Cram it with walnuts, ugly

23 Supernatural Icons

2009-09-20T09:01:19Z

Let's ignore the fact that I haven't posted anything in a YEAR, mmmk? Great, moving on. Icons. Small mix of Supernatural. I'll give a cookie to anyone who gives me an inspiring plot bunny for gen SPN fic. Preferably Dean-centric. Gracias! ♥♥

edit: Photobucket's being a bitch so if you can't see this, or some of these, let me know. I may end up rehosting them elsewhere if PB takes too long to straighten out.

SPN Icons
1-17: SPN - Random S4
18-23: SPN - S4 Gag Reel

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*comments are ♥ ♥ ♥
*credit is nice but totally up to you. :)

Chuck/Sarah makes me giddy

2008-10-12T17:34:29Z

It took forever to find some decent Chuck caps (and the ones I tried to make myself were very very sad :P). I finally found some hi-res ones at Chuck Boards but no zips so I had to open and save the all the ones I wanted to use. Needles to say, I'm lazy and that's a lot of clicking so only 20 icons for now. :P

On to the icons!

Chuck Icons
1-12: Chuck - 2x01
13-20: Chuck - 2x02

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*comments are ♥ ♥ ♥
*credit is nice but totally up to you. :)

I'm just trying to get up to 88 mph so I can get back to 1985.

2008-10-06T01:55:55Z

So I pretty much didn't shut up during ep 4x03. I mean, non-stop, babbling realizations/guesses/curses for the full show. Thank god for DVR and a very patient sister. I had to rewind. A LOT. Heh. Anyway, glad they finally addressed the Mary thing. And the pop culture references in this ep were awesome.

On to the icons!

SPN Icons
1-17: SPN - 4x02
18-32: SPN - 4x03
1: SPN header - Castiel

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Header - 700x200

*comments are ♥ ♥ ♥
*credit is nice but totally up to you. :)

Perky nipples, douchey iPODS, and reborn LJs, oh my

2008-09-21T20:34:44Z

Much like Dean, I've come back from the dead. :P Several months of absence boils down to one thing - when your external hard drive crashes and takes two years of your life with it (read: takes god knows how many thousands of screencaps with it), you tend to stop making icons for a bit.

So, with the return of Supernatural (YAY!), I've refreshed my LJ (new skin, new mood theme - that 70s show animated awesomeness FTW) and I've tossed together a batch of icons to get this place rolling again.

There's plenty Dean, not so much Sam. Two reasons - one, well there was simply less Sam in the ep, but the second reason, and more important one, is that Jared's hair was driving me stark raving mad. Nothing new there really.

On to the icons!

SPN Icons
1-26: SPN - 4x01
2: That 70s Show - Friends Only banners

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Two versions of each of these FOs with the only difference being the border (one for light, one for dark backgrounds).

*comments are ♥ ♥ ♥
*credit is nice but totally up to you. :)

panicstrickyn @ 2008-05-18T13:29:00

2008-05-18T20:29:09Z

So how many months til season 4 starts? Too many, I say. Good thing I have tons of dvd quality caps of season 2 to still make icons out of. Anyone have any requests? Particular season 2 eps they'd like to see more icons of? I'm thinking I need to expand my guide to Sam & Dean icons. I'll have to start making lists. Maybe I can get them both up to 50 before the summer hiatus is over. Ha ha, not holding my breath, but it's certainly a goal.

Ok, so there's a lot of Ruby, which is odd for me, but let's face it...Katie looked awesome. And there's the fact that most of the shots I WOULD have icon'd of the boys had a fat, ugly CW logo right across their chins. I'm good with the clone tool, but I'm not THAT good. :P

SPN Icons
1-29: SPN - No Rest for the Wicked
30-32: SPN - Quote/Quotish

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*comments are ♥ ♥ ♥
*credit is nice but totally up to you. :)

David Caruso should cameo now, just for kicks.

2008-05-12T00:16:19Z

It disturbs me to no end that Dean said 'cleveland steamer' in this week's episode. It makes me want to wash his mouth out with soap. I wonder if Jensen had issues with that line. Did he know what it was? Do tv stars have time to troll Urban Dictionary?

Anywhoooo, 28 icons. My second post in less than a week, amazing. Enjoy.

SPN Icons
1-8: SPN - Born Under a Bad Sign
9-24: SPN - Time Is On My Side
25-28: SPN - Quote/Quotish

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*comments are ♥ ♥ ♥
*credit is nice but totally up to you. :)

I think of a title later...maybe

2008-05-04T20:42:10Z

Couldn't make icons for Ghostfacers. Ok, that's not true. I didn't even bother trying. I'm impressed with anyone that managed to make any decent icons from that ep. As it was, I spent half my time with these just trying to tone down all the green & yellow in this weeks episode. *stabbity*

Anyway, two dozen icons. Hopefully, I'll get some inspiration to work on some more season 2 now that I'm finally upgrading all my caps to DVD versions. *petsthepretties*

On a side note, I'm still giggling about how sunburnt Jared was for this ep, and how damn pink his mouth was in several scenes! Poor guy. Heh.

SPN Icons
1-5: SPN - Nightshifter
6-22: SPN - Long Distance Call
23-24: SPN - Random

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*comments are ♥ ♥ ♥
*credit is nice but totally up to you. :)

SPN fic: Reality Is A Ticking Time-Bomb

2008-02-29T02:47:31Z

Recipient: ambiguous_opal
Title: Reality Is A Ticking Time-Bomb
Characters: Sam, Dean (kindasorta)
Word Count: 3000+
Rating: Gen/PG-13
Author Notes: written for the Fic-Exchange at spn_thur_nights. I know, this is late, but hey, better late than never right? ambiguous_opal asked for something to do with the knife in the season one promos that we never got to see, and for no kiddie fic. Should have been simple but as it turns out not so easy. Sam didn’t want to talk. Think, sure, talk, not so much. *le sigh* Stubborn Winchester. I’m playing a little loose with Greek mythology (combining what is really two different myths to make one uber-baddie) but isn’t that part of the fun? I jump around in time a bit too, so sorry if there’s any confusion about sequence. >_< Thanks to mizbhaven13 & Autumn Sigh at PC for the quick betas. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
Disclaimer: Don’t own Supernatural or the boys, not making any money, just taking them out for a test-drive, vroom vroom.
Summary: Flashback sequence. Stanford down-time – Sam finds himself looking for danger and biting off a bit more than he can chew. Involves a game of Texas Hold-Em and an imaginary Dean giving his brother hell.

“Dude, you’re telling me I can’t open this box?”

“It’s none of your damn business, Dean. Just leave it alone,” Sam growls, snatching the flat box back from his brother and stashing it back under the spare tire. “Trust me. You don’t want to know.”

Unfortunately, Sam can never forget and the memories roll in. They may be a bit dusty from avoidance and time passed, but they still give him a hard chill down his spine as he slams the Impala’s trunk closed.

***

“Submit, Winchester. This is only going to get worse for you, the longer you resist.”

“Bite me.”

The blade digs deeper and Sam hears a sharp grinding noise of metal shaving bone. He swallows a scream, but it lodges in his throat, determined to be set free. The pressure worsens until he can feel the hilt carving an imprint into his thigh and the curved blade tip has gone clean through the other side of his leg. He can’t move his hands and he wonders what the hell that’s all about. Lightless eyes glare at him through a curtain of greasy blonde hair. Sam watches the man grip the knife tighter and then twist.

He’s screaming now, and there’s no holding back because the pain is just there, but the scream morphs into a hysterical laugh that tumbles from his mouth without warning. He had asked for this, hadn’t he?

Yes.

***

College is supposed to be good times, bad beer, and better sex than anyone knows their entire lives. So why does Sam feel like he’s moving through quicksand and sinking fast?

The first few months feel like he’s coming up for air, ironically. No more awkward silences. No more pressure beating down on his back. No more tight spaces full of obligation and regret. But normal starts to hurt, like a small cut in an unreachable place that aches out of sight. The people around him are so carefree, so naïve, and he envies them their ignorance. As much as he enjoys a night out with the boys, a good beer in hand, the burn in his gut of something unnamed is enough to harden the edges of his smile.

He starts sneaking away from the apartment late at night, after Jess is making those little snoring noises that he loves. They aren’t enough to keep him in bed, though. He wanders the streets for hours on end with nothing more than a vial of holy water, a box of rock salt, and one ragged reprint of Bodin’s Demonomanie de Sorciers. It’s dangerous. It’s stupid. It’s not Sam. It’s not like him to be foolish, begging for danger, looking for trouble.

It takes weeks of awkward ghost encounters and near death experiences for him to realize the ache isn’t because he misses the life. It’s that he misses them. Dean. Dad. Each day away from them stacks up like an unstable house of cards, waiting for the moment when he exhales too strongly and it can all come crashing down.

It doesn’t matter. He can’t go back. Call it stubbornness. Call it pride. He can’t go back. He can’t beg Dad to let him come home, wherever home is at the moment. He picks up his cell at least a dozen times, cycles through the phonebook until he gets to D, and stares at his brother’s name on the screen while Jess sings in the shower across the room. She has a thing for Air Supply. Dean would probably groan and give him the look.

The cell phone clicks shut with an audible finality every time.

***

“Are you sure?” Jess says, a pleading lilt to her voice as she finishes packing her carry-on. “I mean, we could pick you up some medicine on the way to the airport. You could sleep on the plane…”

Sam listens to her trail off and knows he’s hurting her feelings but can’t stand the thought of spring break in Miami, surrounded by the unaware, the oblivious. He’s learned how to fake happy and content even when his stomach churns with the urge to run screaming, but he doesn’t enjoy it. He’ll tell Dean, sometime in the future, that he wanted normal, that he wanted this.

Lies come easy for a Winchester.

So Sam lies, and Jess leaves, and Sam spends two blissful weeks licking at the crumbs of a life he thinks he’ll never have again.

***

Place looks shady, two dark alleys riding parallel to its tattooed walls, front door cracked hard down the center. The sign flickers half-lit. He thinks it once said Around the Bend but now it’s just the end and he wonders if foreshadowing is really only a literary tool or something normal people just don’t notice when it happens in the real world.

It takes a few minutes to shrug off that tell-tale foreboding as he stands just below the pulsing sign.

It’s only a bar, he thinks as the door swings open with a hitching grumble. And if it’s not, well, he’ll deal with that too.

A half hour later he finds himself at a poker table surrounded by unsavory types. The guy across from him has a bar through his nose the size of a Roman lance and that’s only one of many piercings. There’s a woman to the left, with nut brown hair and dead eyes. He’s fairly sure she’s figuring out the easiest way to kill him later. Or maybe she’s just empty. In the head. The beer in his hand is extra cold, unexpectedly so. He can’t help imagining Dean there, in the vacant seat next to him, half-empty bottle of PBR in front of him, body lounging out over the limits of his chair.

“Can’t believe you stayed in with a two, eight unsuited. You’re getting ballsy, Sammy,” Dean smirks.

Sam throws out a few dollars into the pot and tries not to think. Impossible.

“Think the redhead at the bar is single? Speaking of which, that girl of yours is major hot. What the hell are you doing in some craphole like this when you could be watching her dance around in a bikini drinking margaritas?

“Hey, man, you awake? Those cards aren’t gonna change the longer you stare at ‘em.”

Sam blinks away his phantom brother and folds.

The reasons he shouldn’t be here are starting to line up in his head like an army preparing for battle. But the empty feeling in his stomach (or is that his heart that hurts?) just won’t go away.

***

“Call. And I’ll raise you. But I’m outta cash. Will…this do?” the man says as he lays a heavy object on the dark grain table, holding his cards loosely in his other hand. They’ve been passing the large stack back and forth for two hours, and the woman with the dead eyes is gone. Off to look for a more entertaining victim maybe.

Sam drops his eyes to the tabletop for only a second before pulling every dollar he has out of his wallet and adding it to the pot. Eight hundred and forty six dollars to be exact. His textbook budget. Who needs books when you can find entire manuscripts on the net for free? It’s worth the risk, either way.

A wicked smile dances at the edges of Sam’s mouth as the river card comes up ace of spades.

“Don’t go countin’ chickens and all that, Sammy.”

“Shut up,” Sam murmurs, drawing the curious attention of his opponent.

“Hey, I’m just trying to help you out, bro. Hate to see you get your little heart broken,” Dean quips, leaning back in his chair until the front legs lift off the ground.

Sam wonders if he’s losing his mind or if it’s been gone for years.

“Pretty sure it doesn’t make a difference, dude. You’re nuts, either way. Hey, speaking of, awesome! Peanuts!” Dean reaches over Sam’s arms and grabs a handful out of a bowl.

“Dude, don’t eat that! You don’t have half a clue who’s touched what and then stuck their germ-infested hands in ther…”

Sam sputters off as he realizes he’s chastising a mirage and the guy across the table is giving him a wide-eyed stare. He clears his throat and lays his cards down on the table. Full house, Aces over tens. Guy has a straight, Ace high and he groans as Sam sweeps the winnings off the table and stands in one smooth motion. A flick of Sam’s hands and he slides the sheath off the knife. He spins it, testing the weight, the feel, delights in the glint of steel. A bit top heavy, sure, but the hard curve of the blade balances it out somewhat. Technically, it’s a modern sickle, but there is a sense of age and power to it that excites his fingertips where they are clasped hard around the hilt. Dad would consider it ridiculous. Impractical. That thought only makes Sam like it more.

Screw practical.

Two minutes later, he’s walking along the sidewalk in the direction of his apartment, still car-less after three years at school because he can’t stand the thought of working extra hours just to dump all his cash on some piece of crap that couldn’t outrun a charging poltergeist in even the best weather. He thinks he sees a shadow take shape down the road and rumble past him, all glistening black metal and chrome. The Impala is several states away, most likely, but he can hear it in his head anyway, feel it at his back like a distant promise.

Cash winnings in his pocket, knife tucked in the back of his waistband under the checkered green plaid of his button up, Sam heads through Peers Park as a shortcut to Leland Ave. He’s halfway across a wide-open space when a noise catches his attention. Stopping short, Sam spins his head and scans the circle of oak trees around him. He can see a play area to the northeast, and a parking lot beyond that, but the source of the noise eludes him.

Instinct takes over and he hustles towards the closest line of trees. He’s suddenly afraid, suddenly more terrified than he’s been in years. He knows to trust that feeling and lets it pull him towards cover. There’s a soft hill two hundreds yards to the west and he aims for it. The height may be enough advantage to see who, or what, is tailing him. Besides, Dad always taught him to go for higher ground. Lot harder to sneak up on someone who has an uninterrupted line of sight.

Once he’s found a good spot behind a coast live oak that has thick green foliage, near black in the moonlight, Sam turns and scans the breadth of the park. Three minutes tick by and nothing. But the fear doesn’t recede and he starts holding his breath for long moments. Five more minutes and he hasn’t heard a sound. Not even birdsong.

Not a good sign.

Sam feels his gaze drawn to the sky, watching for cloud movement. There is none. Could be lack of wind, but not a single cloud moving? Unlikely. Unnatural, even. Turning his sight back to the park, he finally sees it. A figure stalking across all that lonely grass, headed right for him like his pounding heart is a beacon. That’s when he realizes his heart and that figure are the only thing moving within eyesight. The trees aren’t rustling. No cars can be heard in the distance. The swing at the park off in the distance is unwavering.

It’s like this small place in the world has been locked in a bubble, taken out of space and time to stand still and silent. Sam focuses on the man walking calmly toward him like there is nothing out of the ordinary. The trees cast long shadows across the man’s face when he stops just out of reach.

Sam keeps his breathing under control, with every bit of effort he can maintain. Won’t do to look scared, though he can’t imagine fear isn’t etched across his face, visible even in the moonlight. He doesn’t understand the fear at first. It’s uncontrollable.

”Don’t be a pansy, Sammy. Say hello. Let’s get this party started.”

Sam’s blinks slowly to distract himself. This imagining your pain-in-the-neck brother giving you a hard time thing was funny at first, even mildly entertaining, but there couldn’t be a worse time for hallucinations. Really.

“Hello, Sam Winchester.”

The power in the man’s voice etches chills down Sam’s spine. He’s dealing with a Big Bad here, as Dean would call it. This isn’t your everyday ghost, or even a demon. Sam’s frantically recalling what he knows about minor gods when the man steps full into the moonlight, exposed. It’s the guy from the bar, and Sam’s face must be crunched in confusion as he tries to reconcile the power he still feels radiating his way with the pierced simpleton that stands in front of him.

”Watch it, little brother.”

The man’s eyes glow red at that, like he can hear Sam’s imagination at work.

“Not only demons can possess human flesh, Sam,” the man says, cocking his head to the side and narrowing his eyes. “I’ll keep this simple, so as not to confuse that little human brain of yours. I am Time. I am a god once feared and revered.”

He keeps his gaze locked on Sam’s and raises a hand to gesture vaguely.

“I am Kronos. God of the moment. Once I was a Titan, capable of destruction and murder unheard of in your simple mortal world, but that was a long time ago.” The god almost sighs, as if he is wistful for those days of malicious glory. “Now I am but a shadow of my former self, forced to move between these fleshy prisons to see my will done.”

Sam can feel his mouth going dry. What he remembers about the Kronos myth is bloody and terrifying. The god begins to pace and his voice takes on a darker cast, a deeper meaning.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Sam. I needed someone to protect something very valuable to me. You will keep it safe, until I can put it to good use again. You will keep it safe,” Kronos hisses and Sam feels the echo of it at his back where the curved blade rests against his skin.

Well, damn. You’ve really gotten yourself in a screwed up situation, Sammy. Good job.

“That blade is a locus, Sam. A place for me to rest my most precious powers. You will not use it. You will store it away, protect it, keep it safe. And in return, I will not destroy everything you’ve ever cared about.”

Sam’s eyes darken, his hand creeping toward the hilt of the knife. “That’s quite a threat. Considering you’ve already told me you’re just a ‘shadow of your former self.’”

It’s a ballsy move, stupid really, and his imaginary brother shakes his head silently. One second, Kronos is ten feet away, his profile set against a moonlit backdrop. The next second, he is grinding Sam into the ground, with the blade in his hand. The curved end is a hairsbreadth from Sam’s neck.

“You reckless fool!” Kronos rages. “You will do what I want. You will hide this blade until I call on you again.” The blade flashes in the moonlight as Kronos lifts his arm and buries the knife in Sam’s thigh.

***

He had asked for this. He had asked for danger, for excitement, for an end to his boring college existence. The dream of normal had been so much more than the reality. Only reality was so much more painful than he remembered.

***

Kronos leans into the blade and growls, “You would do well not to taunt me, silly human. Perhaps I should give the blade to Jessica Moore? Her address is rattling around in that thick skull of yours, all lit up in neon. You really should learn to hide the things that are precious to you.”

Another twist of the blade and Kronos is laughing. Sam can’t move. Jessica’s face swims through his mind’s eye and he can’t bury it away, though he tries and the effort brings sweat to his brow.

Kronos stops laughing, abruptly and leans over Sam’s face to give him a mystified smile. “Oh no. Not Jessica. She’s just cannon fodder in this world, isn’t she, Sam? No, not Jessica. Dean would be much more appropriate don’t you think? Dean.” Kronos says the name like it’s magic.

And maybe it is, because Sam’s resistance is snuffed out by the thought of Dean at the hands of this cruel god. Not Dean. No.

“N-no,” Sam sputters, choking on pain and fear. “I’ll do it. Please.”

And with that, the pain is gone and Sam is standing where he was before the angry god attacked him. The wound no longer exists but the memory remains.

“Good. Keep it safe. Don’t talk about it. Don’t use it. Just keep it safe or Dean will know more pain than you could ever imagine. I will return for it, soon enough.”

Sam watches Kronos fade back into the shadows as the park comes back to life, no longer locked down by Father Time. He tucks his shirt back down over the blade in his waistband and takes a deep breath. He can’t believe he just agreed to help a vicious, ancient god who once swallowed his own children to avoid a prophecy that one of his sons would defeat him.

All in a day’s work for a Winchester.

***

“Dean. Look, I never really ask you for anything. Just this once, just…don’t. Don’t ask. Don’t go looking in the box while I’m sleeping. Just don’t. Please, give me this one thing. Give me your word.”

Dean’s eyebrows raise, a startled look bearing down on his features. “Sam…”

“Your word, Dean. This one time. For me.”

Sam sees his brother’s face fall then the look is gone and all that’s left is cold, stony acceptance.

“Fine. You have my word.”

When this is all over, I am going to have so much sex...

2008-02-25T06:38:20Z

Soooo, Jus In Bello was pretty awesome, and when I started making icons, I was surprised at all of the 'iconable' shots there were. Nice angles, shadows, etc. I had 50+ caps picked out but I'm lazy and that was just too many damn icons. :P

It makes me very sad that SPN and Chuck won't be back for another 2 months or somewhere around there. Guess I'll have to go read a book or do something useful with my time. O_o

SPN Icons
1-16: SPN - Jus In Bello
17-28: SPN - Metallicar
1: SPN - Bela/small header

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*comments are ♥ ♥ ♥
*credit is nice but totally up to you. :)

Titles are for people without short attention spans

2008-02-15T06:39:15Z

Hey now, so apparently, my muse had a rockin' good time on vacation (Barbados and not Bermuda, as it turns out) but she ran into a little trouble with the law and decided to come back and lay low for a bit. Good news for me, not so good for her since I'll be working her like a bitch until she bails on me, yet again. Just icons this time. Might have some FO banners and headers in the next batch.

On a side note, I don't care what the critics said, I enjoyed Jumper.
*is only a little biased due to severe Hayden crushage*

SPN Icons
1-21: SPN - Dream a Little Dream of Me
22-23: SPN - Random

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*comments are ♥ ♥ ♥
*credit is nice but totally up to you. :)

Can't sleep, clowns will eat me.

2008-02-12T10:04:16Z

Wow. It's been over a month since I posted anything worthwhile. That's just depressing. I think my muse went to bermuda. She sends me postcards every once in awhile...hence, a batch of icons, and even a header! Holy crap. Maybe she'll let me finish some for Dream a Little Dream of Me so I can be like all the cool kids. :P

I won't hold my breath. You shouldn't either! Unless...you know, you've got hiccups or something. *smods*

SPN Icons
1-22: SPN - Malleus Maleficarum
1: SPN Header - Malleus Maleficarum

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*comments are ♥ ♥ ♥
*credit is nice but totally up to you. :)

8 Facts about me...

2008-01-20T20:24:19Z

I got tagged. And it's not like I have anything better to post right now anyway. *coughlazycough*

* Bloggers that are tagged need to write on their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
* At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.

8 Facts of My Life
1) If there was such a thing as "Selective Obsessive Compulsive Disorder," I could probably get medication for free.
2) Valedictorian of my graduating class '07 - the fact that it was only a 2 year degree from a community college takes away some of the shine though :P
3) I'm a cheap date - can't hold my liquor.
4) I have 6 half-sisters. Three from my mom and ex-stepfather, three from my dad and stepmom.
5) I can't bend either of my pinkie fingers without bending my ring fingers too - the weird result of a rollerblading accident when I was a kid.
6) I've averaged 3 cups of a coffee a day for at least a decade.
7) I'd give up the computer for 8 months straight if I managed to get season tickets to the LA Kings.
8) The first author I read on a regular basis was Stephen King. I was 6. Blame my father.

Tagging (even though I don't expect any of you to be this bored):
mon_chouchou
abscae
sezzlybottom
punnky_kitty
erinrua
codeofaimee
keb91
lostmemento

Band Meme

2008-01-17T19:23:08Z

I rarely do these, but I'm SO FREAKIN BORED.

Meme stolen from codeofaimee who stole it from someone else, who stole it from someone else...weeee, thievery!

1. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random
The first article title on the page is the name of your band.

2. http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3
The last four words of the very last quote is the title of your album.

3. http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days
The third picture, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

4. Use your graphics program of choice to throw them together, and post the result as a comment in this post. Also, pass it along in your own journal because it's more amusing that way.
Pimp it.

Answers:
1. Marathon of Hope
2. "Things are only impossible until they're not."
3. http://www.flickr.com/photos/creativejuice/2190727374/

SPN fic: In the Blink of an Eye (or Moments Lost to Tragedy)

2007-12-27T19:00:12Z

Title: In the Blink of an Eye (or Moments Lost to Tragedy)
Author: panicstrickyn
Characters: Sam, Dean, John, Bobby, random OFC
Word Count: 500
Rating: PG
Prompt/Summary: Five 100 word-count drabbles – random moments in the lives of the Winchester family and those around them. Seen from five different POVs.
Author Notes: Un-beta’d simply because they’re just random drabbles I wrote while bored. No spoilers.
Disclaimer: Don’t own Supernatural or the boys, not making any money, just taking them out for a test-drive, vroom vroom.

The girl behind the register giggles, her pale eyes flashing a list of dirty things she’d be willing to do if he’d just ask.

He wets his lips, mouth gone dry. The opportunity is there but the desire is not. He can feel Sam at his back, scanning the pitiful medicine section. Three hard, rapid sneezes break the sudden silence and he watches out of the corner of his eye as his brother leans weakly against the shelves, those sasquatch hands spread far apart to brace his weight.

There isn’t enough medicine in the world to cure what ails him.

***

“Can’t see, Sammy. What the hell,” the shorter one says, pressing his palms deep into his eye sockets as blood runs in dark rivulets down his face. The darker, taller one gives her this look that says so much without saying a damn thing. Don’t move. We’ll protect you. Everything will be ok. We’re the good guys.

She doesn’t believe him. Not after what’s happened tonight. She remembers Brian’s eyes going black and cold steel against her throat. She remembers pain, and these two with their wild west gun and their gladiator eyes. This is all just a bad dream.

***

“Only idiots and actors hold their guns in one hand, son. There you go. Now keep your feet spread. Right, good. All right, so there’s nothing to shoot, and you can’t very well carry your gun around like that forever, now can you? Ok, so drop your arms a bit, but keep the gun held right so you’re ready to bring it back up at short notice. Good. How many bullets does that Firestar have, son? No. Seven. You need to know how many bullets are in your mag at all times. At all times, Sam. You hear me, son?”

***

Sometimes, he wonders if they’ll be the death of him. John’s so stubborn, so consumed by his righteous fury. Dean’s so obedient, willing to follow his Dad to Hell and back if it’ll keep their little family together. Sam’s so smart, so determined to be something better. He wonders and he waits for the moment when he’ll have to choose whether to sacrifice his life for theirs. For one. For all? For love, for duty, for honor. It doesn’t really matter. Bobby knows, deep in the pit of him. Where truth is brutal. He’ll do what needs to be done.

***

Pocket contents. A paperclip, bent all hell to Sunday. One spent shotgun shell. Tiny chunks of rock salt that never seem to go away no matter how many times his jeans ride the spin cycle. A half crumpled receipt from some donut dive in El Paso, two dozen assorted, paid in cash. The only change was a penny, a wheatback. He rolls it between his fingers while Dean stuffs his face to the pounding rhythm of Motorhead’s “Iron Horse/Born to Lose.”

He rides the roads, he lives his life fast.
Don't try to hide, when the dice have been cast.

panicstrickyn @ 2007-12-14T11:52:00

2007-12-14T19:51:52Z

Man, I suck at updating. Hope you all have Happy Holidays! ♥♥

Multifandom Icons
1-5: SPN - Christmas Themed
6-7: SPN - Guide to Dean
8-14: SPN - Random
15-21: Chuck - Pilot
22-31: Chuck - Chuck VS The Truth

Tease-erosity:

001	002	003	004

005	006	007	008

009	010	011	012

013	014	015	016

017	018	019	020

021	022	023	024

025	026	027	028

029	030	031	032

*comments are ♥ ♥ ♥
*credit is nice but totally up to you. :)

spn13 fic - Death prompt

2007-11-18T10:41:38Z

Title: No Such Thing as a Broken Winchester
Author: panicstrickyn
Characters: Sam, Dean, Lucifer, Belial (demon prince), Bobby cameo.
Word Count: 1600+
Rating: PG - Gen
Summary: “Three-hundred and sixty-five days of torture can turn a saint into a sinner, make a proud man beg, but it can’t seem to unload a pair of rifles.”
This is a sequel to One Less Again, and Only One Left which was originally intended to be a one-shot until I picked up a prompt table at spn13 (though it looks to have died since) and remembered an inspirational comment from erinrua. This one won’t make much sense without reading the first.
Spoilers: Takes place post Season 2 finale but is AU-ish now for Season 3.
Warnings: Heads up, I’m playing it fast and loose with demonology. Unbeta’d because the first of the two wasn’t, and I wanted to make sure I didn’t over think this series.
Disclaimer: Don’t own Supernatural or the boys, not making any money, just taking them out for a test-drive, vroom vroom.

Right. So.

Kid cuts a deal, yeah, and the brother too of course, and two Winchesters are ripped from this world by dripping fangs, hellhound howls the only soundtrack for their epic road trip down to Hell. Every hunter in every town feels a shiver run down their spine, ice cold and inexplicable, but the smarter ones – they know. They know the scales have just tipped. The war will rage on, but Good might find Evil laughing in its face from across battlefield lines the next time they meet.

When the moment dies, there is only pregnant silence and an empty motel room in some small Texas town where the river runs shallow and muddy, but keeps on running nonetheless.

Right. So.

Time in Hell is like quicksand, unpredictable and cruel, and a day on Earth can be months down below if the temperature and the torture are just right. If the soul has enough fight.

It’s not all raging fires and twisted souls crackling. It can be a laundromat in Cleveland, a villa in Florence, a bar in London. It can be one man’s farm or another man’s mansion. Hell is like quicksand, ever-changing and suffocating. And just as real and touchable as life ever was.

For the first year down below, Dean relives his brother’s death in Technicolor detail, over and over, only it’s his own hand on the knife that drives clean through Sam’s spine and there’s not one damned soul who doesn’t hear him scream every time the blade strikes bone. Not one.

The kid spends the same year locked in a cramped, sightless box with only the sounds of Dean’s pain-filled cries and an overwhelming stench of blood to keep him company. Every scream is like glass shards slicing jagged pieces from his heart and he can’t move, can’t hardly breathe for those twelve long months.

Back up top, only a day goes by and only a hunter named Singer mourns the kid and his brother. Singer knows Sam, knows the goddamn kid ignored all the arguments, discarded the old man’s wisdom. When he goes to claim their bodies, he expects to see two empty shells lying like castaway dolls on the floor of a sketchy motel room but finds only an overblown stink of sulfur. Stumbling back into the too warm night with a tight agony in his chest, he blinks back the moisture in his eyes. Must be the sulfur. Yeah.

Right. So.

Three-hundred and sixty-five days of torture can turn a saint into a sinner, make a proud man beg, but it can’t seem to unload a pair of rifles. Demons and damned alike whisper and wonder. Dean’s screams stop at the one year mark like a breaker has blown, a switch has flipped, and now there is only the waiting. A waiting so heavy, Hell stands still too for a moment, contemplating its downfall perhaps.

Lucifer feels it. The fallen angel can’t help but sense the heady pause in the air and he knows that maybe just maybe he should have voided a contract that brought two more Winchesters into his domain when the first of the three had been trouble to spare. They don’t belong here. If only they could be turned to his side, or at the very least harnessed and ridden like prize stallions unto the battlegrounds of his soon to be earth-shattering war. If only.

Not even the Bringer of Light is brave enough to consider that dangerous thought for long.

No such thing as a broken Winchester.

Right. So.

Lucifer hatches a plan with help from the demon Belial, one of the four Princes of Hell, and a right twisted bastard at that. Belial is a creature of deceit, one who can spin a web of wickedness, betrayal and guilt so thick that his enemies destroy themselves in a cloud of misguided rage. He will be the Morning Star’s preemptive strike.

“You can turn them against each other, drive them to rip each other apart. True death. Nothing less. Understand?” Lucifer says.

Belial nods his heavy head, hooked horns keeping his burnished crown in place. “Yes, my Lord.”

“Make sure of it, Belial. Fail me and you’ll forfeit your precious Northern regions,” the Morning Star replies with narrowed eyes. “I know how well you love that dusty piece of gold on your head. Make no mistake.”

“There will be none. It will be done,” the demon insists, an arrogant gleam in his coal black eyes, a thirst for blood in his tightly clenched fists.

“Excellent. Go.”

Right. So.

The box makes a creaking racket when they break it open and the kid comes spilling out like too much water in a glass. There’s a ragged stain of blood across his back, a phantom wound that he feels with every step, and those eyes are colder than they were once, more calculating than they’ve ever been. But he hunches over when he walks, evidence that he’s spent a year with that too large body in too small a space, and his captors only snicker at the warning in those icy eyes.

Dean is finishing a cycle when Sam is shoved stumbling in his direction. The kid falls to his knees, in perfect time with his brother tearing the knife free from False-Sam. There’s no one there to catch the copy, not like there was in life, not like there’s always been for True-Sam, and the soulless husk tumbles face forward into the dirt. Blood pools beneath it, dark and glassy, and the kid can’t take his eyes off it. Dean spins and stares him down with wild vacant eyes, knife held tight like it would take a crowbar to remove it from his hand.

“Dean,” the kid whispers, struggling to his feet and ignoring the blade in his brother’s hand. He says it again, stronger now as the smell of family is so close he can taste it on the back of his tongue. Thick like molasses, sweet like honey. Even dead, his brother smells like car grease and coffee, gun oil and fast food. Even dead, Dean smells like home.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean says, an edgy madness in his eyes that carves through Sam better than any knife ever could.

Right. So.

Kid cuts a deal, yeah, and the brother too of course, and things go from bad to worse real quick. Seems there’s something in the Winchester blood, since the father did it too. All this making deals with devils to save the lives of those they love, all that self-sacrifice, seems wicked and unfair that they’re all dead now anyway.

Truth is, its fate. Nothing that bright can go unchallenged. The universe is full of darkness, hungry seeking ceaseless, and sometimes it finds the light, swallows it up, gobbles it up, until nothing is left but emptiness and silence.

Still. Light never goes down without a fight.

Right. So.

The battle lasts forty days.

Belial does what he does best, digging into their souls with feverish glee, intensifying all their insecurities and differences. Winchester against Winchester, a fight for the ages. A coliseum made of shadow and fear forms up around them, providing entertainment for the demon hoard and a lesson for any soul that has any light left in it. The brothers can’t think past the terror, can’t see the truth through the lies, can only rip into each other, can only fight until one or the other dies.

Demon fouls up though, gets cocky and lets up for just a second – a second, a breath, a heartbeat – and that’s all the brothers need. A second to smell, see, touch the truth, remember who they are and what family means. For the first time since the dad went away for good, they put all the pieces back together again. They are whole. They are brothers. They are Winchesters.

They fight their way to Belial through waves of demons, with nothing more than tooth and nail, fist and fury. Light is stronger than darkness. It only takes a small flame to banish the dark, and the brothers are enveloped in a soul-light so bright that it blinds black demon eyes.

Lucifer twitches, and if he had anything that resembled a human heart it would be beating now, hard against his ribs like a trapped bird. They will defeat his prince, he knows not how, but they will do it and he cannot afford such a loss to be witnessed by so many damned. He cannot afford to seem weak.

A supernova of white hot light envelops the kid and his brother, locks them in place, beats back the droves of demons in a crushing wave of power. Lucifer is not called the Bringer of Light for nothing. He steps into that cocoon and makes one last deal with the Winchesters. The deal to end all deals. The only deal that matters.

Right. So.

Kid cuts a deal, and the brother too of course, and two Winchesters are returned to their bodies, grown cold in the morgue in the two days since their death. Their knuckles run red, banging on the steel walls of their makeshift prisons until the coroner has no choice but to swallow his horror and set them free.

Outside, the mid-day Texas sun is blinding, a shining beacon of life. Sam shades his face with one bloodied hand and glances sidelong at his brother. Dean throws back his head and that mouth, that mouth smiles laughs roars until he can’t hardly breathe. A grin teases at the corners of Sam’s mouth now too and those eyes are practically on fire they’re so bright.

No such thing as a broken Winchester. And two together, hell, they are invincible.

38 Multifandom Icons

2007-11-04T00:58:49Z

I should be doing homework...ah, well. Some belated spn icons and some Shia, because I watched Transformers about 4 times last week. *snicker* Got some Transformers icons in the works, but really do need to get some stuff done.

Multifandom Icons
1-18: SPN - Sin City
19-26: SPN - Bad Day at Black Rock
27-28: SPN - Random
29-38: Shia LaBeouf

Tease-erosity:

001	002	003	004

005	006	007	008

009	010	011	012

013	014	015	016

017	018	019	020

021	022	023	024

025	026	027	028

029	030	031	032

033	034	035	036

037	038	039	040

*comments are ♥ ♥ ♥
*credit is nice but totally up to you. :)

spnicon100 update - last 32 icons

2007-10-21T09:46:07Z

Yay! Final update, w00t w00t! I will pick a better theme next time. One episode is just plain torture. And now I don't want to see or hear anything about Hell House for at least a month, kthnxbye. :P

Subject: 1x17 Hell House
Number of icons completed: 100/100
Themes: 25/25

Tease-erosity:


001 Scared	002 Alone	003 Love	004 Hunger

005 Desire	006 OMG	007 WTF?!	008 Happy

009 Lyrics	010 Fight	011 Revenge	012 Secret

013 Lips	014 Weapon	015 Haunted	016 Lost

017 Brothers	018 Family	019 Hope	020 Pranks

021 Car	022 Ghosts	023 Danger	024 Pain

025 B&W	026 Artist Choice	027 Artist Choice	028 Artist Choice

029 Artist Choice	030 Artist Choice	031 Artist Choice	032 Artist Choice

033 Artist Choice	034 Artist Choice	035 Artist Choice	036 Artist Choice

037 Artist Choice	038 Artist Choice	039 Artist Choice	040 Artist Choice

041 Artist Choice	042 Artist Choice	043 Artist Choice	044 Artist Choice

045 Artist Choice	046 Artist Choice	047 Artist Choice	048 Artist Choice

049 Artist Choice	050 Artist Choice	051 Artist Choice	052 Artist Choice

053 Artist Choice	054 Artist Choice	055 Artist Choice	056 Artist Choice

057 Artist Choice	058 Artist Choice	059 Artist Choice	060 Artist Choice

061 Artist Choice	062 Artist Choice	063 Artist Choice	064 Artist Choice

065 Artist Choice	066 Artist Choice	067 Artist Choice	068 Artist Choice

069 Artist Choice	070 Artist Choice	071 Artist Choice	072 Artist Choice

073 Artist Choice	074 Artist Choice	075 Artist Choice	076 Artist Choice

077 Artist Choice	078 Artist Choice	079 Artist Choice	080 Artist Choice

081 Artist Choice	082 Artist Choice	083 Artist Choice	084 Artist Choice

085 Artist Choice	086 Artist Choice	087 Artist Choice	088 Artist Choice

089 Artist Choice	090 Artist Choice	091 Artist Choice	092 Artist Choice

093 Artist Choice	094 Artist Choice	095 Artist Choice	096 Artist Choice

097 Artist Choice	098 Artist Choice	099 Artist Choice	100 Artist Choice

*comments are ♥ ♥ ♥
*credit is nice but entirely up to you.

Meme-i-licious

2007-10-16T21:46:39Z

Prompted by thehighwaywoman

Comment on this post. I will choose seven userpics from your profile and you will explain what they mean and why you are using them. Post this along with your answers in your own journal so others can play along.

I've been wanting to do this one for awhile. Fun!

thehighwaywoman chose these 7 of my icons:

When I saw this pic, the only thing I could think was 'awww, he needs a home', plus I think this cap was the best example of puppy!Sam I've ever seen. I may not be a Samgirl, but this icon is my way of showing the pup a little love. :P

LOL, when Sam said "That's not school! That's School House Rock!" I just about died. I loved that show. Sadly...I can still sing some of the songs. And the bill song? That's pretty much all I know about that particular political process. *sheepish*

I can't think of any other fandom that has a condiment as a main factor in every episode. Salt f-o-r-e-v-e-r.

padabee knows just how to make me love Dean more than ever - she's the reason I started watching SPN in the first place. This icon is a perfect Dean representation with all that hot determination and fierceness. Yum.

Heh. I'm not human until I've had two cups of coffee in the morning. It's a fact.

Anyyya. I miss Anya. She was so brutally honest and tactless. felicia_sp made her even more gangsta and I love her for it. Not to mention, this is a spot on representation of me about 75% of the time. :P

*whistles* I think this icon speaks for itself. It's my reminder. So I don't, you know, lose focus when the boys start taking their clothes off. *cough* FAT CHANCE.

Thank God it's October happysigh

2007-10-07T21:45:27Z

Been awhile since I made any icons. Got lazy, what can I say? :P Back to trying more simple styles, lots of focus on color. (Anyone else notice how much MORE color there was in 3x01? I just about died when I realized I only made a handful of b&w icons in this bunch. Hee.)

42 Supernatural Icons
1-30: The Magnificent Seven
31-42: SPN - Random

Tease-erosity:

001	002	003	004

005	006	007	008

009	010	011	012

013	014	015	016

017	018	019	020

021	022	023	024

025	026	027	028

029	030	031	032

033	034	035	036

037	038	039	040

041	042	043	044

*comments are ♥ ♥ ♥
*credit is nice but totally up to you. :)

New Jersey Surprise: Now With Even More Nuts!

2007-09-20T10:51:27Z

So after "One Less Again, and Only One Left," I was in need of something snarky, cheeky even. And this was the slightly weird fic that resulted.

Oh and I got a new layout! Hopefully it's easier to read. I like it, looks pretty pimp if you ask me. :P Unbiased feedback is appreciated though, of course.

Title: New Jersey Surprise: Now With Even More Nuts!
Author: panicstrickyn
Pairing/Character: Sam, Dean, the Jersey devil
Word Count: 2900+
Rating: R – for language only. The rest is PG at worst.
Summary: The boys hunt down the Jersey devil; a tongue-in-cheek, Dean POV piece. No angst! w00t!
Spoilers: None really. Takes place some time after Faith.
Warnings: Unbeta’d, because I’m too lazy to look for one. Honestly. Volunteers for future fics are not only welcome, but appreciated. *waggles eyebrows and flashes a bit of thigh*
Disclaimer: Don’t own Supernatural or the boys, not making any money, just taking them out for a test-drive, vroom vroom.

You know what blows? Jersey. In January. A fucking cold, fucking bleak, soul-sucking place. I wouldn’t wish Jersey in January on anyone.

Ok, maybe that’s a lie.

Still, I certainly wouldn’t wish it on me and Sam. Every hour we spend here has me thinking I’ll need therapy after this job is done. No, no. Screw that pansy shit. I’ll just hole up with a hot redhead for a day or two, maybe find a beach cabin in the Keys with broken air conditioning and a fully stocked mini bar.

I’m sure Sam won’t mind sleeping in the car for the sake of my ‘recuperation.’

Right, right.

So, yeah, what was I saying? Right, Jersey, January, a cold day in Hell.

We got wind of devil sightings a few days ago. The fucking Jersey devil, can you believe it? I can’t.

Dad has always insisted it was a case of mass hysteria, the multiple sightings that happened over a week’s time in January 1909. The other scattered encounters, well he just chalks those up to over active imaginations and people with nothing better to do than gossip.

But, they’ve started up again, in the same week they happened all those years ago, so we figure it’s best to check it out. Scratch that. Sam thinks it's best we check it out. ‘Better safe than sorry,’ yada yada yada.

I think the locals are just cold. And bored. But, I’d rather spend a few days freezing my nuts off than listening to Sammy bitch.

He thinks I’m pushy. What a joke.

* * *

So we get to the Pine Barrens, the neighborhood where a majority of the latest sightings have been. We spend a day talking to the ‘victims,’ old women mostly, with long drawn out stories about a monster with black wings and hooves. Sammy does what he does best, plays sympathetic, and gets the details we need. Not surprisingly, most of them want to talk, and don’t even care about our cover story. I just look serious, keep my eyes open, and nod whenever it seems appropriate.

Sam pretends not to notice the ‘I told you so’ look I give him after several stories have holes the size of his big, fat head. Fine, ignore me all you want bro. I’ll be reminding you later that you just made me freeze my ass off for nothing as we high-tail it out of this crap town.

These old ladies, with their crocheted tea cozies, doilies, sofa slip covers – they’re just bored out of their skulls. The last house we visit though, it breaks pattern. It’s a family of three – a man, his wife, and their twelve year old daughter.

It’s the kid that saw it first. Her parents tell us how they ignored her frantic pointing at the window in her room, tried to calm her down, but something passed over the house, flew past the windows, its wings casting a long shadow into the girl’s bedroom where they stood.

I don’t know about Sam, but the girl’s eyes give me the heebie jeebies. They’re flat, no light. She doesn’t seem afraid, just weirdly calm.

She tells us it talked to her, it asked for her name, it asked for something to drink. That’s it.

I throw my brother a look at this point. The other sightings haven’t been like this. Just fly bys, a few mentions of movement on the roof that sounded like the clomping of hooves, but no conversations, no requests for a goddamn beverage.

Sam keeps his head on straight and asks if we can take a look around the girl’s room. The husband looks like he might protest, but Sammy turns on all that good ol’ boy charm, puts those big, weepy eyes to work, and the wife leads us up with shuffling hands and embarrassed, flirty smiles.

If only he would use that power to get himself laid, life would be so much easier.

Anyway, there’s not much to the room. It’s pink. Not baby pink, not something you could kind of ignore if you kept your eyes on the off-white carpeting. I’m talking pepto-fucking-bismol pink. I think my eyes are still bleeding.

I hurry over to the windowsill, with my eyes slit half-shut to keep out the glare. Hoof prints are just outside the window, like something has perched there recently. Maybe it has, maybe the girl isn’t having an episode, those flat doll-eyes give me doubts, but maybe she isn’t. Maybe a mythical devil/bird/creature/beast sat on her windowsill a couple nights ago, had a nice little chit chat, and then politely asked for a cup of tea.

I hold back the urge to see if it asked for one lump of sugar or two. Who says I don’t have any tact?

You know, normally, I’m quick to admit when we’re dealing with ‘our kind of problem,’ but this? I don’t know. It just seems too silly, too witch hunt, too Edgar Allan Poe, too Grimm Brothers.

* * *

“We can’t just bail, Dean,” Sam says after we get settled in at the motel.

I’ve got the Browning Hi-Power stripped down, clean as a whistle. The familiar metal feel of a gun in my hands is cool and comforting. I’ve dealt with a lot of weird shit in my time, but this job just rubs me the wrong way.

“Oh yes, we can. It hasn’t hurt anyone. And we have no clue how to track it down. Have we ever managed to catch anything with wings, Sammy? And no, that turkey you shot on complete fucking accident when you were eleven doesn’t count.”

“That was a clean shot!”

Gotta love the look of insulted pride on Sam’s face. Too easy.

“Riiight. Sure thing, dude. Anyway, a turkey is a far cry from the damn Jersey devil. We don’t know where it sleeps. We don’t know how to track it, what to look for. We don’t even know if it can be killed. IF it even exists.”

“We still can’t just leave town. We gotta check it out. What if it does hurt someone? Won’t you feel even a little bit guilty?”

Putting the Browning back together distracts me long enough to push down the urge to tell him no, it won’t bother me. He’ll know it’s a lie and I just don’t want to hear it. He can be such a condescending pain in the ass sometimes. Condescending…that’s a big word. Damn, I’ve been hanging around his bookworm ass for too long.

“Fine. Whatever. I’m going to clean every weapon we have, keep the heat on high, and watch some TV. You think of a way to track down something that doesn’t leave any tracks, you let me know, Sherlock.”

* * *

Cocky little fucker figures it out. It takes two days of really crappy television, and a second pass over our entire arsenal of guns and knives, but he figures it out. Comes in all full of himself, slaps a piece of paper down on the table and gives me this look.

“Its hideout is only about fifteen miles from here. Just off the Mullica River. Found an abandoned paper mill that happens to be smack in the center of all the sightings. Not just the latest, but all of them.”

He waits. Like I’m gonna say, “Way to go buddy, good job!”

I just raise an eyebrow and drink down the rest of my beer, eyes locked on the TV screen.

“Well?” he finally says, rapping those Sasquatch knuckles against the map on the table.

“You’re driving. Don’t get any of that smug self-satisfaction on my seat.”

* * *

Ten minutes later, the ear-to-ear grin on Sam’s face isn’t so funny anymore. Luckily, the boarded up mill comes into sight and I remember the one thing Mr. Smarty-pants has yet to enlighten me about.

“So. Any clue how to kill it, you know, just in case it’s not friendly?”

Watching the grin slide off his face like melted cheese falling off a piping hot pizza is a priceless moment in history I wish I could have captured on film. Oh well.

“No clue, huh? That’s too bad. Looks like we better hope Mister Thirsty Peeping-Tom is polite.”

Sam glares and puts the car in park. I flash a thin-lipped smile and snatch the keys out of his hand.

I’m not really sure what to take out of the trunk, so I just grab a mishmash of what we work best with, plus what might be able to handle a longer distance shot, in case the devil takes flight. Shotguns, crossbows, extra bolts, a box of shells, and we’re a go. With the full bag slung over my shoulder and a crossbow in hand, I creep low and follow Sam’s hulking frame through the overgrown bushes around the mill.

We circle around the building, looking for an easy, quiet entrance. A small grate on the east side looks promising. Shimmying up to the opening, we pull off the grate and drop down into a small storage room.

You know, this would be a perfect spot for the Mission Impossible theme. Know it? Hum it for me.

Eh. Close enough.

Ok, so we’re in the storage room, yeah? Place smells like fifty year old mops. Dirty ones at that. Blegh.

There’s a short set of stairs on the far side of the room, and a doorway. No door. Place has been pretty hollowed out of any spare wood, now that I take a look around. Shelves are missing, with only a few slabs of wood still attached to the walls to let us know they were there in the first place.

We get on opposite sides of the door, crossbows ready, breathing steady. This isn’t our usual shoot first, ask questions never kind of situation, so we’re a bit out of our element.

How exactly do you ask a mythical creature if it plans on eating any of the locals any time soon?

Worry about that later, find the thing first.

Peeking around the door frame, we can’t see too far into the gloom of the main room but there’s a good sized bit of cover to the left with nothing but a wall at its back, so I scurry over to it with Sam in tow. From behind an overturned piece of equipment, we’ve got a clear view of most of the rest of the room.

Factory equipment is everywhere. Grimy, dusty, broken, leaning, you name it. There’s a strip of ragged conveyor belt running along the west wall, an enormous hole in the roof, and a pile of wood in the rough shape of a huge bird’s nest at the north end.

We don’t see it at first, because the edge of the nest is about six feet high and we’re too far away. We do see shadows though, on the wall next to the nest – first some shapeless ones, moving about, then a flexing wing that’s clear and defined. Looks like a bat wing, only huge.

I take a quick glance at Sam. He nods to let me know he saw it too, and then we move from cover to cover, next to the strip of belt, until we’re just ten feet or so away.

We can hear voices now, coming from the depths of the nest. Sam’s eyebrows furrow together, and I’m guessing I have a similar look of focus on my face.

“But Shane, we can’t just leave the girl to fend for herself. That poltergeist could really hurt her.”

“I know that, Danny. I’m not an idiot. But we’re out of cayenne pepper, and the thing was cremated. What do you suggest we do? Wave our shotguns around and then do the hokey pokey til it gets annoyed enough to leave?”

Sam blinks, hard, and gives me a crazy look. I gotta admit, I’m stumped too. So I crawl up onto the conveyor belt. Sam joins me, and we peer over the edge. For once in my whole damn life, I’m truly and completed shocked.

Ok…there was that one time, with the water, and the basement, and the taser. Different story, sorry.

Directly in front of us, we can see a television, a nice one. Flat screen, possibly plasma, but at the very least HD. There’s a satellite box and a DVD player next to it, plus a stack of DVDs to the other side. The screen flickers a touch, and a twelve foot long wing reaches out and smacks the satellite box in obvious irritation.

“Stupid dish, wish I could get cable out here,” a high-pitched, nasal voice mutters from beneath our perch.

Two men are on the screen, dodging flying objects, a toaster, glass tumblers, a frying pan.

“Shane! We gotta get Karen out of here!” the dark-haired one yells.

“Ya think?!” the other ones responds belligerently before sidestepping a flying cookie jar.

The devil’s round, bear-like ears twitch, and it stretches out its long, thin legs to prop its hooves on the square ottoman in front of it.

A manly choked scream draws my attention back to the TV. The dark-haired one (Danny was it?) is being dragged across the floor, a strip of saran wrap twisted tight around his throat.

“Oh, come on! Not this shit again,” the devil snorts. “Should get that boy a neon-sign that says ‘Don’t Forget to Choke Me, Have a Nice Day!’”

I can’t help it. I shoot a sidelong glance at Sam, a dumbfounded grin on my face. He has this ‘we gotta be in the Twilight Zone’ look on his face, and he’s gnawing on his bottom lip.

Just then, the devil’s spins and stands and we’re staring into amber colored eyes that look just as surprised as ours must. Its nose is long, horse-like, and two small upward-pointing fangs jut from its bottom lip. It huffs a breath through its flaring nostrils and blinks twice at us.

“Well, hello there. I wasn’t aware I had company.”

My grip on the crossbow tightens, but it’s pointed at the ground since I’m not looking to piss the thing off just yet.

“Please, please. Come in!” it howls cheerily in that tinny voice, and grins. At least I think it’s a grin. The flashing rows of sharp little teeth are a bit hard to read.

Sam tugs on my sleeve, as if I need encouragement NOT to get inside this creature’s nest, but it just keeps waving one hoof and scooting back to give us room to climb over the edge.

“Son-of-a-bitch! Dan? Danny! Dude, talk to me!”

The devil glances at the television, as if to check for itself that ‘Danny’ is in fact still in one piece after his encounter with the evil saran wrap. Sam shoves at me, eyes widening and narrowing frantically like he’s trying to tell me something in Morse code with his eyelashes, but the devil’s gaze is back on us fast.

“No really, please. I promise I won’t harm you. I haven’t had a decent conversation in years. Damn humans, you’re all so nervous and easily spooked. I don’t even eat meat!” it chortles, gesturing towards the pile of hay on the left side of the nest.

I look at Sam, because he’s tugging nervously on my sleeve again like he did when he was six and I had to drag him up to practically rope him onto that mall Santa’s lap.

The thing is, I’m an instinct kind of guy. And the creature simply isn’t setting off any warning bells at this point. No bones lying around, no grinning human skulls, no dark magic symbols, nothing. There’s only a half empty bag of peanut M&M’s, a slightly dented universal remote, and what looks like a really old copy of Entertainment Weekly. Not exactly the stuff of nightmares.

Grabbing Sam by the collar, I jerk him into the nest with me. It’s deeper than it looks, and we end up sliding down the sloped wall on our butts.

The devil chuckles, sits back down in its straw chair-type-thing, and the weirdest afternoon of our lives begins.

* * *

“Wait, so their brothers, and they hunt ghosts? That’s it? That’s the plot of the show?” Sam says, incredulously.

“Yes, well, not just ghosts, but yes. They drive around in this big white, ’65 Malibu, and they hunt down evil,” the devil chirps.

“And the younger one, he’s a whiney type is he? Kind of emotional…womanly, that sort of thing?” I add, flashing a toothy smile at my clearly irritated little brother.

“Ha ha! Yes, a bit. But he’s got a big heart and a good head on his shoulders. The other one’s a bit dim,” the devil answers, chopping on some M&M’s.

I ignore Sam’s snort of laughter, and snatch a handful of the candy for myself. With a mouth full of chocolate, peanut, and candy shell delight, I grumble out a response.

“Maybe so, but at least he’s better looking.”

* * *

Four hours later, we’re saying our goodbyes to Charles – hey, that was his name! – and working our way out to the car.

Sam is chewing the inside of his cheek. I can almost hear the deep thought in process.

Amazingly, my little brother surprises me.

“That Danny guy needs to get laid. Don’t you think?”

“I couldn’t agree more, Sammy.”

You probably could have heard our relieved, and slightly hysterical laughter for miles around.

spnicon100 update - 20 icons

2007-09-16T08:34:16Z

Updating my spnicon100 with 20 icons. I'm seriously burnt out on ideas. Note to self: pick an episode that has less night scenes next time around. Ha ha, right. Evil show.

Anywho, a birthday present for frozeneyes - I know it's not for a couple more days but since the 18th is also my birthday, I just know I'll get busy and forget to post it. :P Hope it's a fantabulous day! ♥

Annnd, randomness - it's FREAKINAWESOME that David Lee Roth is touring with Van Halen again. On the flip side, I very much hate my lack of money for a ticket. Bleghity.

Subject: 1x17 Hell House
Number of icons completed: 68/100
Themes: 24/25

Tease-erosity:


001 Scared	002 Alone	003 Love	004 Hunger

005 Desire	006 OMG	007 WTF?!	008 Happy

009 Lyrics	010 Fight	011 Revenge	012 Secret

013 Lips	014 Weapon	015 Haunted	016 Lost

017 Brothers	018 Family	019 Hope	020 Pranks

021 Car	022 Ghosts	023 Danger	024 Pain

025 B&W	026 Artist Choice	027 Artist Choice	028 Artist Choice

029 Artist Choice	030 Artist Choice	031 Artist Choice	032 Artist Choice

033 Artist Choice	034 Artist Choice	035 Artist Choice	036 Artist Choice

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097 Artist Choice	098 Artist Choice	099 Artist Choice	100 Artist Choice

*comments are ♥ ♥ ♥
*credit is nice but not required.
*please don't claim them as your own, or edit them, thank you
*hotlinking is EVIL, just don't do it

panicstrickyn @ 2007-09-12T20:14:00

2007-09-13T03:11:10Z

Title: One Less Again, and Only One Left
Author: panicstrickyn
Characters: Sam, Dean, a mention of Papa Winchester, Crossroads Demon
Word Count: 1400+
Rating: PG-13 for a bit of language.
Summary: “Still, they’re together, which is better than before, better than those lost years. Better, but meaner, so much harder when things just keep going wrong. Kid can’t catch a break, and his brother’s already broken. They push on, and they get stronger, and they get closer, but life is cruel and Death is charging down on them with a vengeance.”
Spoilers: Mostly takes place post season 2 finale
Warnings: Unbeta’d because I wrote this with the plan that I’d throw all my grammar nazi tendencies out the window and just write. Beware: M-angst galore. Oh, and I’m still really new to fanfic, as in this is only my second attempt so…yeah. :P
Disclaimer: Don’t own Supernatural or the boys, not making any money, just taking them out for a test-drive, vroom vroom.

Edit 18 Nov 2007 - There's a sequel now. No such thing as a Broken Winchester

Right. So.

There’s this kid, scrawny thing with big feet and bigger hands and a mop of dark hair that has him constantly pushing it out of his face. Luckily, God gave him a wicked sharp brain and puppy dog eyes for when smarts aren’t good enough to get him what he needs.

And then there’s his older brother, right, with these shoulders that he hasn’t quite grown into yet, even at sixteen, and these owlish green eyes, but that mouth, that mouth just needs two more years to be legal death – the kind that makes your skin tighten in all the ~~wrong~~ right places.

Right. So.

This kid, his name’s Sam ‘don’t call me Sammy’ Winchester and no matter how innocent he looks, don’t let that child’s face fool you. Watch the eyes. Watch them turn shifty and calculating, watch them because if you don’t, they’ll be watching you and they’ll be waiting. He’ll know your weaknesses better than he knows his own.

The other one, Dean, he’s easier to figure out but harder to manage. You can watch the eyes if you want to, and they’ll tell you some of what you need to know about what’s going on inside that devil’s mind of his, but in the end, he’ll use that mouth to bring you down. Better to watch your wallet, your clothes, your sanity, because that one, that one will have you handing them all over with a smile on your face.

Their dad is around sometimes, and oh shit, if the three of them are in one place, you’re better off crawling under cover and praying for a miracle because they’ll use all that slick-as-oil charm, those eyes, that mouth, they’ll use it all to get whatever they need. It’s a given.

Right. So.

Kid grows up, yeah, and the brother too of course, and time gets away from them for awhile. The eyes are still going strong, and that mouth is killing willing victims left and right. But they grow away, apart, whatever, and those gifts aren’t put to use like they could have been, like they were once.

When the dad dies, it’s like they remember. They remember what family once meant, only now there’s one less, and the world is breaking apart into pieces so small they’re not sure they’ll ever find them all.

Still, they’re together, which is better than before, better than those lost years. Better, but meaner, so much harder when things just keep going wrong. Kid can’t catch a break, and his brother’s already broken. They push on, and they get stronger, and they get closer, but life is cruel and Death is charging down on them with a vengeance.

Still, they push on. Those eyes shed tears of laughter and of sadness. That mouth smirks and it screams. Months go by, and the dad is still gone forever, but they almost feel whole again. Almost. Past the pain and the knock knock knock of destiny at the door.

Right. So.

A deal is made because the one with the mouth can’t bury the other, can’t be the last, can’t fail his little brother. The gate to Hell gets opened, and now, now the brothers have more on their plate than they ever imagined because the clock is ticking, and the kid, he can’t stop thinking about how he has just one year to fix it all, or there will be one less again and only one left.

They spend months tracking, exorcising, fighting the good fight, only there’s still too many to find and too little time. The kid won’t make a deal, though he wants to and he dreams about crossroads and all that he is put inside a little box. It won’t solve the problem though, and they both know their dealing days are done because why would the demon give them any more time to figure out a loophole, to find a way out.

So the brother fights. And the kid counts the days with ice cold fear in his veins. Hours at the computer, random libraries in out of the way towns, phone call after phone call, unanswered prayers in the dark with Dean mumbling in his sleep in the bed across the room. It all amounts to nothing more than time wasted and another day less. Half a year gets pissed down the toilet with nothing to show for it but a handful of demons dealt with and six months left on the clock.

Right. So.

The kid insists they go to a fortune teller, on a drunken whim, and the brother only goes because he can’t bear the look, can’t deny the eyes. He’d rather hunt or drink himself into oblivion or fuck anything that walks, but no. They go, and they sit at a little table across from some wizened old hag and she looks over at Dean like he’s sprouted horns and a Grim Reaper’s hood somewhere between the door and the chair.

That look says more than all the books and all the research in all the world ever could. There is no loophole. There is no way out.

Sam says, “No more psychics. They’re all full of shit anyway,” and slams the Impala door.

“Whatever you say, Sammy,” his brother murmurs and starts the car. Bob Seger sings you really don't think it would make any sense, cause you know who you are, and then they’re back on the road again.

Right. So.

Five more months whiz by in the blink of an eye.

“I can’t do this alone,” the kid says, one night, when the moon is riding high and there isn’t an ounce of hope to cling to anymore, only a half empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Red, only a month ‘til his brother’s dead.

Dean gives him that devil’s smile, remembers saying those words, remembers though it seems like a lifetime ago now, and says the only thing he can say.

“Yes you can.”

The universe comes full circle when the kid drops his head, hides those agonized eyes and whispers against the neck of the bottle in his hands.

“Well I don’t want to.”

Right. So.

There’s this kid, and he’s not so scrawny anymore. Not by a long shot. He outgrew his brother a long time ago but in his heart Dean’s still bigger, bigger and badder than anyone, bigger than life, and height doesn’t mean a damn thing.

That last month is the shortest and the longest month of their lives. Short on the good night’s – when they play poker or dominoes or watch really bad movies, and they talk and they drink, until their delirious laughter can be heard by anyone within a twelve mile radius. Long on the bad days – when Sam dials every contact he’s every known for the millionth time, until his fingers are raw and his voice gives out and Dean has to take a tire iron to both their cells and the motel phone.

Sometimes, they just sit in silence, and Sam tries not to tick of the seconds on his fingers.

Sometimes, they fight rage scream, until a punch is thrown and then another, and each bruise, each cut, isn’t half as bad as the ones they can’t see.

They don’t hunt. The kid can’t focus past the dread and he’ll only end up dead which is his brother’s worst nightmare, all of it for nothing. Dean keeps on smirking though, right up until the last day, because to think about what happens to a Winchester in Hell is just too much for him to handle.

Right. So.

The crossroads demon is there, knocking at the motel door, when time runs out. Knocking, for fuck’s sake, like a Girl Scout, only she doesn’t have any cookies, not like they’d buy them off her anyway. Can’t take anything with you, you know. Not even Tagalongs, though if you could, Dean wouldn’t mind a bit of that peanut butter and chocolate Heaven for the elevator ride down to Hell.

“Take me,” the kid says to the demon, whose only half-listening with her head cocked to the side.

“Shut up, Sammy, just shut up. It’s done. It’s over. Just let it go. Let me go.”

“No.”

Right. So.

Kid grows up, and his brother too of course, and the kid won’t bury the other, won’t be the last, won’t leave his older brother. The kid cuts a deal, with his brother screaming and denying and refusing in vain. The kid cuts a deal, because even a demon isn’t immune to those eyes, and it is a good deal after all.

Why take one Winchester, when you can have them both?

Sequel

spnicon100 - second batch

2007-08-18T20:47:05Z

Updating my spnicon100 with 21 icons. I'm not even halfway through and I'm just about out of ideas for the bases I have. Not a good sign! *snicker* Gonna have to watch the ep again and pay attention to something other than the boys harassing each other. Faaaatt chance.

~~And on a side note, I'm currently not getting any of my notifications. *evilglare* Not cool.~~
Now I'm getting them...hours later. *blinkity*

Subject: 1x17 Hell House
Number of icons completed: 48/100
Themes: 22/25

Tease-erosity:


001 Scared	002 Alone	003 Love	004 Hunger

005 Desire	006 OMG	007 WTF?!	008 Happy

009 Lyrics	010 Fight	011 Revenge	012 Secret

013 Lips	014 Weapon	015 Haunted	016 Lost

017 Brothers	018 Family	019 Hope	020 Pranks

021 Car	022 Ghosts	023 Danger	024 Pain

025 B&W	026 Artist Choice	027 Artist Choice	028 Artist Choice

029 Artist Choice	030 Artist Choice	031 Artist Choice	032 Artist Choice

033 Artist Choice	034 Artist Choice	035 Artist Choice	036 Artist Choice

037 Artist Choice	038 Artist Choice	039 Artist Choice	040 Artist Choice

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*comments are ♥ ♥ ♥
*credit is nice but not required.
*please don't claim them as your own, or edit them, thank you
*hotlinking is EVIL, just don't do it

Ugh

2007-08-13T06:01:45Z

I'm not thrilled with any of my SPN icons anymore. I keep trying different things and being generally irritated with the whole bunch. Ah well, the HP icons were fun atleast. :P

I'm started getting into manips now. I've included my first 3 attempts and a blend I made out of them. I'm using Jensen for James Potter, and a friend is using Sophia for Lily (with her hair colored red, of course) on a Marauder Era board, so it's likely that I'll do a few more of these as time goes on. New hobby, w00t!

29 Mixed Fandom Icons
1-15: SPN/Jensen/Jared - Random
16-29: HP - Sorcerer's Stone

3: Jensen/Sophia Manips
1: Jensen/Sophia Blend

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*comments are ♥ ♥ ♥
*credit is nice but it's not like I can really hunt you down or anything. ^_^
(but please don't claim them as your own, or edit them, thank you)*
*hotlinking is EVIL, just don't do it*

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Cram it with walnuts, ugly

23 Supernatural Icons

Chuck/Sarah makes me giddy

I'm just trying to get up to 88 mph so I can get back to 1985.

Perky nipples, douchey iPODS, and reborn LJs, oh my

panicstrickyn @ 2008-05-18T13:29:00

David Caruso should cameo now, just for kicks.

I think of a title later...maybe

SPN fic: Reality Is A Ticking Time-Bomb

When this is all over, I am going to have so much sex...

Titles are for people without short attention spans

Can't sleep, clowns will eat me.

8 Facts about me...

Band Meme

SPN fic: In the Blink of an Eye (or Moments Lost to Tragedy)

panicstrickyn @ 2007-12-14T11:52:00

spn13 fic - Death prompt

38 Multifandom Icons

spnicon100 update - last 32 icons

Meme-i-licious

Thank God it's October *happysigh*

New Jersey Surprise: Now With Even More Nuts!

spnicon100 update - 20 icons

panicstrickyn @ 2007-09-12T20:14:00

spnicon100 - second batch

Ugh

Thank God it's October happysigh

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