Secret Santa gift for @makiies
Dec. 23rd, 2017 02:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
candygrammeBeta: by spoonless1
Word Count: ~1,400
Rating: Gen
Teaser: Dean experiences his worst ever dream.
Rowena snarls and snaps her fingers, blood red nails make a crackling sound and there are little sparks that spin away and fade.
“Dormi! Egredimini!” she says, her voice lilting on the Latin words.
Sam shouts, “Dean!” and starts to run, but it’s too late. Dean falls where he stands and lies prone, motionless.
~*~
For Dean, the world shimmers and fades, and he’s suddenly sitting on a bench, while an unknown woman floofs at his face with an oversized brush and yells at him to stop wriggling when he flinches.
All around him is bustling activity. There are wires everywhere. People muttering into headsets rush by in different directions and somewhere in the distance he can hear music. He’s shaking his head, trying to work out what’s happened, when Ryan Seacrest — no kidding! — Ryan Fucking Seacrest shoves a microphone into his face and wants to know if he’s dedicating his performance to anyone in particular.
Part of him is looking around for Gabriel, wondering if he’s to blame for this... this whatever it is, but he’s horrified when his mouth opens without his consent and he starts to tell Seacrest — who he has always believed to be one of the Princes of Hell — that he has nobody since his mother died when he was four, and since his dad died all he has left is his brother Sammy.
What the everloving fuck?
“Dean Winchester?” A small man with a clipboard and a very aggressive beard and manbun is summoning him, gesturing to him imperiously, and Dean finds himself rising to his feet as Seacrest wipes away a tear and puts an encouraging hand on his shoulder.
“Good Luck.”
It’s only at that moment that Dean realizes exactly what he’s wearing.
Oh. My. GOD!
It’s leather. It’s black. So far, so good, but other than that it’s a disaster. For a start, it’s a jumpsuit, and it’s tight to his skin. It’s got honest to god studded shoulders with wicked looking spikes sticking out of the shoulder. It’s got a zip-up front which is unzipped right to his treasure trail, and from the itchy feeling he has in the groinal area he’s pretty sure that it’s even a little below that. Damn it, has someone shaved his pubes? He’ll kill them! He suddenly feels like Samson must have done when Delilah cut his hair. There’s a huge, fancy, silver and black belt slung low around his hips, and at least that’s covering his important little places. He’d hate to flash Seacrest. He really would.
Manbun shepherds him out of the room and into a corridor, wagging his clipboard at him as he delivers rapid fire but incomprehensible instructions at him. Dean wants to snap him like a twig, but when he looks behind him, he can see Seacrest in the doorway to the corridor, gazing at his ass. At that point he loses all ability to think and just goes where he’s told.
Then he’s standing by a curtain, and there are lights so bright that he can’t see anything. He’s terrified, because there is a distant sound that’s growing, surging, suddenly almost deafening, and his horrified mind finally identifies it as applause.
He hears Seacrest, and wonders if there are two of him, or if he can translocate like Cas or something. Seacrest is saying his name. His NAME!
“Give it up for DEAN WINCHESTER!”
And Manbun prods him in the back, so he moves forward, out into the sea of light.
The sound is deafening. There are cheers and whoops and applause, and Dean can’t see the audience, but he wonders who the people think he is. Why they are applauding will forever be a mystery to him, but then, so is the reason for his humiliating presence here amidst the lights.
Then, the music starts.
Dean’s blood runs cold, but worse is to come. Without his volition, he reaches forward and clasps a microphone in both hands, cradling it tenderly as he leans forward to croon.
His voice is high and quavery, and he’s inwardly cringing as he realizes exactly what the song is.
“I'm lying alone with my head on the phone
Thinking of you till it hurts
I know you hurt too but what else can we do
Tormented and torn apart...
With growing horror he recognises that he, Dean Winchester, is actually singing Air Supply. The thought brings tears to his eyes. That single, perfect man tear rolls down his cheek as he delivers the chorus, and the audience is going wild!
As the song comes to an end, mercifully cut short, Dean drops the mike back onto its stand and waits for the noise from the audience to die down. The lights come up to reveal the panel of judges, and everything falls quiet. In the expectant hush, the spotlight falls on the first judge.
It’s Lucifer. Dean’s eyes widen, but he can’t move. Lucifer smirks, and Dean just knows that he’s going to be utterly mean. Dean can’t blame him. He would be if he was sitting there right now. He would trash that performance and rightfully so. So he raises his chin in defiance and prepares to be mercilessly skewered.
“That was appalling,” says Lucifer. “I wonder why your balls never dropped. There has to be some reason for that voice.” He leans forward with the malevolent twinkle in his eye that always means he’s going to say or do something reprehensible. “Here. Let me help you with that.”
Holding out his hand, Lucifer gestures, and all of a sudden there’s a dragging, aching sensation down in his nether regions, and it feels like his jumpsuit is going to split. He can suddenly tell that he isn’t wearing anything under the leather garment, and he’s aware that down below the belt is an increasingly noticeable cameltoe, not to mention rapidly sprouting hair around the V where his suit is open.
The second judge is Crowley. Crowley flashing his devilish smile and applauds. “Pretty good warbling there, Dean. However, I think you’ll do better when your voice breaks.” He gestures at the audience. “I can tell all the prepubescent girls really loved it. I guess that’s because you aren’t any threat to them.”
“Weren’t,” announces Lucifer. “I think his voice is breaking now. He’s finally a man.”
The two of them high five each other, and Crowley turns back to him. “I think I’d like to hear you sing, I’m Too Sexy, next time.”
“If there is a next time,” snarks Lucifer. “I just helped him out with his deficiencies.”
“My turn.” The voice is cultured, and the lights focus their attention to the third judge, who instantly stands up and climbs on the desk to give a couple of pelvic thrusts. Balthazar was wearing a tight, v-necked, leopard print sweater without a shirt on under it, and the tightest pair of pimping purple PVC pants Dean’s ever seen. Dean stood aghast as he watched the angel deliver his review of the performance.
“I liked it,” he announced. “It wrung my withers. It moved me. It gave me feels.” He launched into a rendition of “Feelings, nothing more than feelings,” before Crowley tugged on his ankle and he deflated, slipping back into his chair and looking contrite. “I liked it,” he said again, quietly.
Seacrest stepped forward and started to give the number for people to vote for him, and Dean turned to slink away and get out of his doubly damned and very constricting suit.
~*~
“...Dean... Dean!”
Someone is calling him. Shaking him. He tries his best to respond, but it feels as if he’s swimming up through a well of filthy water to try and gain the surface.
“Dean, please.” It’s Sam’s voice and he’s cradling Dean’s head on his lap for what must be the 111th time. “Wake up.”
Oh, thank Chuck!
He wakes up with a jolt and looks around him. Rowena is noticeable by her absence, and Sam says, “I let her go. She isn’t as important as you.”
Sitting up, Dean shakes his head. “You left her for me?” he growls. “Thank you. I’m going to kill her.”
And although Sam asks him what happened and why he’s so angry, Dean know that he will never, ever tell.
spoonless1Word Count: ~1,400
Rating: Gen
Teaser: Dean experiences his worst ever dream.
Rowena snarls and snaps her fingers, blood red nails make a crackling sound and there are little sparks that spin away and fade.
“Dormi! Egredimini!” she says, her voice lilting on the Latin words.
Sam shouts, “Dean!” and starts to run, but it’s too late. Dean falls where he stands and lies prone, motionless.
~*~
For Dean, the world shimmers and fades, and he’s suddenly sitting on a bench, while an unknown woman floofs at his face with an oversized brush and yells at him to stop wriggling when he flinches.
All around him is bustling activity. There are wires everywhere. People muttering into headsets rush by in different directions and somewhere in the distance he can hear music. He’s shaking his head, trying to work out what’s happened, when Ryan Seacrest — no kidding! — Ryan Fucking Seacrest shoves a microphone into his face and wants to know if he’s dedicating his performance to anyone in particular.
Part of him is looking around for Gabriel, wondering if he’s to blame for this... this whatever it is, but he’s horrified when his mouth opens without his consent and he starts to tell Seacrest — who he has always believed to be one of the Princes of Hell — that he has nobody since his mother died when he was four, and since his dad died all he has left is his brother Sammy.
What the everloving fuck?
“Dean Winchester?” A small man with a clipboard and a very aggressive beard and manbun is summoning him, gesturing to him imperiously, and Dean finds himself rising to his feet as Seacrest wipes away a tear and puts an encouraging hand on his shoulder.
“Good Luck.”
It’s only at that moment that Dean realizes exactly what he’s wearing.
Oh. My. GOD!
It’s leather. It’s black. So far, so good, but other than that it’s a disaster. For a start, it’s a jumpsuit, and it’s tight to his skin. It’s got honest to god studded shoulders with wicked looking spikes sticking out of the shoulder. It’s got a zip-up front which is unzipped right to his treasure trail, and from the itchy feeling he has in the groinal area he’s pretty sure that it’s even a little below that. Damn it, has someone shaved his pubes? He’ll kill them! He suddenly feels like Samson must have done when Delilah cut his hair. There’s a huge, fancy, silver and black belt slung low around his hips, and at least that’s covering his important little places. He’d hate to flash Seacrest. He really would.
Manbun shepherds him out of the room and into a corridor, wagging his clipboard at him as he delivers rapid fire but incomprehensible instructions at him. Dean wants to snap him like a twig, but when he looks behind him, he can see Seacrest in the doorway to the corridor, gazing at his ass. At that point he loses all ability to think and just goes where he’s told.
Then he’s standing by a curtain, and there are lights so bright that he can’t see anything. He’s terrified, because there is a distant sound that’s growing, surging, suddenly almost deafening, and his horrified mind finally identifies it as applause.
He hears Seacrest, and wonders if there are two of him, or if he can translocate like Cas or something. Seacrest is saying his name. His NAME!
“Give it up for DEAN WINCHESTER!”
And Manbun prods him in the back, so he moves forward, out into the sea of light.
The sound is deafening. There are cheers and whoops and applause, and Dean can’t see the audience, but he wonders who the people think he is. Why they are applauding will forever be a mystery to him, but then, so is the reason for his humiliating presence here amidst the lights.
Then, the music starts.
Dean’s blood runs cold, but worse is to come. Without his volition, he reaches forward and clasps a microphone in both hands, cradling it tenderly as he leans forward to croon.
His voice is high and quavery, and he’s inwardly cringing as he realizes exactly what the song is.
“I'm lying alone with my head on the phone
Thinking of you till it hurts
I know you hurt too but what else can we do
Tormented and torn apart...
With growing horror he recognises that he, Dean Winchester, is actually singing Air Supply. The thought brings tears to his eyes. That single, perfect man tear rolls down his cheek as he delivers the chorus, and the audience is going wild!
As the song comes to an end, mercifully cut short, Dean drops the mike back onto its stand and waits for the noise from the audience to die down. The lights come up to reveal the panel of judges, and everything falls quiet. In the expectant hush, the spotlight falls on the first judge.
It’s Lucifer. Dean’s eyes widen, but he can’t move. Lucifer smirks, and Dean just knows that he’s going to be utterly mean. Dean can’t blame him. He would be if he was sitting there right now. He would trash that performance and rightfully so. So he raises his chin in defiance and prepares to be mercilessly skewered.
“That was appalling,” says Lucifer. “I wonder why your balls never dropped. There has to be some reason for that voice.” He leans forward with the malevolent twinkle in his eye that always means he’s going to say or do something reprehensible. “Here. Let me help you with that.”
Holding out his hand, Lucifer gestures, and all of a sudden there’s a dragging, aching sensation down in his nether regions, and it feels like his jumpsuit is going to split. He can suddenly tell that he isn’t wearing anything under the leather garment, and he’s aware that down below the belt is an increasingly noticeable cameltoe, not to mention rapidly sprouting hair around the V where his suit is open.
The second judge is Crowley. Crowley flashing his devilish smile and applauds. “Pretty good warbling there, Dean. However, I think you’ll do better when your voice breaks.” He gestures at the audience. “I can tell all the prepubescent girls really loved it. I guess that’s because you aren’t any threat to them.”
“Weren’t,” announces Lucifer. “I think his voice is breaking now. He’s finally a man.”
The two of them high five each other, and Crowley turns back to him. “I think I’d like to hear you sing, I’m Too Sexy, next time.”
“If there is a next time,” snarks Lucifer. “I just helped him out with his deficiencies.”
“My turn.” The voice is cultured, and the lights focus their attention to the third judge, who instantly stands up and climbs on the desk to give a couple of pelvic thrusts. Balthazar was wearing a tight, v-necked, leopard print sweater without a shirt on under it, and the tightest pair of pimping purple PVC pants Dean’s ever seen. Dean stood aghast as he watched the angel deliver his review of the performance.
“I liked it,” he announced. “It wrung my withers. It moved me. It gave me feels.” He launched into a rendition of “Feelings, nothing more than feelings,” before Crowley tugged on his ankle and he deflated, slipping back into his chair and looking contrite. “I liked it,” he said again, quietly.
Seacrest stepped forward and started to give the number for people to vote for him, and Dean turned to slink away and get out of his doubly damned and very constricting suit.
~*~
“...Dean... Dean!”
Someone is calling him. Shaking him. He tries his best to respond, but it feels as if he’s swimming up through a well of filthy water to try and gain the surface.
“Dean, please.” It’s Sam’s voice and he’s cradling Dean’s head on his lap for what must be the 111th time. “Wake up.”
Oh, thank Chuck!
He wakes up with a jolt and looks around him. Rowena is noticeable by her absence, and Sam says, “I let her go. She isn’t as important as you.”
Sitting up, Dean shakes his head. “You left her for me?” he growls. “Thank you. I’m going to kill her.”
And although Sam asks him what happened and why he’s so angry, Dean know that he will never, ever tell.
no subject
Date: 2017-12-26 03:35 am (UTC)*gigglesnort*
no subject
Date: 2017-12-26 03:12 pm (UTC)I do write a lot of ridiculous stuff, you know. It's my talent!
no subject
Date: 2017-12-26 10:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-12-29 05:02 am (UTC)However, in the meantime, please I can haz the last part of 'The World Where Yesternight You Died.'
We needs it, we does!
no subject
Date: 2017-12-29 01:11 pm (UTC)Nice to know people still want to read it! I feel so guilty for how long it's taking, omg.