It's five years since I entered fandom. That is to say, five years since I posted my very first Supernatural fanfiction over on Fanfiction.net, and that was my first step on this amazing journey I've been on with all you amazing and wonderful guys.
That journey has brought me lots of great friends, taken me to conventions, rekindled my love of creative writing, taught me how to make digital art, brought the little plastic people into my life, and generally been one of the best things I have ever done.
And yet, at the beginning of it all was one little story. Something that came to me quite randomly one evening and just nagged and niggled at me, until it insisted on being posted online for posterity; and in celebration of my five year anniversary - this is that story, exactly as I wrote it five years ago!
Characters: Sam, Dean, Castiel
Word Count: approx 700
Disclaimer: I don't own them
An aimless drive across country while Sam fruitlessly researched their next hunt ended at dusk in some utterly forgettable one-horse burg at the arse end of nowhere. Both brothers were hot, irritable and the bickering that had been going on for several hours continued as they unlocked the door to their catsick green room.
Dean dropped his duffel on the floor and engaged Sam in a measured debate about first use of the shower.
"I'm getting first shower, big brother privilege; so suck it up Princess".
He grinned his carefully calculated most annoying grin, the one he reserved exclusively for Sammy, and slammed the bathroom door behind him with an undeniable sense of smug satisfaction.
Sam stood glowering at the bathroom door as the words "get pizza" were fired at him from behind it. He wondered what he had done in a past life that deserved the penance of being the younger sibling to the worlds oldest nine-year-old. He let his duffel drop from his hand onto the floor, and turned huffily on his heel back outside muttering threats involving Dean's pizza and his own bodily fluids. As he wandered off the motel forecourt, he shook his head and sighed; What's the point? Dean would probably still eat it anyway.
The bathroom was steadily filling with steam and from behind a mould-stained shower curtain, the hiss of pouring water played out a backdrop to an echoey and very loud rendition of 'Highway to Hell'; a hitherto unknown version where melody appeared to be nothing more than an optional extra.
The first outward sign of the angel's arrival was a slight flutter to the bottom of the shower curtain. "I'm on a hiiiiiiighway to hell, don't s-s-SON OF A BITCH!" was the second; the tuneless baritone climbing to a violently falsetto squeak. The casual observer would have seen a wet, bare arm aggressively shove the soaked and oblivious angel backwards through the shower curtain, his face a picture of sublime bewilderment even as the flying bottle of "Stud" shower gel bounced off his forehead.
The hand attached to the same arm groped blindly around the side of the shower curtain for a towel.
"Towel, Cas, NOW" came the voice.
Castiel passed a towel from the nearby rail to the hand which disappeared back behind the curtain.
Seconds later there was a muttered oath and the towel followed the shower gel on an ariel path to Castiel's face.
"Bigger towel" came the voice again with a hint of exasperation.
Castiel passed a noticeably bigger towel to the arm which once again appeared around the curtain.
Eventually, the shower curtain was flung back with a metallic tinkle and Dean's soaked towel wrapped figure stood under the dripping rail glaring green daggers at the sodden angel.
"What part of personal freakin' space don't you understand?" he growled.
"my apologies" replied Castiel calmly as water dripped off the end of his nose, "I did not know you were partaking of your ablutions".
"partake … abloo … WHAT?"
Castiel cocked his head in that endearingly bemused way of his, "it is clearly not convenient - I will come back another time"
"You do that", snarked Dean, maintaining his death grip on his towel.
The evening had passed quietly and amiably, and both brothers sat on their beds, sated by pizza, chocolate and beer, both absent-mindedly watching a game that neither of them had much interest in. "Gotta go" huffed Dean; four bottles of beer will do that to a man; he slid inelegantly off the side of the bed and padded barefoot to the bathroom.
Standing in front of the can, and after a protracted exercise in unbuttoning his fly, he began to take care of business.
From his bed, Sam didn't see the golden stream hit the ceiling, but he did hear the yelp, "SON OF A … !"