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Alright, alright. So maybe I'll write one for each.
I'll post scribbles in![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
angstslashhope, then polish them up and post them all together when they're done in hopeful_fiction.
so far we have: Noir Dean.
Today we have Dean and Sam IN OUTER SPACE!
“I wonder if I should tell them,” Dean says, “that because of the unfreezing process, I have no inner monologue.”
“It was kinda funny the first time, Dean,” Sam says, monotone, not even looking up from where he’s fiddling with the dials on the wrist-console of his suit. “Four hundredth? Not so much.”
“Aw c’mon,” Dean says, “it is just a little. We gotta laugh, after all.”
Sam’s mouth twists a bit and he gives a slight dismissive shake of his head, as if discouraging himself from answering. His face is lit kinda ethereal blue from the lamps inside the helmet, which is a weird enough image to burn into Dean’s retinas alone, without the steady background of his instincts screaming target.
Sam lifts a heavily gloved hand and a charger makes rapid a beeline toward it, steady and straight where most everything else just kind of… hovers.
“Whoa,” Dean says, and his voice is loud inside his own helmet but knows it’s probably a measure more distant, tinny, in the speakers set at the ear of Sam’s. “You, uh. Could you do that before?”
Sam shrugs, slow and solid that sends his body rocking a little. “Kind of. I think it’s the zero-grav. It’s like…” He frowns a little, locking the charger into the surger. Dean can’t even hear the click. “I don’t have to coerce it anymore, force anything into moving. I just have to kind of… suggest it.”
“You suggested that the ammo just float on over to you.”
“Yeah, I suggested to the ammo.”
“Right,” Dean says. “Okay.”
Sam hands him another charge, Dean slots it into his own weapon.
“Dean,” Sam says, and his voice has that soft edge to it that’s still a little unfamiliar to Dean, and for which Dean thinks he can blame those four years (four fucking years, dammit, and he chokes back a bitter laugh at that), when Sammy went from snarky adolescent to incomprehensible man, and Dean’s missed out something terribly important in there. “It’ll be okay.”
Sam’s looking at him and Dean looks away, mouth twisting into a half-snarl before turning back. Supposedly he hasn’t seen Sam’s face for a few centuries, now. The thought still makes him feel kinda sick. He thinks maybe he should have missed Sam more, but it’s like nothing’s changed at all. Well, it hasn’t, really. And it has. “So now you’re suggesting yourself into my head?”
“No, you just come on into mine. Seriously, could you broadcast any louder?”
Dean just grits his teeth, re-checks the surger again. They shouldn’t be shooting the breeze anyway; if they were going by anything the fucking spooks had said, it’d be on them soon enough.
“Seriously, dude,” he finds himself saying, and he knows he’s said this at least four hundred times. “Aliens? We never dealt with this shit. What the hell were they expecting?”
Sam gives a soft laugh. “I don’t know, Agent Mulder,” he says, all wry humour.
“You do realise that makes you Scully,” Dean quirks his mouth and an eyebrow.
“No,” Sam says, without pausing a beat. “Samantha.” And the perspex panel on Dean’s helmet fogs up with his unexpected laughter.
There’s a groan of strained metal from somewhere outside the chamber they’re sealed in; impossible to tell how far away with the solid interconnectedness of the ship, and just thinking about it brings suddenly pressing back in on Dean’s awareness about a billion metric fuckloads of empty space surrounding the tin can they’re in. “This is so fucked,” he grits, manoevering around to put his back to the wall beside Sam.
For a moment he thinks I wish Dad were here, but god, that memory’s too fucking fresh still; Sammy’s face too fucking pale and still behind the thick glass, Dad’s voice rough but steady and shooting straight to four-year-old Dean’s memories. ”I just want to keep you boys safe. It’s all I ever wanted. Trust me, Dean. Take care of your brother.”
Dad having to pry Dean’s fingers from his shirtsleeve with a freaking crowbar before helping him into the cryo unit.
Dean can’t see properly, doesn’t realise it’s because his too-rapid breath’s fogging up the helmet until he feels the distant touch of Sam’s hand on his forearm through layers of suit. Sam’s looking right at him, still stupid hair, still serious, still just the same. “It’s okay, Dean,” he says in that tone that tells Dean he’s going to be hearing about this for a long time afterwards. “It’s just another monster.”
I'll post scribbles in
angstslashhope, then polish them up and post them all together when they're done in hopeful_fiction.so far we have: Noir Dean.
Today we have Dean and Sam IN OUTER SPACE!
“I wonder if I should tell them,” Dean says, “that because of the unfreezing process, I have no inner monologue.”“It was kinda funny the first time, Dean,” Sam says, monotone, not even looking up from where he’s fiddling with the dials on the wrist-console of his suit. “Four hundredth? Not so much.”
“Aw c’mon,” Dean says, “it is just a little. We gotta laugh, after all.”
Sam’s mouth twists a bit and he gives a slight dismissive shake of his head, as if discouraging himself from answering. His face is lit kinda ethereal blue from the lamps inside the helmet, which is a weird enough image to burn into Dean’s retinas alone, without the steady background of his instincts screaming target.
Sam lifts a heavily gloved hand and a charger makes rapid a beeline toward it, steady and straight where most everything else just kind of… hovers.
“Whoa,” Dean says, and his voice is loud inside his own helmet but knows it’s probably a measure more distant, tinny, in the speakers set at the ear of Sam’s. “You, uh. Could you do that before?”
Sam shrugs, slow and solid that sends his body rocking a little. “Kind of. I think it’s the zero-grav. It’s like…” He frowns a little, locking the charger into the surger. Dean can’t even hear the click. “I don’t have to coerce it anymore, force anything into moving. I just have to kind of… suggest it.”
“You suggested that the ammo just float on over to you.”
“Yeah, I suggested to the ammo.”
“Right,” Dean says. “Okay.”
Sam hands him another charge, Dean slots it into his own weapon.
“Dean,” Sam says, and his voice has that soft edge to it that’s still a little unfamiliar to Dean, and for which Dean thinks he can blame those four years (four fucking years, dammit, and he chokes back a bitter laugh at that), when Sammy went from snarky adolescent to incomprehensible man, and Dean’s missed out something terribly important in there. “It’ll be okay.”
Sam’s looking at him and Dean looks away, mouth twisting into a half-snarl before turning back. Supposedly he hasn’t seen Sam’s face for a few centuries, now. The thought still makes him feel kinda sick. He thinks maybe he should have missed Sam more, but it’s like nothing’s changed at all. Well, it hasn’t, really. And it has. “So now you’re suggesting yourself into my head?”
“No, you just come on into mine. Seriously, could you broadcast any louder?”
Dean just grits his teeth, re-checks the surger again. They shouldn’t be shooting the breeze anyway; if they were going by anything the fucking spooks had said, it’d be on them soon enough.
“Seriously, dude,” he finds himself saying, and he knows he’s said this at least four hundred times. “Aliens? We never dealt with this shit. What the hell were they expecting?”
Sam gives a soft laugh. “I don’t know, Agent Mulder,” he says, all wry humour.
“You do realise that makes you Scully,” Dean quirks his mouth and an eyebrow.
“No,” Sam says, without pausing a beat. “Samantha.” And the perspex panel on Dean’s helmet fogs up with his unexpected laughter.
There’s a groan of strained metal from somewhere outside the chamber they’re sealed in; impossible to tell how far away with the solid interconnectedness of the ship, and just thinking about it brings suddenly pressing back in on Dean’s awareness about a billion metric fuckloads of empty space surrounding the tin can they’re in. “This is so fucked,” he grits, manoevering around to put his back to the wall beside Sam.
For a moment he thinks I wish Dad were here, but god, that memory’s too fucking fresh still; Sammy’s face too fucking pale and still behind the thick glass, Dad’s voice rough but steady and shooting straight to four-year-old Dean’s memories. ”I just want to keep you boys safe. It’s all I ever wanted. Trust me, Dean. Take care of your brother.”
Dad having to pry Dean’s fingers from his shirtsleeve with a freaking crowbar before helping him into the cryo unit.
Dean can’t see properly, doesn’t realise it’s because his too-rapid breath’s fogging up the helmet until he feels the distant touch of Sam’s hand on his forearm through layers of suit. Sam’s looking right at him, still stupid hair, still serious, still just the same. “It’s okay, Dean,” he says in that tone that tells Dean he’s going to be hearing about this for a long time afterwards. “It’s just another monster.”
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FOR THE WIN.
<3
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I am fond of Noir Dean myself. It's tempting me to write more, especially with all of noir's incest and sex and whatnot.
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I love this absurd little fic madly. No inner monologue, suggesting to the charger, X-files jokes, Papa W. You rock my socks! *is gleeful*
Thanks for sharing! I'm camped out waiting for the pink pajama's story. *g*
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...pink pajamas story?
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I might do a story for that one, thus far i'm just focusing on the role-playing ones :D