Title: What you do with your dancin' shoes
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: None, set pre-series while Sam's at Stanford
Word count: 455
Disclaimer: Own nothing, not being paid
A/N: Thanks to erinrua for the beta. Written for foundficspn prompt 23. Somewhat based off real events at my old high school.
Summary: Dean deals with an understandably frustrated ghost.
Man, it was hot down here. There wasn't a lot of ventilation and every time feet moved above him dust swirled into the air, creating dizzying spirals in his flashlight beam and making him want to cough. It really wasn't nice seeing the shit you were just about to breathe in.
"He's dead," the sound drifted down from above. "There's nothing we can do for him anymore."
Dean crouched-hopped a few more steps forward and avoided the spider web dangling down at the side of his face. He followed it up to see one very mutant spider staring back at him balefully.
"Whatcha looking at," he muttered, figuring out his bearings. Four more feet roughly northeast and he'd probably be at the right position.
"Oh my god, what have we done wrong?"
He sniggered inwardly at the wooden words as he spotted the scratched and slightly gouged concrete.
"Just, just wait. Alyssa, what do you think that Miranda is feeling at the moment?"
"Frustration with the stupid lines?" Dean replied softly, his own voice drowning out Alyssa's reply.
"Exactly: fear, terror, regret. She's just accidentally killed her boyfriend, so how about you put some of that into your performance, huh?"
There, odds were that was it. There was a faint hint of a rust-coloured stain on the concrete. Further proof was the ghost in tight jeans, a leather jacket and with interestingly slicked back hair that had suddenly appeared.
"Ah, hi," Dean said softly, settling down onto the floor in front of the ghost. The ghost smiled slightly in reply.
"No, no, no! Let's take a break."
They both looked up as the footstep noises clomped off into the distance.
"Play kinda sucks, huh?"
The ghost nodded his head and rolled his eyes in agreement.
"I get it, I really do," Dean added, "but it doesn't mean that you can just start dropping things on people."
That resulted in a shrug.
"So, what'll it take for you to go off into the great beyond and leave these terrible, terrible actors alone?"
There were some reasonably complicated hand gestures that made Dean really regret taking this job.
"You serious?" he asked, hoping the ghost was anything but. He sighed when the ghost nodded.
"Geez. Okay. But I'm not doing the whole thing." He closed his eyes for a second before opening them again to see the ghost's expectant face. "Go grease lightning, you're burning up the quarter mile…"
Next time, when the ghost of a dude who'd been killed by falling through the stage during a performance of Grease (and who was the moron who didn't figure out that the stage couldn't take the weight of the car) started haunting a theatre – Dad could deal with it.