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fic_promptly prompts. Thanks to scribblesinink, who betaed all the pieces. Lengths are 310, 300 and 225 words.
Prompt: Supernatural, Dean, he learned to make money stretch as far as possible when he was young and how to tell the time so he could judge when his Dad was due back and when things were a problem.
Calculated
"No, Sammy, not those." Dean took the bag of candy out of the shopping basket and put it back on the shelf. "You'll like these much better."
He picked a different bag of candy from the shelf above and showed it to Sam, before dropping it in the basket. It was half the size and a third the price and the candy wouldn't be as nice, but Sam wasn't yet old enough to figure that out. Even so, there was a brief moment, as Sam leaned forward peering at the replacement candy doubtfully, when Dean thought he was going to make a scene.
Instead, he nodded agreeably, looking back up at Dean. "What next?"
"Okay, we need some bread." Dean gestured for Sam to go ahead of him down the mini-mart aisle to where the shelves were stacked with bread. He picked out the cheapest, largest loaf, mentally adding the cost to the price of the candy. "Peanut butter...."
Sam's face fell. He liked peanut butter well enough, but the two of them had eaten a lot of it in the past year.
"And we'll get some canned sausages," Dean offered. Their motel room had a tiny kitchenette, so he'd be able to heat the sausages, and he still had a stash of ketchup and mustard packets from the last time Dad had taken them to a diner.
Sam's face split into a grin at the news. "I'll go look!" He scooted around the end of the shelves in search of the promised bounty.
Dean followed more slowly, reckoning the cost against the dwindling fold of bills zipped into the inside pocket of his jacket. He'd been careful the past few days, and the money would stretch. Besides, either Dad would be back tomorrow from his latest hunting trip—or it would be time to make the call to Pastor Jim.
oOo
Prompt: Jericho, Jake, Nightmare of the Wasteland
Sleep patterns
Jake was too short on sleep and too full of the turmoil of this strange new world they'd been thrust into to dream much in the first days after the attacks. It wasn't until after life had settled down into its new shape—a nearly silent one, with no TVs or cellphones and few cars, the hush broken mostly by human voices—that the nightmares had come.
Sometimes it was the San Diego skyline from across the bay, a mushroom cloud rising above it, like the cloud he'd seen above Denver. Sometimes he was wandering among the same buildings, marrying the burned out shells he'd seen in Iraq and Afghanistan and his memories of 9-11 with the glass-walled highrises and towering hotels of this city, their windows blown, torn blinds flapping in the breeze. Sometimes the buildings were quite intact, but ghostly ash bodies sprawled on the sidewalks or sat frozen at tables outside cafes.
Mostly he found himself searching, endlessly searching, moving from one old haunt to the next, always looking for a face that was never there—until he would wake at the memory that, by the time the bombs had gone off, Freddy was already lying cold in the city morgue.
Dad had thought a pretty decent fellow had come back to Jericho, but Jake knew he'd still been the stupid little punk who'd left home. Who'd gotten Freddy killed just like he'd gotten Chris killed, and who'd run from trouble, ditching the woman he was supposed to take care of, at the first chance.
He would never find Freddy in the ruins in those dreams that haunted his nights, he knew that. But maybe if he worked hard enough at the labors of helping and repairing and rebuilding that filled his days, he'd be able to stop looking for him.
oOo
Prompt: Dark Angel, any Transgenic, the weight of having a name rather than a number
Designation
He's had names before. For a short while. For as long as his missions lasted. He's not sure if all of them were borrowed: did the details on the driver's licenses and IDs they issued to him belong to unknowing innocents out there in the wider world or were they yet more of Manticore's inventions? A few of them he's certain were someone else's, with no need to give them back. Simon Lehane, for one.
But this name? This is different. Manticore didn't give him this name. Max did. As a joke and as an insult and because he needed one. And she had him pegged: no matter how hard Manticore tried to train it or beat it out of him, he always was a smart aleck. Part of what made him so good at deep cover missions—and so bad.
He could choose another name. There's a hundred different names, a thousand of them he could use. Pick one and it'd be a new start and a chance to be someone different. But Max gave him this one. Just like she gave him his life and showed him how to be more than what Manticore—and his own smart-ass nature—had made him up to then.
It's a name to live up to and one to live down. It's a good name. It's his name.
Alec.
fic_promptly prompts. Thanks to scribblesinink, who betaed all the pieces. Lengths are 310, 300 and 225 words.Prompt: Supernatural, Dean, he learned to make money stretch as far as possible when he was young and how to tell the time so he could judge when his Dad was due back and when things were a problem.
Calculated
"No, Sammy, not those." Dean took the bag of candy out of the shopping basket and put it back on the shelf. "You'll like these much better."
He picked a different bag of candy from the shelf above and showed it to Sam, before dropping it in the basket. It was half the size and a third the price and the candy wouldn't be as nice, but Sam wasn't yet old enough to figure that out. Even so, there was a brief moment, as Sam leaned forward peering at the replacement candy doubtfully, when Dean thought he was going to make a scene.
Instead, he nodded agreeably, looking back up at Dean. "What next?"
"Okay, we need some bread." Dean gestured for Sam to go ahead of him down the mini-mart aisle to where the shelves were stacked with bread. He picked out the cheapest, largest loaf, mentally adding the cost to the price of the candy. "Peanut butter...."
Sam's face fell. He liked peanut butter well enough, but the two of them had eaten a lot of it in the past year.
"And we'll get some canned sausages," Dean offered. Their motel room had a tiny kitchenette, so he'd be able to heat the sausages, and he still had a stash of ketchup and mustard packets from the last time Dad had taken them to a diner.
Sam's face split into a grin at the news. "I'll go look!" He scooted around the end of the shelves in search of the promised bounty.
Dean followed more slowly, reckoning the cost against the dwindling fold of bills zipped into the inside pocket of his jacket. He'd been careful the past few days, and the money would stretch. Besides, either Dad would be back tomorrow from his latest hunting trip—or it would be time to make the call to Pastor Jim.
Prompt: Jericho, Jake, Nightmare of the Wasteland
Sleep patterns
Jake was too short on sleep and too full of the turmoil of this strange new world they'd been thrust into to dream much in the first days after the attacks. It wasn't until after life had settled down into its new shape—a nearly silent one, with no TVs or cellphones and few cars, the hush broken mostly by human voices—that the nightmares had come.
Sometimes it was the San Diego skyline from across the bay, a mushroom cloud rising above it, like the cloud he'd seen above Denver. Sometimes he was wandering among the same buildings, marrying the burned out shells he'd seen in Iraq and Afghanistan and his memories of 9-11 with the glass-walled highrises and towering hotels of this city, their windows blown, torn blinds flapping in the breeze. Sometimes the buildings were quite intact, but ghostly ash bodies sprawled on the sidewalks or sat frozen at tables outside cafes.
Mostly he found himself searching, endlessly searching, moving from one old haunt to the next, always looking for a face that was never there—until he would wake at the memory that, by the time the bombs had gone off, Freddy was already lying cold in the city morgue.
Dad had thought a pretty decent fellow had come back to Jericho, but Jake knew he'd still been the stupid little punk who'd left home. Who'd gotten Freddy killed just like he'd gotten Chris killed, and who'd run from trouble, ditching the woman he was supposed to take care of, at the first chance.
He would never find Freddy in the ruins in those dreams that haunted his nights, he knew that. But maybe if he worked hard enough at the labors of helping and repairing and rebuilding that filled his days, he'd be able to stop looking for him.
Prompt: Dark Angel, any Transgenic, the weight of having a name rather than a number
Designation
He's had names before. For a short while. For as long as his missions lasted. He's not sure if all of them were borrowed: did the details on the driver's licenses and IDs they issued to him belong to unknowing innocents out there in the wider world or were they yet more of Manticore's inventions? A few of them he's certain were someone else's, with no need to give them back. Simon Lehane, for one.
But this name? This is different. Manticore didn't give him this name. Max did. As a joke and as an insult and because he needed one. And she had him pegged: no matter how hard Manticore tried to train it or beat it out of him, he always was a smart aleck. Part of what made him so good at deep cover missions—and so bad.
He could choose another name. There's a hundred different names, a thousand of them he could use. Pick one and it'd be a new start and a chance to be someone different. But Max gave him this one. Just like she gave him his life and showed him how to be more than what Manticore—and his own smart-ass nature—had made him up to then.
It's a name to live up to and one to live down. It's a good name. It's his name.
Alec.
