I love the "Five Things" style of fic-writing, so it seems fitting that my first Supernatural story is in that format. Anyway, most of the following were inspired by memories of travel with my little sister--i.e., "the batteries in my CD player are dead, my Gameboy's on the fritz, it's too dark to read, and we still have four hours until we hit Georgia." Oh, and the mad lib in section four? I totally just plugged in some random Supernatural-related words and that churned out on some site. It was too perfect. Hope you enjoy!
Five Car Games to Pass the Time
A Because-You-Know-They'd-Have-to-Do-Something-Over-Those-Thousands-of-Miles-or-They'd-Kill-Each-Other Story
"God, what was that?" Sam exclaimed, wrinkling his nose in disgust as he glanced back out the Impala's rear window.
Dean's eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror. "I'd say 'possum," he said, regarding the decomposing pile of carnage he'd just straddled between the car's wheels. He reached up and made a mark on a sheet of cardstock resting on the dashboard.
"An opossum?" Sam echoed excitedly, scrounging through some papers on the seat next to him before coming up with his own piece of cardstock. He studied it for a moment before beaming. "Bingo!"
"What? No way!" Dean cried, snatching the sheet from his brother. "Deer—check. Black snake—oh, that's good, check. Cat—check. Squirrel—check. And 'possum for the diagonal win...Damn! I only had dog or armadillo to go, too!"
The younger man plucked his bingo sheet from between Dean's fingers and smirked for a moment. Silence reigned for a few miles before he said quietly, "You don't think Roadkill Bingo's a little...erm...morbid, do you?"
Dean barked out a laugh. "Come on, dude. Morbid's practically your middle name!"
Eyebrow arched, Sam bit, "My middle name? And what's yours, then? Danger?"
"Damn straight!" his brother grinned, and Sam thought he could see a wink behind Dean's dark shades. "Now break out some new cards; I think I see the remains of a raccoon up there!"
("first letter of word only" rule in place)
Sam's grasp on the steering wheel tightened. After a twenty-mile stretch of nothingness, they were about to pass though a town. He felt Dean come to life next to him and noticed his brother was leaning forward in the seat, eyes squinted.
"Q, q, q, q, q, q, q..." the blonde man chanted under his breath. Sam felt a surge of hostility rise within himself; he too was on "Q." This was going to turn into a bloodbath.
Billboards began to flash by, and Sam spared as much time as he could to look at them. Nothing yet, nothing yet...
"Q, q, q, q, q, q, q..." Dean continued murmuring, eyes scanning each sign as they passed, jaw jutting out in concentration.
Now banners on buildings began to present themselves as the Impala growled into the city limits. Sam divided his time between looking at the road and speed-reading everything he could.
"Q, q, q, q, q, q, q..." came the mantra from beside him, and Sam couldn't take it anymore. It was too distracting...
"Dean!" he roared. "Would you just shut—" he was cut short by the appearance of a blue billboard rising above the horizon.
They both saw it at the same time, but Dean had always had the quicker tongue. "Q, Quality!" the older man screeched, finger pointing maniacally at the "Quality Inn" sign now whizzing past.
Grinning like mad, Dean began to turn his head from side to side, absorbing all of the letters around him. "R, Road. S, Speedway. T, Taco," he sing-songed.
Sam ground his teeth and began to mutter, "Q, q, q, q, q, q, q..."
Hunter's Pop Trivia
Sam flipped to a new page in the journal and shot, "Werewolves."
"Easy! Silver bullet to the heart," Dean responded, thumping a palm against the steering wheel for emphasis.
"Vampires," the dark-haired man prompted.
"Decapitation," was the reply and Dean drew a finger across his throat, adding a "skwick!" sound effect. "Although you can poison 'em with the blood of a dead man for a while."
"Malevolent spirits, general kind?" Sam asked, thumbing his way to that section of the journal.
Dean bobbed his head. "Salt and iron will repel them, but you have to burn the remains to really get rid of the bastards."
There was a slight pause. "Remove them from their particular body of water if possible to weaken them. Heat works well for destroying the beastie itself, and sunlight is downright nasty to them."
Sam cleared his throat. "And...?"
"Oh yeah," Dean sighed. "Gotta pierce the brain in the hard-scaled kind. Works best if you go through the roof of the mouth."
"There we go," his brother grinned. "Wendigos?"
"Torch the damn thing!" Dean exclaimed cheerfully, drumming his thumbs on the wheel.
"Imps and other wee folk?"
"God, I hate those," Dean grimaced. "They can't stand iron, and they toast up real nice if you set 'em on fire, but you have to beware the fairy circles. If you step into one, they can trap you. Pixies, though, should be treated with special caution."
"Really?" Sam asked, brow furrowing as he scanned the entry. "I don't see..."
"Yeah," the older brother grinned faintly, eyes far away. "You're not careful and they flutter their wings and this dust comes off, like a butterfly or something. I tell you, the best high I've ever had in my life was when I accidentally inhaled some after Caleb knocked out a nest. I didn't come down for days. I ran moonlight through my hands like putty, man."
Sam snorted in disgust. "And I suppose you tasted music?"
"Dude, yeah. Zeppelin tastes like clam chowder and BOC's mandarin oranges. How screwed up is that?"
"Whatever," Sam groaned. "List the six most effective tools for warding off demons."
"Okay, I'm going to need a noun," Sam said, pencil poised to copy down Dean's answer.
"Impala," his older brother replied, stroking the dashboard.
Sam snickered but choked it back when he caught the glare emanating from the driver. "Oookay, gender-specific pronoun and another noun."
Dean's lips twitched as he thought. "Um, her and rock salt."
"Yup, that works," Sam grinned, filling in blanks. "Past-tense verb?"
"Cruised," the blonde man smirked.
"Now it's a plural noun."
"Crappy hotel beds," Dean groaned. "What is this one, anyway?"
"Can't tell, it'd ruin the surprise. Gimme an adjective," coaxed Sam.
"Let's go with 'drop-dead gorgeous,'" Dean nodded.
The younger man felt his eyes narrow. "Have you read this before?"
Dean blinked. "No, why? Is it working out to my advantage?"
"Kinda," Sam frowned. "Here it is: The Impala and the Rock Salt – Once upon a time there was a drop-dead gorgeous prince who wanted an Impala of his very own; but she would have to be a real Impala. He cruised all over the world to find one, but nowhere could he get what he wanted. There were Impalas enough, but it was difficult to find out whether they were real ones. There was always something about them that was not as it should be. So he came home again and was sad, for he would have liked very much to have a real Impala.
One evening a terrible storm came on; there was thunder and lightning, and the rain poured down in torrents. Suddenly a knocking was heard at the city gate, and the old king went to open it. It was an Impala standing out there in front of the gate. But, good gracious! what a sight the rain and the wind had made her look. The water ran down her and mud coated her whole body. And yet she said that she was a real Impala.
"Well, we'll soon find that out," thought the old king. But he said nothing, went into the bed-room, took all the bedding off the bedstead, and laid rock salt on the bottom; then he took twenty crappy motel beds and laid them on the rock salt.
On this the Impala had to lie all night. In the morning she was asked how she had slept. "Oh, very badly!" said she. "I have scarcely closed my eyes all night. Heaven only knows what was in the bed, but I was lying on something hard, so that I am black and blue all over my body. It's horrible!"
Now they knew that she was a real Impala because she had felt the rock salt right through the twenty crappy motel beds. Nobody but a real Impala could be as sensitive as that. So the drop-dead gorgeous prince took her for his very own, for now he knew that he had a real Impala; and the rock salt was put in the museum, where it may still be seen, if no one has stolen it. The end."
"Whoo!" Dean cried, pumping his fist in the air. "Usually I get 'And then the scuba divers and their friends shagged the peanut-butter sandwich to the moon.'
Sam blinked. "That was a mental image that I never needed."
Dean was too busy stroking the dashboard and cooing "Hear that, baby? We're fated for each other" to the car to notice.
Sam frowned. "I said 'sun,' not 'son.'"
"I know, and I said father." Dean shrugged.
"I hate you and your homonym shenanigans. Father, huh? So..."
Sam blinked. "Whoa, what? I didn't even give the next word!"
"You said 'sow.' Like 'sowing one's seeds.' Like sex."
Sam clenched his jaw. More homonyms. So sex was the word? Fine. "Dean."
The older man flashed a crooked grin. He and sex were like synonyms, practically. "Perfection."
His younger brother smirked. Two could play at that game. "Sam."
Sam rolled his eyes. Dean sure did love his like-sounding words. "Water."
Dean cast a glance over at his baby brother. Blood relating to water? "Family?"
"Together?" Dean breathed, barely allowing himself to hope.
The brothers sat in silence for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts as the miles peeled away. Finally, Dean cleared his throat. "...Chick-flick."
Sam laughed. "Jackass."