Okay– you all asked for it. Angst & veal and knitting, the fanfiction that only a select group of six people on the planet could ever appreciate–and I wrote it.
It could be worse. It could be slash.
Anyway, I should be able to post this consecutively, and then I’ll go back to Rampant–I’ve been working on it too, but, you know… sometimes it’s fun just to play!
This is me, playing.
Supernatural Fanfiction: Attack of the Suburban Sockgnomes
Part 1: Swamp Things & Suburbs
They managed to kill the damned witches–and had even managed to salt the bodies and burn them down in the tiny suburban home that had housed the coven under the guise of single girl’s bunko night. (Dean had seen through that ruse in a hot minute. “Single girls don’t play bunko on a Friday, Sammy–not when they’re hot.”) It didn’t matter–anyway you sliced it, the town was done coming up short dogs, cats, and the occasional unruly toddler.
But they hadn’t counted on the hex bags placed in five corners of the Impala.
They had just cleared the outskirts of Rio Linda when the car started filling up with fetid, corpse-reeking swampwater, replete with the rotting charred remains of the bitches they’d just offed.
Dean had managed to keep the car from skidding in a ditch as Sam rifled the glove box (one), checked the map slats (two and three), dug under the back seat (four) and behind his brother’s ass (five).
By that time, the water was up to their waists, Dean had pulled off on a cattle road, and they’d had to open the doors, skate the slime out, and then rummage through the para-ghost-military gear in the trunk to find the salt, the accelerant and a lighter that wasn’t sopping wet.
The stench was truly hideous, and Dean tried not to whimper as he looked at the car’s upholstery… goddammit all, he’d just oiled the damned leather.
“I HATE fucking witches!” he shouted to the heavens, and Sam had to agree with him–although Sam’s laptop wasn’t damaged in the least. It had been in the back.
It didn’t matter. They both stank to high heaven, and their duffles had been in the back seat of the Impala, not the trunk. Everything they owned was swimming in eau de gag-a-maggot, and it was the middle of the night. It wouldn’t matter–they’d need to clean up to even get INTO a Wal-Mart–and besides that. The car came first.
They found a do-it-yourself carwash, and neither of them batted an eyelash as Dean submitted the clothes they were wearing to the powerspray–even though it felt like their skin was being stripped from their bones. The upholstery and the rugs were going to need to be gone over several times–and the stench might still linger slightly when they hit the hot and humids (and what part of middle America WASN’T hot and humid in the summer, Sam wanted to know? Dean’s answer of “Hell wasn’t, it was hot and dry!” shut him up right quick.)
All that remained to do was to hit the laundromat–hopefully at darkthirthy fucking a.m., they could strip down to their skivvies and even use the big machine to wash their duffels while they were at it.
“Do we have enough quarters Dean?” Sam asked, and for the first time since the stench had saturated his brother’s baby, Sam saw his brother’s dimples.
“As long as cheap motels have magic fingers, Sammy, I’m gonna have a roll of quarters.”
Sam rolled his eyes, and together they cruised what used to be a thin strip of military driven businesses before the air force base had moved. They saw several out-of-business X-rated movie theaters and some strip clubs, but they had to go two suburbs over to get to the only all night laundromat for what was apparently miles.
It was almost two a.m. on a Saturday morning when they found it–Citrus Heights Laundro-matic, but find it they did. The late-spring night was warm so they left the doors open, hoping the interior might dry out a little more before it got bright and things started to steam.
Together, they started sorting their laundry– Dean’s pile and Sam’s pile, everything dark, even their cotton underwear– and Dean looked up suddenly.
“Djya hear that?” he asked, and Sam shrugged.
“I heard the drier. That should concern us.”
Dean blinked. “Why–are those things dangerous?”
Sam shook his head and shoved his jeans into one washer and his T-shirts into another. “No, but I’m going to strip down to my underwear and someone might come back for that shit.”
Dean made a face. “Quite frankly, Sammy, my underwear’s starting to chafe like a sonovabitch.” He started stripping so he could get his jeans in the jeans load and his shirts in the shirts load. “I was planning on going commando.”
Sam grimaced. “Dean–this is a nice little suburb–being in my underwear is one thing but…” he flushed. Being naked was quite another. He didn’t even need to say it. He started stripping on his own and shoving his sopping clothes into the appropriate washer, when he heard some rifling and a grunt.
“Hereyago, Sammy–just what we need.”
A pair of man’s boxers hit Sam in the face, and he wrinkled his nose.
“Spongebob? You got me Spongebob Squarepants underwear? Where did you get these? And what in the HELL are you wearing?”
Dean grinned, his fingers adjusting a pink lace thong. It wasn’t big enough.
“ewwww… Dean– we’re wearing someone else’s UNDERWEAR! And how come I got Spongebob!”
“It’s from the lost and found, Sammy–which means it’s been lost, washed, dried, and sanitized. And I was gonna give you the girl’s thong, but you’ve got to have some kink to carry these babies off.”
“I’ve got kink!” Sam protested–right before he realized what he was saying and flushed.
“See what I mean?” Dean waggled his eyebrows. “Now put those on and get rid of your boxers, Sammy–I don’t wanna be smelling dead witch on my skin for the next ten years, right?”
“I’m so over following your orders,” Sam grumbled–but he put the boxers on, and watched as his brother gave him an I-dare-ya-to-follow-me grin, then hopped up on the washer holding his jeans.
“C’mon, Sammy–I mean, this IS my magic fingers money, right?”
Sam grunted and walked over to the bank of cheap plastic chairs. He sat down and winced when the bare skin of his thighs made contact with the plastic, and then sighed and opened the laptop. “I’d rather surf the net for a job.”
Dean shook his head and wiggled his ass. “Just don’t surf for porn in those things, Sammy–like you said, you don’t want to get busted in a laundromat.”
“You are SUCH a perv…” Sam muttered, and at that moment, his worst nightmare walked through the door.
They looked innocent enough–a mother and daughter, plump, sturdy, and, in the daughter’s case, as pretty as fierce cat–both of them with curling red hair. Mom’s might have been dyed–but it was close enough to the girl’s color to have been hers at one point.
They walked through the door preoccupied with a sharp banter that might have been confused with fighting if they hadn’t been smiling at each other the whole time.
“You don’t have to come with me,” muttered mom. “No one’s holding a gun to your head.”
“Well, it was my fault,” the girl grudgingly admitted. “You told me…”
“And told you and told you!”
“Fine. I broke the washer. We need clothes. I might as well come with you, okay?”
“Fine! Just don’t yell at me when you sleep away your Saturday because you forgot to use a pillowcase when you felt something!”
“I mean how many times have I told you that the fibers will just CLOG the pipes…”
“But NOOOOO… you think because it’s a stuffed animal it will be o…”
Mom’s eyes took in the two mortified young men. Dean had hopped off the bank of washers and was hiding behind them, and Sam was backing away to join him, his laptop held in front of his very tight Spongebob boxers.
“What sweetheart,” Mom said blankly.
“There’s two naked perverts in the the washndry.”
“We’re not naked!” Dean squeaked, and Mom’s eyebrows hit her hairline, and she gave him a give-me-a-break head-bob.
“We’ve got underwear on,” Sam muttered, and looked behind Dean, whose butt-floss underwear looked pretty much non-existent. “Sort of.”
“Stop looking at that, Princess,” Dean muttered. “We’re trying to make a good impression.”
“See honey,” Mom said dryly, “If they were naked, THEN they’d be perverts.”