means they're alone for a few minutes. Still, he's gotta ask.
"Where'd your pets go?"
Sam shifts next to him and uses his thumb to brush bed hair away from his face. "I told them I didn't need an audience for this."
He's missing something. He knows he is. He turns to inform Sam of that (and maybe to tell him that his goddamn demons were motherfucking sons of a bitch who Sam really needed to let him find a way to exorcise), when Sam's hand comes up to cup the back of his neck.
His brain goes dead silent. Even the petulant mutters of "ouch" and the part that's gibbering hysterically about rats touching him stop. A single noise cuts through the silence and Dean echoes it outloud. "Huh?" he says stupidly. What was with the touching?
"Shut up," Sam mutters, and then he leans forward and kisses him.
Dean suddenly remembers just what his brain was hiding from him. Traitor.
For Seaica - Crowley, Aziraphale, and pot
When Crowley invites Aziraphale over for tea, he's got an ulterior motive. He usually does, even if the ulterior motive is wanting a spot of company that's even more pathetic than he is, but this time, it's a doozy of a motive. You see, Crowley has just obtained a sample of his newest oversea venture.1
The cannibis plant sits in the middle of his coffee table.
It spreads its leaves proudly when it notices Crowley looking at it, and if he weren't a little in love with his ficus, he'd put it in the spot of honor under the big window. It looks healthy even after he's plucked a good chunk of its leaves off. That's something he can respect.
Even if the plant acts like a drug addict whenever he threatens it. Crowley could swear it's giggled at him more than once.
Aziraphale brings tea. Crowley sets a huge platter of appetizers on the coffee table, right next to his plant, and the angel politely coughs into his hand. "I don't think we'll need all of that, Crowley," he says. "I've to watch my weight, you know. It would be terrible if I lost this body to hypertension."
"We'll need them," Crowley tells him decisively, and lights up the joint he's rolled ahead of time.
It actually doesn't take much to get Aziraphale to take a hit or two. A little bribery, a little coaxing, and a judicious helping of past history that says he's done something like it before.
It's not long until they're in a discussion over the merits of marijuana.
"Nuh-uh," Aziraphale says. That's how Crowley knows that the plant's actually getting to him; Aziraphale, you see, would never say "Nuh-uh," on a regular day. He's a bore like that. "'s used for pain. To make people feel nice while they're dying. That's one of ours."
He nods firmly to the plant and giggles. "Cannabis, dear boy, is a gift from God."
The plant, Crowley notes, is looking verdant. He shouldn't put it near the ficus.2
Then he remembers that he's supposed to be arguing the point with Aziraphale, maybe even tempting the angel into believing it, and he focuses. A little. The room's swimming in strange colors, at any rate, so he focuses on that. He wasn't aware he had anything in quite that shade of pink lying about.
"No, no," he finally gets out, "See, He made cannabis before there was pain, you know, before the whole lead balloon thing hit the ground," he stops and giggles, because in his head it's suddenly hilarious. "A lead balloon! Do lead balloons pop?"
Aziraphale purses his mouth like the dour nancy he is, so Crowley hands over the joint to make him stop and tries to pick his thread out of the dozen or so he can see dancing across his vision.
He finds it after a second (it's white), and reaches out to pick it up again. "So it's gotta be another test, see? About the righteous and what-not. Good people don't use it. All that recreational stuff, that's our side."
"I fail to see how a little harmless fun would be your side," Aziraphale says primly. It's a little ruined by the joint hanging out of his mouth, but Crowley's not going to point that out. Yet. Maybe later, when he tries to deny being tempted into trying an illegal narcotic. Again.
Crowley flicks his tongue out to taste the air and smiles. "That's just it!" he says, and starts laughing.
The pot plant joins in, the little lush.
1 Crowley has had multiple oversea ventures over the course of time. He's the one who led Columbus to the Americas. He did not, however, plan the clusterfuck that was the liason between the natives and Europe. He'd rather liked the natives over there.
2 The ficus, he's noticed, is looking a little... pissed, for lack of a better word. He's taken to cooing at it that it's always been his favorite in order to stave off the mysterious demise of his cannabis for as long as possible.
For Tabi - Sam, Dean, and blue ribbons
Sam's going through Dean's stuff, looking for a clean t-shirt. He's pretty much resigned himself to wearing something that's gonna be about ten sizes too small, because his brother may be a midget, but he's a midget with at least half of a clean wardrobe. His last three're hanging in the bathroom, covered in slime and grave dirt, because some idiot thought it'd be a good idea to make a swamp thing out of the corpse of his mother.
Sometimes, he thinks people should really have to deal with their own mistakes. Especially when it comes to slime.
He finds a shirt at the bottom of the bag, folded up like it's protecting something. Sam doesn't make it a habit to go through Dean's stuff, mostly because his brother's a pig and likely to have opened chocolate bars or something wrapped in his dirty clothes, but the shirt's in the clean duffle. He picks it up and shakes it over the bed to dislodge anything that might be hiding in it.
Something does fall out. But it flutters gently to the covers instead of falling like a rock, so Sam puts the shirt aside to investigate for a second.
When he picks it up, he sees that it's actually two things. And they're ribbons. Blue ribbons, frayed at the ends and worn thin enough in middle that they look white, like they'd been handled one time too many and were just waiting to give up the ghost. Sam looks at them, twirls them absently around his fingers, and they catch on his calluses, fraying a little farther into individual strings.
For a second, Sam stands there with them in his hands, trying to figure out where the hell Dean would have picked up the kind of little girl accessories he's always accusing Sam of having.
"Dude," Dean says. "What're you doin'?"
Sam jumps. Honest to God, he jumps about twelve feet in the air like he hasn't done since Dean caught him looking at college applications. He tightens the ribbons around his fingers and looks over his shoulder at his brother.
Dean's leaning in the doorway of the bathroom and it looks like he's decided the pants are clean enough for going out, because he's still wearing them, slime, dirt, and all. He's ditched his shirt though, and if he thinks he's getting the one Sam's already claimed he's got another thing coming.
"Where'd you get these?" he asks instead of answering. He holds the ribbons up by their ends and lets them trail down his forearms; they're long, whatever Dean might've used them for.
Dean looks at them for a half-second before he shakes his head. "You really do have a shit memory, Sammy," he mutters.
"Which one of us can't remember a simple exorcism chant?" Sam shoots back automatically. He runs the silk through his fingers again and something tugs at his memory a little bit. They feel familiar. "No, seriously man. You got something you need to tell me?"
"They're yours," Dean says easily, "You used to have me put your hair up in pigtails. Got them pulled on the playground a couple of times once. Man, were you pissed about that."
"You're kidding."
Dean shakes his head, shouldering him over to pull out a shirt from the bag that's been designated "slightly dirty, but won't get us thrown out of a diner, so they're still good." He sniffs it, shrugs, and pulls it on.
"Wish I was," he says when his head reappears, "How'd you think I felt, having a little pansy with ribbons in his hair for a brother? And it wasn't like I could pretend to not know you or anything. You were always screamin' for me about something."
Sam can almost feel the silk on the back of his neck. He clears his throat and looks away. "Yeah, well, why'd you keep them then?"
"Didn't," Dean lies. "I found them under the backseat, figured we could use them for bandages if we needed to."
Yeah, right. Like the flimsy, old ribbons wouldn've been good for stopping bloodflow. Sam doesn't say that, though. He sets them on the bed to pull on Dean's shirt and by the time he's got it pulled down enough that most of his stomach is covered (his arms feel like their losing circulation), Dean's got them disappearing into his back pocket.
He wants to ask why his brother's hanging onto old hair ribbons, but before he can get it out, Dean's opening his mouth again.
"You feel like Italian?" Dean asks, like that whole conversation never happened, and Sam knows it's important to him because that right there had been a goldmine of little girl jokes and Dean'd only cracked one or two.
He drops it. For now. "Yeah."
So, I decided to do drabbles today. Nothing terribly exciting, but I did one for each of the major girls in my life. Discounting the sister, because her drabble was being an obnoxious butthole and so did not get written. Oh, Shahryar, why must you be so poopy?
For the Devil - More puppy!demons, following after the last drabble I wrote. Here be Wincest-yness.
Dean wakes up with the mother of all hangovers. It's not really frickin' helped when he realizes that, hey, there's something heavy on his back. At first, he thinks he might have ended up crashing at one of the handful of girl's he'd fucked last nights houses, but then he sees Sam's back out of the corner of his eye.
The something heavy on his back squeaks. Like a rodent. Like there are multiple something heavys on his back. Like that was a rat tail he just felt slither across the back of his neck. It takes his heavy, morning after brain a few seconds to compute all of this, and then he's sitting up and flailing spastically because there are multiple demonic rats on his back.
He might even have let out a girlie shriek. Maybe. He's gonna deny it though if it turns out his fucktard of a brother is awake and using this as revenge for... something his brain seems to be hiding from him.
In the bed next to him, Sam rolls over and cracks open an eye. "Keep it down, man," he mutters, then, "Dude, get the hell off him. You know he hates rats."
Yes, the fuckers do know it. And they just scramble off of him and into his lap and if Sam doesn't get his pets off of him right the fuck now Dean wasn't gonna be responsible for his actions.
When one of them skitters across his dick, he loses it.
Ten seconds later, Sam's sitting up in bed with his arms crossed, looking up at the huge cloud of demon black that's suddenly materialized. He's bitching at them, Dean hopes, because they're sure as hell getting an earful of it from Dean.
Dean's got a hold of at least two of the little fuckers, with a third jammed headfirst into the glass of holy water that's always on his nightstand. It's making fucking squeaky noises still, flaily its legs around like a bug on its back, and Dean could not. Possibly. Care. Less.
There's a few tiny little bodies that've impacted with the wall and left bloody streaks down the fugly ocean themed wallpaper. Dean isn't sorry for it, except that he kind of feels bad for the maid that's gonna have to clean up the dead bodies.
"I told you to leave him alone," Sam says, long suffering. He's quiet for a second while Dean tries to get his flask out of his jacket pocket and open it up without letting the two squeaking, black-eyed little rats go. He doesn't even know if the nasty things are still possessed, but he's not taking any chances.
"Oh my God," Sam mutters suddenly. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and breathes out, once, slowly, like he's counting to ten in his head. "I'll deal with it. Stop! I don't want to see that, Zaebos. Gah."
It is, Dean reflects, not that strange that Sam gets taken for a crazy person everywhere they go. He's surprised more people don't pat him on the head and give him a coloring book to play with while they wait for their orders.
He takes the rat that's drowned in the holy water out of the glass and puts one of the ones he's still holdin' in. As soon as he pulls the dead rat out, its mouth opens and demon smoke pours out of its little throat to hover next to Sam's arm. It looks like it's pouting, and Dean throws the rat away in digust that he knows what pouting demons look like.
"You shouldn't have done it," Sam tells the demon trying to curl into him.
Dean throws the last rat at the wall and sits back on his bed, cradling his head on his knees. He doesn't get vomity like Sam does when he's got a hangover, but, oh, God, his head. There's a reason he did that, he knows, but it's still hiding in the back of his skull. Under a distinct memory of maybe nuzzling at his brother's dick. Erk.
Sam's heaving himself out of the bed by the time Dean's tracked down that particular memory to something he can maybe pass off as being drunken cuddling. Even though he never cuddles when he's drunk. He buries his head a little farther into his knees and tries not to think.
Course, that would be a little more effective if Sam hadn't decided that Dean's bed is more comfortable than his bed.
"Dude!" he exclaims when Sam throws himself on the bed next to him. His head? Does not thank Sam's ginormous ass for making it bounce up and down. Ow, ow, ow.
When he can open his eyes again without his brain screaming about the pain, he notices that the demons are gone. Skedaddled. Out of here. There's no black sand shifting against the ceiling and he's willing to ignore the scent of sulfur in the air if it means they're alone for a few minutes. Still, he's gotta ask.
"Where'd your pets go?"
Sam shifts next to him and uses his thumb to brush bed hair away from his face. "I told them I didn't need an audience for this."
He's missing something. He knows he is. He turns to inform Sam of that (and maybe to tell him that his goddamn demons were motherfucking sons of a bitch who Sam really needed to let him find a way to exorcise), when Sam's hand comes up to cup the back of his neck.
His brain goes dead silent. Even the petulant mutters of "ouch" and the part that's gibbering hysterically about rats touching him stop. A single noise cuts through the silence and Dean echoes it outloud. "Huh?" he says stupidly. What was with the touching?
"Shut up," Sam mutters, and then he leans forward and kisses him.
Dean suddenly remembers just what his brain was hiding from him. Traitor.
For Seaica - Crowley, Aziraphale, and pot
When Crowley invites Aziraphale over for tea, he's got an ulterior motive. He usually does, even if the ulterior motive is wanting a spot of company that's even more pathetic than he is, but this time, it's a doozy of a motive. You see, Crowley has just obtained a sample of his newest oversea venture.1
The cannibis plant sits in the middle of his coffee table.
It spreads its leaves proudly when it notices Crowley looking at it, and if he weren't a little in love with his ficus, he'd put it in the spot of honor under the big window. It looks healthy even after he's plucked a good chunk of its leaves off. That's something he can respect.
Even if the plant acts like a drug addict whenever he threatens it. Crowley could swear it's giggled at him more than once.
Aziraphale brings tea. Crowley sets a huge platter of appetizers on the coffee table, right next to his plant, and the angel politely coughs into his hand. "I don't think we'll need all of that, Crowley," he says. "I've to watch my weight, you know. It would be terrible if I lost this body to hypertension."
"We'll need them," Crowley tells him decisively, and lights up the joint he's rolled ahead of time.
It actually doesn't take much to get Aziraphale to take a hit or two. A little bribery, a little coaxing, and a judicious helping of past history that says he's done something like it before.
It's not long until they're in a discussion over the merits of marijuana.
"Nuh-uh," Aziraphale says. That's how Crowley knows that the plant's actually getting to him; Aziraphale, you see, would never say "Nuh-uh," on a regular day. He's a bore like that. "'s used for pain. To make people feel nice while they're dying. That's one of ours."
He nods firmly to the plant and giggles. "Cannabis, dear boy, is a gift from God."
The plant, Crowley notes, is looking verdant. He shouldn't put it near the ficus.2
Then he remembers that he's supposed to be arguing the point with Aziraphale, maybe even tempting the angel into believing it, and he focuses. A little. The room's swimming in strange colors, at any rate, so he focuses on that. He wasn't aware he had anything in quite that shade of pink lying about.
"No, no," he finally gets out, "See, He made cannabis before there was pain, you know, before the whole lead balloon thing hit the ground," he stops and giggles, because in his head it's suddenly hilarious. "A lead balloon! Do lead balloons pop?"
Aziraphale purses his mouth like the dour nancy he is, so Crowley hands over the joint to make him stop and tries to pick his thread out of the dozen or so he can see dancing across his vision.
He finds it after a second (it's white), and reaches out to pick it up again. "So it's gotta be another test, see? About the righteous and what-not. Good people don't use it. All that recreational stuff, that's our side."
"I fail to see how a little harmless fun would be your side," Aziraphale says primly. It's a little ruined by the joint hanging out of his mouth, but Crowley's not going to point that out. Yet. Maybe later, when he tries to deny being tempted into trying an illegal narcotic. Again.
Crowley flicks his tongue out to taste the air and smiles. "That's just it!" he says, and starts laughing.
The pot plant joins in, the little lush.
1 Crowley has had multiple oversea ventures over the course of time. He's the one who led Columbus to the Americas. He did not, however, plan the clusterfuck that was the liason between the natives and Europe. He'd rather liked the natives over there.
2 The ficus, he's noticed, is looking a little... pissed, for lack of a better word. He's taken to cooing at it that it's always been his favorite in order to stave off the mysterious demise of his cannabis for as long as possible.
For Tabi - Sam, Dean, and blue ribbons
Sam's going through Dean's stuff, looking for a clean t-shirt. He's pretty much resigned himself to wearing something that's gonna be about ten sizes too small, because his brother may be a midget, but he's a midget with at least half of a clean wardrobe. His last three're hanging in the bathroom, covered in slime and grave dirt, because some idiot thought it'd be a good idea to make a swamp thing out of the corpse of his mother.
Sometimes, he thinks people should really have to deal with their own mistakes. Especially when it comes to slime.
He finds a shirt at the bottom of the bag, folded up like it's protecting something. Sam doesn't make it a habit to go through Dean's stuff, mostly because his brother's a pig and likely to have opened chocolate bars or something wrapped in his dirty clothes, but the shirt's in the clean duffle. He picks it up and shakes it over the bed to dislodge anything that might be hiding in it.
Something does fall out. But it flutters gently to the covers instead of falling like a rock, so Sam puts the shirt aside to investigate for a second.
When he picks it up, he sees that it's actually two things. And they're ribbons. Blue ribbons, frayed at the ends and worn thin enough in middle that they look white, like they'd been handled one time too many and were just waiting to give up the ghost. Sam looks at them, twirls them absently around his fingers, and they catch on his calluses, fraying a little farther into individual strings.
For a second, Sam stands there with them in his hands, trying to figure out where the hell Dean would have picked up the kind of little girl accessories he's always accusing Sam of having.
"Dude," Dean says. "What're you doin'?"
Sam jumps. Honest to God, he jumps about twelve feet in the air like he hasn't done since Dean caught him looking at college applications. He tightens the ribbons around his fingers and looks over his shoulder at his brother.
Dean's leaning in the doorway of the bathroom and it looks like he's decided the pants are clean enough for going out, because he's still wearing them, slime, dirt, and all. He's ditched his shirt though, and if he thinks he's getting the one Sam's already claimed he's got another thing coming.
"Where'd you get these?" he asks instead of answering. He holds the ribbons up by their ends and lets them trail down his forearms; they're long, whatever Dean might've used them for.
Dean looks at them for a half-second before he shakes his head. "You really do have a shit memory, Sammy," he mutters.
"Which one of us can't remember a simple exorcism chant?" Sam shoots back automatically. He runs the silk through his fingers again and something tugs at his memory a little bit. They feel familiar. "No, seriously man. You got something you need to tell me?"
"They're yours," Dean says easily, "You used to have me put your hair up in pigtails. Got them pulled on the playground a couple of times once. Man, were you pissed about that."
"You're kidding."
Dean shakes his head, shouldering him over to pull out a shirt from the bag that's been designated "slightly dirty, but won't get us thrown out of a diner, so they're still good." He sniffs it, shrugs, and pulls it on.
"Wish I was," he says when his head reappears, "How'd you think I felt, having a little pansy with ribbons in his hair for a brother? And it wasn't like I could pretend to not know you or anything. You were always screamin' for me about something."
Sam can almost feel the silk on the back of his neck. He clears his throat and looks away. "Yeah, well, why'd you keep them then?"
"Didn't," Dean lies. "I found them under the backseat, figured we could use them for bandages if we needed to."
Yeah, right. Like the flimsy, old ribbons wouldn've been good for stopping bloodflow. Sam doesn't say that, though. He sets them on the bed to pull on Dean's shirt and by the time he's got it pulled down enough that most of his stomach is covered (his arms feel like their losing circulation), Dean's got them disappearing into his back pocket.
He wants to ask why his brother's hanging onto old hair ribbons, but before he can get it out, Dean's opening his mouth again.
"You feel like Italian?" Dean asks, like that whole conversation never happened, and Sam knows it's important to him because that right there had been a goldmine of little girl jokes and Dean'd only cracked one or two.
He drops it. For now. "Yeah."
