I'm just a teeny bit excited about this - after all the fabulous madness of my dapplegrey art Summer, this is my first free weekend for four weeks.
Mr D is off up to Derbyshire doing manly things with his manly mates (Yomping around the Pennines he says. Sitting in the pub punishing his liver I say), so this means that I will have a whole two and a half days free with nothing to do. Nothing except draw and write. No distractions, no interruptions!
I'm going to write words - I'm determined. It's been WAAAAY too long :)
So to celebrate, I'm airing this little golden oldie of mine, based on something written by some bloke from a few years ago who got a bit famous for writing words.
A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DEAN
Rating: T (ish)
Characters: Sam and Dean
Word Count: 1,200
It's midsummer, it's raining and Dean's oh, so grumpy. Our boys are investigating a spate of disappearances of young, handsome guys, but the Impala's untimely breakdown sends the investigation in an entirely unexpected direction ...
The evening sun slipped slowly behind oppressive, rain-laden clouds, bringing a baleful blood-red twilight as Dean stomped along. Huddling miserably into his jacket, he pulled the collar up against the torrential rain which, driven by a vicious, biting wind, whipped at his stinging face.
Trudging grouchily through the deluge once it had become evident that the storm had knocked out any hope of a cellphone signal, Dean had set out to find help after the Impala had unexpectedly broken down; he'd reluctantly left his baby listing sadly on the roadside with hissing steam pouring from under her hood.
'Overheated', Sam had said; yeah, thanks Captain Obvious; and there was me thinking it was a friggin' puncture, eh?
Useless great lump; wouldn't know a burst radiator pipe if someone shoved it up his ass. Dean snorted sourly as he thought of Sam sitting comfortably inside the crippled car with strict instructions to look after her and just as crucially, the hidden arsenal in her trunk.
Of course, she would break down here; miles from anywhere in friggin' armpitsville or whatever the crappy place was called.
Swearing colourfully under his breath, he shuddered as a stray raindrop tickled a chilly trail down his spine.
Then he saw it.
He didn't notice it at first, but it was definitely there; a few hundred yards ahead of him. A tall isolated redbrick house.
It was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen.
Grinning with relief, he broke into a trot; the first building he'd seen since he set off, and buildings meant people and phones.
As he approached however, his heart sank when he saw the building was utterly derelict, leaning drunkenly amidst a dismal scattering of it's own fallen masonry. As he stared up at the forsaken shell, he swore quietly; no goddamn people or phones here.
Picking his way through the wasteland of broken glass and shattered roof tiles, he approached the door, barely noticing the faint traces of red paint which still clung to it's rotted wood and decided it could, at least offer shelter. He could hole up here overnight and dry off, setting off again in the morning; hopefully without the rain for company.
He glanced up at the turreted vaguely gothic building and his nose wrinkled in disgust. "Regular frickin' love nest," he grunted.
The ancient door frame was so rotted, it took only a firm shove with his hand to push the door off it's hinges.
Standing on the doorstep, he peered inside.
Okay, that was unexpected.
He blinked again.
Through the doorframe, Dean was staring in wide-eyed confusion at a verdant, sunlit meadow bordered by a cluster of mighty oaks which rippled and sighed in a soft zephyr. A faint fragrance of lavender drifted past him.
He frowned, glancing back into the stormy darkness behind him.
"What the hell?"
He rubbed his eyes and stared again, feeling his jaw drop as a herd of deer, their ivory pelts glistening and sparkling in the radiant sunlight, loped past.
Stepping cautiously over the crumbling threshold into the meadow, he tried without success to rationalise what he was seeing, his eyes following the meandering flight path of a little fat nectar-drunk bumblebee.
"What is this; freakin' Narnia?"
He suddenly flinched on hearing a woman's voice behind him ...
"I've been waiting for you."
Turning to face the voice, he swayed briefly as his heart froze.
A tall, lissome beauty approached him; "welcome, my brave warrior," she smiled, gazing with undisguised pleasure at the bedraggled, hopelessly baffled figure before her as he stood in a growing puddle of dripping rainwater.
Dean gaped helplessly.
A narrow gold coronet sparkled on her flawless brow, gathering in her glossy chestnut hair which pooled round her slim shoulders; Dean's eyes greedily feasted on her silver brocade gown which skimmed her slender figure, resting low around her shoulders where more gold decorated her elegant neck.
The woman's pale skin shimmered in the dappled sunlight with a ethereal luminescent glow.
"Wh-who are you?" Dean finally managed to choke out a hoarse squeak, as he floundered in her sparkling midnight blue eyes.
Raising a slender hand, she cupped his cheek; her touch feeling pleasantly warm against his wet skin.
"My people call me their Queen;" she explained softly, her hand ghosting across his jaw, following the contour of his neck, and finding the ridge of his collarbone.
"I am Titania, Queen of the Fae."
She moved closer; her soft fingertips skimming over his t-shirt, tracing the hard plane of his sternum to the hollow of his chest. He faltered on watery legs, paralysed into a helpless stupor, and closed his eyes; gulping back shuddering breaths as he inhaled the intoxicating scents of meadowgrass, honeysuckle and cinnamon which surrounded her.
"My people grow weak;" she sighed sadly, her eyes dropping to her elegant sandalled feet. "We need new strength; fresh, perfect blood to make us whole once more."
The slender fingertips continued their teasing journey, tracing a soft trail lower and lower, finding the dip of his navel through the smooth fabric, and settling at his belt buckle.
Powerless, he couldn't believe his shaking, weakened knees were still managing to keep him upright; he heard himself whimper as he trembled under her exquisite touch.
She leaned forward and whispered closely in his ear; "Join us, my friend; join us." As she stood back, she offered an outstretched hand; "take this offering as a gesture of my love;" she smiled beatifically, presenting Dean with a single strawberry.
Mesmerised, his glazed eyes flickered open and he obediently reached out toward the morsel.
Suddenly he felt himself pulled violently backward through the decrepit doorframe by strong arms wrapped tightly around his waist.
"DEAN!" Sam's voice barked at him, terrified; "DEAN … " It took a hard slap across the face to bring him back to his senses.
"Did you eat it?" Sam demanded urgently, grasping Dean's arms and shaking him; "did you?"
"Uh, n-no …" Dean stammered; "the hell? … how did you …?" He stared at Sam in pebble-eyed confusion.
"Faerie food." Sam continued, "if you'd eaten it, even just a taste; you'd have been lost to this world forever."
Dean stared at him, still bewildered.
"That's where our missing dudes went," Sam explained breathlessly, "every hundred years the faerie race look for fresh human blood to strengthen their kind." He took a deep breath to steady himself; "they always take strong, fit, physically attractive male specimens; good breeding stock."
"How the hell did you know?"
Sam smiled; "I might be crap at cars, but I can research the hell outta your ass."
Dean gulped, rubbing his damp brow; "crap, man, that was freakin' weird!" He glanced back through the doorway of the derelict house, this time through a gauze of fluttering cobwebs into black emptiness.
An age passed as the brothers stood in the pouring rain reflecting on their lucky escape.
Eventually it was Dean that broke the silence; "so, are you telling' me that if you hadn't turned up when you did, I would have eaten that strawberry then spent the rest of eternity banging that smokin' hot chick?"
"Uh, yeah" Sam nodded.
Dean hesitated in thought for a moment.
"I hate you."