Title: Fandom at the Gates
Disclaimer: I own absolutely everything and I intend on making a profit from the nonsense I pen. I demand cookies. Jk jk, if I owned, I wouldn't need cookies… Jensen and Misha would be making them for me, shirtless :D
Summary: On a bright sunny day, somewhere in the world, fandom attacked.
Characters/Pairings: Eric Kripke, Sera Gamble, Robert Singer, McG, John Shiban, Ben Edlund, Jeremy Carver, Emily McLaughlin, Cyrus Yavneh, Philip Sgriccia… a guy named Sebastian and an unnamed blonde secretary and very slight Dean and Sam.
Notes: Crack. Self-indulgent fantasy. Utterly pointless, written mainly to satisfy the muses. Also featuring people who really exist (God save my soul) and who I, as yet, have never met. Completely uncannon and possibly offensive to the collective brilliance that is the writing/directing/producing team of Supernatural, although not intentionally because I love them all. Only slightly spoilery for season five. This story was born from a random conversation with mrscastielftw from lj without any intention of becoming something horrible and catastrophic. The first paragraph of the letter belongs completely to her brain and will not be stolen, borrowed or reposted without crediting. Sam and Dean will find you.
This was an attack. They were being attacked.
No, this was more than a simple assault. It was a war. An intelligent, strategic, full-scale war.
"What do we do? What do we do?" The new assistant blubbered by the door.
The rest -veterans and new hires alike- weren't in much better shape. Some had assumed the fetal position. Others were a bottle deep into new-found alcoholism or praying to religious entities they hadn't believed in until now. One (a small nervous network lapdog) had tried to end it all by throwing himself out a window; he was currently tied to a chair and weeping. Those that had actually kept their heads in this disaster were vastly outnumbered by those who hadn't.
Eric was trying to hold the threads of his sanity together but even he was beginning to feel worn and frayed. Things had fallen apart so quickly; their lives quite literally surrounded in a matter of moments by some terrible nightmare. They had fled in a panicked stampede and barricaded themselves in the conference room, frightened fighters huddling instead like desolate refugees.
Someone needed to rally them back. Eric turned to them.
"I need everyone's attention," he said, his commanding tone grabbing a few faces but missing others completely, others that were far too buried in their fear to even recognize hope or reason anymore. Eric ignored those; they would be useless in their current state. What he needed were level heads and although the count wasn't great, it would work. He took a seat at the table, salvaging some visual form of order to this chaos, and voiced his simple proposal. "We need a plan. And we need it fast."
The din of the masses outside barely registered louder than a whisper through the window and drawn shades but it was enough to disrupt the silence that followed his request. Eric wished he could block out the sound of them. It was so hard to think over the bellowing chorus.
"We're being punished," croaked John, who was curled around a leg of the table and holding on for dear life. "We're being punished for what we did to them."
Sera disagreed. "This isn't punishment."
She was in a corner, her arm wrapped protectively around some poor blonde secretary who was shaking violently and mumbling incoherently.
"They're just people," she added, as if that fact would make things better somehow.
"Lots of people," McG said, in the quiet voice of someone desperately traumatized and only barely keeping it together.
"Lots of people with signs… on sticks!" This came from Robert Singer, whose truthful elucidation succeeded in increasing only the level of panic.
A shudder rippled through the room.
Eric cast a narrow glance at Robert. He needed to bring the attention back to the objective. "Just people," he supplied firmly. "We need a plan," he announced again. "We can't just stay here forever."
The lack of response told him that these terrified people were planning otherwise, if that's what it would take.
"Come on guys," he pleaded. "Eventually we will need to leave this room. To eat. To use the restroom for God's sake. We have homes and lives and families after all. Kids who need feeding. Dogs that need to be let out before they pee all over the shag carpet in the apartment, again. Do you know how much the carpet cleaners cost these days?"
Eric did; Rumsfeld had a small bladder.
Although ending in some sort of nonsensical shout, his words seemed to have sparked reason in the petrified and the plastered. The brown bags were abandoned and the glazed looks started to fade from wide eyes. Survival by an offensive strike? This was a new idea, a crazy hopeful idea. The still life jostled and slowly reanimated.
"So, what are we to do then?" A wild-haired Ben Edlund peeked over the corner of the table.
Questioning stares gravitated to their fearless leader. Eric met them all solidly. "You're writers. Think of something."
A hum of realization filled the room. Yes, they were writers! They could think of something!
After a moment, Cryus' face lit up. "What would the Winchesters do in this situation?" He was only trying to be helpful and perhaps a little light-hearted.
Sera had no time for useless jokes. She fixed him with a steely gaze. "That's your contribution? Surely you aren't suggesting we shoot them with rock salt?" Impatience flushed her fair face. Cyrus looked away, feeling very small.
Philip spoke into the embarrassed silence. "Call me crazy, but maybe we should phone the police?"
"Would that stop them?" Emily asked, drawing an anxious-looking McG away from the window gently, her arm around his quaking shoulders. Her tone implied that her question didn't need an answer; she didn't believe a fleet of tanks could make a difference to what awaited them outside.
Eric rubbed his palm across his face. There had to be an answer somewhere. A workable successful answer.
A figure rose from the floor at the back. It was Jeremy Carver, his arm raised as though he were a child in a school room.
His submission came forth slowly and stuttered. "Well, have we thought perhaps to- I mean, have we thought at all on the possibility of- well, what about giving them what they want?"
"Do we even know what they want? If they want anything?" asked Robert.
Glances were passed around the room, each as unknowing as the last, until the new assistant, Sebastian, cleared his throat and produced a large stone, around which had been tied a length of paper. He'd grabbed it in the panic and had been gripping it tight in his fist ever since, somehow forgetting about it until this moment.
"This was thrown through the window in the lobby, Mr. Kripke, sir."
"How cliché," someone muttered.
Sebastian relinquished the stone to Eric. The inhabitants of the conference room moved closer, drawn in by curiosity and breathless with anticipation. Could this be their hope?
The twine came undone with a tug and the paper fell free. It was a sheet of notebook paper, college ruled and nothing fancy. Contrary to his fears, the words printed there were not written in blood nor were they pasted together from newspaper clippings. It was just a letter, a handful of sentences written in plain black ink.
To Whom It May Concern,
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all fans are created equal, that they are endowed by their Show Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Hunters, Angels, Demons, and the pursuit of Dean's Amulet.
We will not move, sleep, or surrender until it has been promised that the last will be recovered and returned to its rightful owner.
We look forward to your swift cooperation in this matter.
Silence enveloped the room.
Sera looked incredulous. "That's… it?"
Eric scanned the letter again. He was skeptical as well. There was an army of fans out there, surrounding the building with homemade signs and synchronized marching and well-rehearsed chants. They had poured through the gates and past security guards like they were cardboard stand-ups. His entire team (and yes, himself included) had been sent into an flurry of fear at the sight of them. And all along they wanted nothing more than the return of Dean's Amulet? That couldn't be all, could it?
Eric read the letter a third time, just to be sure.
"Yes," he confirmed slowly, finally giving in to the possibility of hope. "Seems to be."
The hint of a smile tugged at Sera's lips for the first time in over an hour. "Well then," she said, turning to her peers, "I believe we have found a plan."
. . .
Three weeks and a minor adjustment to the script later…
Dean found his Amulet at the bottom of his duffel. Sam had rescued it over a year ago, keeping it until the right moment. He couldn't let it stay in that dingy motel waste basket, leaving it to some housekeeper to pawn at the nearest hock shop. Dean slipped the necklace over his head; it felt like an old friend. Then he hugged his brother, in a manly and totally-not-gay way.
The next week, fandom pitched in on a fruit basket and a thank you card. It was the least they could do.
Half the team was on leave undergoing therapy but Sera said she enjoyed the strawberries.
last note: I know the team behind Supernatural are not a bunch of idiots however, for all of my intents and purposes, they encountered idiotic moments in the above fiction. Reviews are adored :D
dedication: to mrscastielftw for her great and wonderful friendship and for supplying me (unintentionally) with the premise for this tale. thank you!