Written in a frenzy in an hour, because they are evil, vicious, PERSISTENT little BASTARDS, and the world HAS TO BE WARNED! ! ! ! !
DISCLAIMER: None of it belongs to me, except those miserable fuzzy little mongrels.
TITLE: In Bobby's Living Room, No-one Can Hear You Scream.
SUMMARY: So fluffy, so cute, so harmless... so mercilessly relentless. Their faithful dog Jimi tries to warn them, but Dean and his brother Sam have no idea exactly how much peril they're in...
RATING: T, for mention of certain, ahem, themes...
My first ever one-shot. Where the hell this came from, I do not know, but I'm seriously glad the little fucker is now gone...
In Bobby's Living Room, No-one Can Hear You Scream.
Jimi noticed it first, of course. That was his job. The second he got a whiff of the thing, he recognised it as a threat to his Hunters.
When the Winchesters returned to their motel room after a fairly routine salt and burn, Jimi suddenly stood, hackles bristling, Hellhound-fangs extruding, staring under the bed. He growled his warning growl, the one that travelled through the ground to his Pack and arrived up through their boots rather than via their ears, the growl that was too deep and hollow to me made by any completely normal dog…
Weapons at the ready, they'd checked under the bed, only to find nothing. They didn't dismiss it out of hand, of course – they trusted their half-Hellhound companion's instincts far too much for that – but whatever it was, it didn't trouble them that night.
Sam noticed it next, a few days later, out of the corner of his eye, while looking up details of hundred-year-old death certificates online. When he tried to look at it, of course, it was gone. He shook himself mentally, sure that he'd imagined it, and went back to his research.
He didn't know it at the time, but that was fundamental to the nature of such creatures: stare at them too hard, examine them too closely, too soon, and they disappear.
They lucked out, really, being at Bobby's when it next appeared. It meant they could bunker down, and deal with the problem. They could also tap Bobby's vast knowledge of insidious, cruel, evil and unholy creatures, and how to defeat them.
As it turned out, it selected Dean as its victim.
He felt something tickly brush against the back of his neck where he sat on the sofa. He swatted and scratched at it a couple of times, not taking his attention off the book he was looking through, not even realising the peril he was in. After the third tickle, he turned to see what was irritating him.
He found himself face to face with a tiny, fluffy body, a pair of large dark eyes, a twitchy little nose, and a huge pair of gorgeous, soft, floppy ears. His face broke into a smile. It was irresistably cute.
That's the nature of the beast. They're always irresistable, to start with.
"Hey, there," he crooned to the tiny, fluffy thing, "Where did you come from, little guy?" It twitched its little pink nose endearingly, and climbed wobblingly onto his shoulder. "Friendly little fella, aint ya?" he grinned, as it sat up and preened its whiskers in utter cuteness. He reached up to rub it under the chin. It practically purred under his touch.
He had no inkling at all that this harmless-looking little thing could possibly mean trouble, until Jimi, who had been dozing at his feet, woke up, and growled, Hellhound teeth bristling like the spears of an avenging army, at the twitching little ball of cuteness, his eyes glowing the red of banked coals.
Sam came into the sitting room, then, carrying a stack of books, and stopped dead in his tracks. "Dean?" he asked bemusedly, "What's that on your shoulder? Where did that come from?"
"I dunno," answered Dean, petting the irresistably fuzzy little body, "He just appeared here, and climbed on my shoulder. Could be somebody's pet. How he got past Rumsfeld and Janis is anybody's guess. Jimi certainly wants to eat him. I shall name him… Lunch!"
"That's weird," Sam persisted, "Why would Jimi be treating that as a threat? I'm pretty sure Bobby doesn't keep 'em…"
"Doesn't keep what?" asked Bobby, as he entered the room behind Sam, carrying another stack of books. At the sight of Dean with the fluffy little critter on his shoulder, he dropped the books, and gasped in horror.
"Oh, no," he whispered, "Oh, no, Dean, son…"
"Dude, what's up?" laughed Dean, patting the adorable little thing on his shoulder. It leaned in to nibble gently at his ear – it tickled, and he giggled a little. "Oh, Lunch, talk dirty to me!" he joked. He turned back to Bobby. "Hey, don't be jealous, you're not jealous are you, because you don't get to nibble on my ear?"
Sam looked at Bobby's expression, and Jimi's bristling hackles, and he felt a sense of dread. "Bobby?" he asked warily. "Bobby, what's wrong?"
"There's nothing wrong, Sam," Dean told him, "I've just got another admirer." He looked at Bobby, and grinned. "Never would've picked you as being scared of cute little rabbits," he chuckled.
Bobby's face was all compassion. "Dean, son, that's not just a rabbit nibblin' on your ear," he said tiredly, "It's… a Plot Bunny."
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
"It didn't work," humphed Sam in disappointment, after he'd tried the eighth dismissing, dispelling, exorcising, removing, expunging, dissolving or even evaporating spell he thought might work.
"I did warn you," Bobby told them glumly, "Nothing like that will work."
"Then how do we get rid of it?" asked Dean, sounding anxious. About an hour after it appeared, the Plot Bunny had begun chittering ceaselessly into his ear. "This constant nattering is really driving me nuts!"
"Are you sure you can't just pick him up?" asked Sam.
"No, he's stuck like he's nailed on," confirmed Dean. "Seriously, the longer he's there the more distracting he's becoming."
That's how these things work," explained Bobby, "The longer you ignore them, the more insistent they get, until you can't think, or concentrate, or give your attention to anything else."
"So, what do we do?" asked Sam anxiously.
"There's only one way to get rid of a Plot Bunny, boy," Bobby informed him grimly. "You have to listen to it."
"Listen to it?" queried Sam. Bobby nodded.
"Listen to it, and write what it says," confirmed the old Hunter.
"So, what?" asked Dean, "I sit in front of the laptop, and, and, and Lunch here tells me what to write, and then he disappears?" Bobby nodded again. "Well, that's easy fixed."
Bobby put a hand on his arm as he reached for the laptop. "I don't think you realise just how serious this could get," he warned, his face stern. "It's a Plot Bunny. It's relentless. Listen, and understand. That Bunny is sitting on your shoulder. It can't be bargained with. It can't be reasoned with. It doesn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And it absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are finished."
"Oooookay," said Dean. eyeing Bobby carefully, "I'll keep that in mind." He started the laptop.
"Er, what exactly do Plot Bunnies want people to write about?" asked Sam curiously.
"That's the thing," intoned Bobby, in a voice laden with portent, "Sometimes, it will explain to you exactly what it wants – other times, you don't find out all the details until the very last paragraph." He stood up and sighed heavily. "You just tell the Bunny you're ready to listen, Dean," he told the elder Winchester, "I'll make us some coffee."
"Right, right," Dean nodded. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and squared his shoulders. Sam sat beside him, and Jimi sat with his chin resting on Dean's knee, for moral support.
Dean cleared his throat, and turned to the Plot Bunny sitting on his shoulder. "Okay, Lunch," he told it, "We have ignition on the word processor, and I'm ready to write. What's the plan?"
The Plot Bunny nodded, twitched its nose, brushed its whiskers against his ear, and began to whisper.
"What's he saying? What's he saying?" asked Sam impatiently.
"Sh! Lunch is talking to me!' hissed Dean, nodding as the Plot Bunny whispered. "Uh, okay, I think he's got it pretty much worked out in his head, he just wants me to write it down." His hands moved over the keys. "He's pretty sure it won't go far over 10,000 words. Okay, then, lay it on me, Lunch!"
The Plot Bunny whispered. Dean typed.
"Uh, 'fandom: Supernatural'," read Sam. He groaned. "Oh, great," he moaned, "He's going to have you writing a fanfic…"
"Well considering how many I'm in, I'm not such a strange choice," grinned Dean.
"Er, 'rating: M-plus'," read Sam, starting to feel worried.
"Ah, and now we see why Lunch here has chosen me, and not you," Dean leered lewdly, waggling his eyebrows, "Because you're no good to him if you keep fainting every time he writes about hot women doing hot things with hot guys like me."
"Um, 'title: Hot Bodies In The Garden Of Eden," Sam's voice shook a little. Jimi whined.
"Oh, grow some, ladies," Dean rolled his eyes, "I promise not to end up typing with one hand, all right?"
"Ah, 'warnings: Mature Age Content…'," Sam read reluctantly.
"I must be in it," Dean muttered smugly, nodding for Lunch to keep dictating.
" '… Explicit Descriptions…'," Sam's face turned red.
"Keep reading, bro, you might learn something," grinned Dean.
" '… B&D…'," Sam's face turned green.
"You really do need to get out more, little bro," chuckled Dean.
" '… Wincest AND Destiel…'," squeaked Sam.
Dean's face turned white.
...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...
Thankfully, the salvage yard is quite isolated, so in Bobby's living room, no-one can hear you scream.
*stomp stomp stomp* DIE! DIE! DIE YOU FUZZY LITTLE PERSECUTOR! DIE A NASTY SQUISHY DEATH! They're like disgusting, purulent, bulging, filthy pimples on your brain, and you know they're there, and you HAVE TO SQUEEZE THEM to GET RID OF THEM! ! ! ! !
I HATE plot bunnies...