Crowley decided he needed to work on the spare tire he'd been developing. Sighing, he muttered imprecations about discipline.
Dressed in sweats, rather than his suit, he spread a mat on the floor.
"Sit ups - that's what I need," he mumbled as he stretched himself out.
As he began to sit up, Growley jumped onto his stomach and nipped his nose. Meanwhile Prowley, who had looked on, red eyes glowing, fierce grin on his slavering jaws, pounced on his toes and began to gnaw, leaving him with soggy socks.
"Oh, for badness' sake," grumbled Crowley. "I’ll save my exercise for jumping to conclusions. Besides," he patted his stomach, "There's more of me to love..."
Not everybody knows that when Sam was young he used to bite his fingernails down to the quick. John got very impatient with him, and finally sent him to Missouri Mosely to learn meditation.
After around six weeks, Dean noticed that Sam’s fingernails were now nicely manicured, and that there were no bleeding cuticles. He commented that Sam’s hands looked like they were healing.
“That yoga stuff Missouri’s teaching you seems to be doing the trick,” he murmured. “You’ve stopped biting your nails.”
Sam grinned. “Well, not exactly. It’s just that with the yoga stuff she’s been showing me, I can now reach my toenails instead.”
Characters: Sam and Dean Winchester
Word Count: 100
Disclaimer: Don't own them!
Sam slumped in the Impala’s seat as Dean snarfed down a burger beside him.
"Dude," he sighed, looking miserably at his paper-wrapped taco; "I wish we could go somewhere nice for a proper meal; you know, with knives and forks and stuff."
Dean shrugged, cheeks bulging hamster-style. "mmmpphhummff?"
"Imagine, tables with tablecloths…"
Dean's straw emptied his cup with a hollow slurp.
"…and fabric napkins…”
A spectacular burp interrupted his flow.
"Woah;" Dean grinned, picking his tooth, "that sure tasted better going down; now, what were you sayin’?"
Sam shook his head.
"Never mind, I just remembered why we don't go anywhere nice".
Characters: Sam and Dean Winchester
Word Count: 100
Disclaimer: Don't own them.
The two rugaru ladies hungrily eyed their tightly bound lunch, enthusiastically discussing the squirming feast.
"Shall we have a breast fillet off this one? There's plenty to spare." Sam scowled at her wandering hand; "nice lean rump too." He squeaked in indignation as it wandered a bit too far.
Her companion nodded in agreement; "this one’s got a good lean brisket though;" she licked her lips, ignoring the outraged yelp and tirade of obscenities as she squeezed Dean's side, "but, I think I might start with a nice juicy steak off the flank!"
“Sam,” Dean snorted furiously; “after today, I’m turning vegetarian!"
Dean vigorously scrubbed the pot in the sink, cursing a little as the hot water splashed up and hit him on the upper arm. He then felt something horrifyingly slimy on the bottom as he worked. He really hoped that was a stray noodle. It felt gross.
He felt someone watching him, and whirled around, ready to throw the sponge, only to see Sam grinning at him. He pouted, but Sam stood firm.
“No way, Dean,” Sam said smugly. “You lost the race, fair and square. Don't forget to do the counters next. I want them to sparkle.”
(because I just spent an hour doing the same thing to my own kitchen)
Sam carefully gauged the rope being swung by two determined young girls. Tink, it hit the ground. Back up and around. Tink, hit again. Up and around. All the while, the girls chanted something cute about finding a man. Sam did his best not to read into it too much.
The time was close. Closer.
Sam leapt to the middle of the swinging rope and laughed in triumph when he realized that he'd finally started jumping it properly. He was glad, since he'd never really gotten to do this stuff as a kid.
Fifth time really was the charm.
"Come on, Bobby, we're going to go spar." Dean was tying up his running shoes, and Sam, clad in his wifebeater and sweats was already stretching,
"Enjoy, boys. I'll wait right here for ya." Bobby rolled his eyes, muttering something about 'idjits who thought he was gonna go out and get sweaty.'
"You'll look and feel better," said Dean, holding out a hand to help him out of his seat, which Bobby ignored completely.
"Son, I'll tell ya, every time I start thinking too much about how I look, I just find a Happy Hour and by the time I leave, I look and feel just fine."
TITLE: Fun With Automatic Doors
CHARACTER: Dean and Charlie
SPOILERS: 9.4, vaguely
AUTHOR'S NOTE: If you've never done this, I highly recommend it! XD
Before they could properly enjoy movie night, snacks were required. Dean headed out to the nearest town, Charlie in tow.
Dean was distracted by running through the shopping list in his head. His lips twitched into a small smile as they approached the automatic door. He lifted his hand, first two fingers extended, and gestured to one side perfectly timed to the opening door. There was a gasp behind him.
Crap! He’d forgotten Charlie was even there!
“I didn’t think anyone else did that!” she declared.
“Did what?” He feigned ignorance.
“Gotcha! Never mind.” Charlie grinned at him and winked.
Dean was the only person who could get him into these situations.
Sam sighed as Dean flirted with the instructor. To her credit, the instructor only smiled back politely, not showing any other interest, before inspecting the other people (Sam supposed it would be more accurate to say women) and nodding with approval. She clapped her hands. “Okay, people, don't forget your shoes!”
Heading to her desk, she pulled out two sets of heels and handed a pair each to Sam and Dean. “Sorry, but we don't normally carry men's sizes in our pole-dancing class. Hope these work!”
Pull from the holster, steady, aim. Exhale and put the finger on the trigger. Inhale and hold it. These motions were repeated faster and faster until the time between the gun being holstered and the gun being ready to fire was almost too fast to see.
The woman sighed with satisfaction, but wanted to train more, so she continued, including aiming the gun at moving targets and ones she could barely see. Over and over she did this until she felt confident about all comers.
Ellen nodded in satisfaction. Any idiot who wanted to date Jo had another thing coming.
“Shit.” Shovel, lift, toss out. “Shit.” More shoveling. “Shit!”
“Shut up, Dean,” Sam panted, shoveling more snow out of the way. “You”--shovel, gasp for air--”aren't helping!”
“But--the weather!” Dean gasped in air, and promptly winced. “It's not supposed to do this here!”
“I fucking know!” Sam snapped. “It doesn't change the fact that it is happening, so save your energy and just shovel!”
“Fine,” Dean snarled, throwing himself into shoveling the snow out from the Impala with renewed fury. “Screw you, fucking Pacific Northwest snow!”
Dean braced his foot against the boulder, gripping the hilt of the sword. He’d tried this once before — but hey, different day, different sword.
He gave a mighty pull and the sword easily slipped free with a quiet metallic “shing!”
Dean’s jaw dropped. The sword in his hand was nicely balanced and glinted as he made a few cuts through the air.
Dean thrust to the right, to the left, parried, twirled, and did a deep lunge.
Just then Sam walked in. “What are you doing?”
“I, uh. I pulled it from the stone.”
“This isn’t Camelot, Dean,” Sam said.
“It’s a haunted theme restaurant,” Sam said.
Dean made several smaller swishes. The blade still looked fine and felt great.
“I bet this thing would take an edge,” he muttered.
“It’s only a model!” Sam scoffed.
“Behind you!” Dean yelled, dispelling the spirit with a mighty slash of the blade.
The spirit had been wearing a dress they recognized from a mannequin near the entrance. Dean banished it several more times with the sword before the mannequin and the dress went up in flames.
“I’m totally keeping this,” Dean said, daring Sam to scoff.
“Dude, you earned it,” Sam said.
TITLE: A Daunting Task
CHARACTER: John and Weechesters
WARNINGS: Bodily functions
John stared with increasing horror at the source of a stench that could only be described as pure evil.
Little Sammy wailed, and John couldn’t blame him--he wouldn’t want to be stuck sitting in that either! He mentally braced himself but hesitated a moment.
“You want me to do it?” Dean asked innocently.
“No, son,” John denied determinedly, “a real man fights his own battles. You have those wipes ready?”
With Dean manning the wipe box, John was free to keep Sam’s tiny feet out of the mess.
John took the dirty diaper to the dumpster outside.
TITLE: Wait For It
CHARACTER: Sam and Dean
The haunted cabin was in a spot inaccessible by car, and recent snows meant that the best option for traveling there was by ski or snowshoe. Sam and Dean agreed that cross-country skis seemed like the faster option.
“Can you believe this is a sport?” Dean asked a few miles into the journey. “I don’t see what the big deal is about this. I’m not even getting tired at all!”
“Trust me,” Sam insisted, “you’ll feel it later.”
The next morning, both were in serious pain.
“Told you so, Dean.”
“If I could move, I’d hit you for that.”