britomart_is (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
britomart_is) wrote2011-05-05 11:10 am
britomart_is) wrote2011-05-05 11:10 am
The time, it is stamped.
Give me one of my own stories, and a timestamp sometime in the future after the end of the story, or sometime in the past before the story started, and I'll write you at least a hundred however many words of what happened then, whether it's five minutes before the story started or ten years in the future.
For reference, stuff I've written.
Don't feel obligated to request something just to feed my ego, it doesn't need the help (the analogy that just popped into my head is that my ego is like one of those squirrels in parks who are used to handouts of human food so they get really aggressive and beat you up and steal your lunch money/your lunch). But I'm working on multiple larger projects and would love to have some prompts I can whip out when I need a (productive) break, so if you want to take advantage of my procrastination, fire away!
For reference, stuff I've written.
Don't feel obligated to request something just to feed my ego, it doesn't need the help (the analogy that just popped into my head is that my ego is like one of those squirrels in parks who are used to handouts of human food so they get really aggressive and beat you up and steal your lunch money/your lunch). But I'm working on multiple larger projects and would love to have some prompts I can whip out when I need a (productive) break, so if you want to take advantage of my procrastination, fire away!
1/2
They've been living in Elk Plain for long enough to have accumulated junk in the garage and developed opinions on the town council, but it doesn't occur to them to buy into this Halloween nonsense till they're standing in the grocery aisle and Dean is clutching a two-pound bag of mini Reese's cups to his chest. He looks at Sam with great urgency.
"Fine," Sam says. "But if we get them, we're leaving the porch light on for trick-or-treaters. You can have the leftovers." He takes them and puts them in the cart. He stares at them thoughtfully. "They're all so small."
And that's how, five years in, the Plant-Page household abruptly becomes extremely popular with the kindergarten set.
Sam's not even sure how word is spreading so fast, do kids that young have cell phones? Or just a psychic connection linked specifically to high fructose corn syrup? But hordes of them -- how are there even this many kids in this town? -- pile onto the doorstep, pillowcases and hollow plastic pumpkins outstretched in anticipation of the full-size candy bars Sam and Dean are giving out. Dean's been sulking for the last half hour because it doesn't look like there'll be any left over for him.
Since they never left the light on before, always stayed in with popcorn and beer and Jason Takes Manhattan flickering in the dark living room while they got distracted and groped each other, they had been previously unaware of the trends in Halloween costumes these last few years.
Sam swings open the door, staring with concern into the big metal bowl with its diminishing number of Snickers. He might need to send Dean out for more.
"TRICK OR TREAT!" multiple voices chorus.
Smiling, Sam looks up, and drops the candy bowl with a loud clang. "Gah!"
Dean's there in an instant. "What--gah!"
Six four-foot-tall kids shift from foot to foot, clutching their candy buckets, adjusting their Sam and Dean Winchester masks. Sam notices with dismay that four of the six are wearing Dean and that Sam's hair is being horribly, horribly misrepresented. The plaid shirts are right on the money, though. "Nice costumes, guys." He picks the bowl up, grabs a handful of candy and starts distributing. Sure, he could let them reach in and take for themselves, but four of these kids are dressed up as Dean Winchester and he's pretty sure that not only would all the candy be gone within seconds, but possibly also Sam and Dean's wallets and electronic equipment.
Dean leans in the door frame, staring in bemusement. "Is that a ... salt shaker?"
The Sam with the salt shaker clutches it defensively. "We aren't allowed to have guns."
The tallest of the kids, a Dean, puffs up his chest. "The Winchesters were allowed to have guns when they were our age. When they were kids, they had rocket launchers."
Behind Sam, it sounds like Dean's trying not to choke to death.
Sam focuses on a Dean in a red flannel. "Luke, right? Your mom teaches math?"
The kids talk over each other introducing themselves, but the last one, Josh, the tallest and probably oldest, pushes his Dean mask up on his head and narrows his eyes. "What did you say your names were?"
Sam meets Dean's eyes. Dean raises an eyebrow. The kid looks old enough that he probably remembers more than the others. Old enough that to him, the Winchesters are memory, not legend. "Sam Page." Sam adjusts his glasses unnecessarily.
"Dean Plant." Dean runs a nervous hand over graying hair.
"Right," the kid says. His eyes widen. "I-- I-- I ... thanks for the candy." He runs down the stairs and into the street. The gaggle of mini Winchesters follows.
2/2
The next morning Sam goes out to get the newspaper and Josh is sitting on their curb. Sam freezes, then cuts the kid a quick wave. He waves back, hand fluttering like a hummingbird.
Sam goes back inside with the newspaper and kisses the back of Dean's neck. Dean grunts and sips his coffee. "We've got a new lawn ornament," Sam says.
Dean looks at him quizzically.
"If it gives you a hint, he's wearing a T-shirt with the car on it."
"Aw, hell," Dean says. "Just the one kid?"
"Yeah," Sam says. "We better say something. Make sure he doesn't go run his mouth off on Facebook."
Dean gives Sam a pained look that, in defense of Sam's backbone, only wins him over about sixty percent of the time. "You're better with kids," he says, which is total bullshit, but Dean keeps his hand warm on Sam's knee all through breakfast and Sam admits defeat.
It's been a cold autumn and the kid doesn't have a coat, so Sam makes hot chocolate. He hides a smile when Dean wordlessly drops in a handful of the mini-marshmallows that he hoards in the cupboard and won't share with Sam.
The kid's eyes get progressively wider as Sam crosses the lawn. Sam waits for Josh's hands to stop shaking before he passes him the mug. Sam likes that mug. Sam lowers himself to the curb, too tall with nowhere for his knees to go. He nods hello.
"I have all of your comic books," the kid says in a sudden torrent of words.
"Well," Sam says, "they're not really ours."
Josh looks stricken. "Right, no, of course not." He looks down at his cocoa.
Sam doesn't really know what to do with a nervous, starstruck kid. "The marshmallows are from Dean," he says, and immediately feels stupid. The marshmallows are from Dean, really?
It's worth it for how the kid's face lights up. "Dean's my favorite," he says, and a second later a look of horror crosses his face. "But I mean, you're my brother's favorite," he backpedals. He seems to run out of nervous energy and stares at Sam. "You are so cool."
Sam wishes Dean could be here for this. He'd bitch about it later, but he'd fucking eat it up with a spoon. The last thing either of them had expected, their whole lives, was to ever be thanked for what they did, what they went through. It seems to hit Dean particularly hard, some soft place in him that lost its brittle protective shell right around the time the Winchester brothers were posthumously awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor and people started naming kids after them.
Sam leans in conspiratorially. "Between you and me?" He smiles. "Dean's my favorite, too." He points to the mug. "You done?"
The kid swears up, down and sideways that he won't tell any of his friends who's really living here, but Sam knows the temptation must be almost unbearable. He needs to break out the heavy artillery.
Sam turns back when he's halfway across the lawn, empty mugs in hand. "You know, Josh, it just occurred to me," he says, as if in afterthought, "if you ever want to make a little pocket money, we've got one hell of a dirty car sitting in that garage." He gestures with a mug. "Dean would really appreciate it. It'd be a big favor."
Josh's eyes are locked on the garage and he looks like he's going to faint dead away right there next to their mailbox. Yup, that oughta do it. Sam's not above a little bribery to make sure their peaceful, unbothered life stays that way.
Sam rinses the mugs in the sink. He can hear a laugh track filtering in from the living room. Sam grabs the rest of the mini marshmallows and goes to make out with a national hero on the couch.
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HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAH OMG HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH OH BRITOMART I LOVE YOU.
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THERE ARE NO WORDS. ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥
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And that's how, five years in, the Plant-Page household abruptly becomes extremely popular with the kindergarten set."
Adorable! (and also- been there, and Dean and Sam are both right about the psychic connection and chance of leftovers)
And then they're busted! Gah!
Dean would love it, yes..
"Between you and me?" He smiles. "Dean's my favorite, too."
oh, Sam.
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Heee! What an \o/ awesome \o/ feel-good ficlet!
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