dizzojay | Boys and Toys

Here's a little trio of drabbles written for this week's drabble challenge over on Fanfiction.net.
The challenge word was 'toy', and after a slow start, this word REALLY inspired me!

All rated K+, no spoilers
Disclaimer: I don't own these wonderful people (and cars)

A SECOND CHANCE

xxxxx

They were just plastic soldiers.

Little green dudes, two inches high, all jumbled into a dog-eared cardboard box.

They used to belong to Owen, but Jody had never been able to throw them away, so in a moment of weakness, she'd passed them on to Dean.

Now they were busy re-enacting the Battle of Lexington. They'd already rebuilt the bridge on the River Kwai, retaken Iwo Jima and would soon be lining up against those Limey bitches in the War of Independence.

They might only be secondhand toys, but Jody had wanted them to live on.

Dean was happy to oblige.

xxxxx

end

(Also inspired by the spn_bigpretzel DEW challenge this week)

JUST LIKE RIDING A BIKE

xxxxx

Dean found it in Dad's old lock-up in a box with some other old toys, and he couldn't resist bringing it back to the bunker.

His old skateboard; the blue paint faded to grey, and the Thundercats' motif worn away to a blur.

It was just like riding a bike, Dean thought as he hurtled through the Bunker's long corridors. He hadn't forgotten the technique, or the skill of balancing, or the thrill he got from riding the board. He hadn't forgotten the rumble of the tiny wheels over the ground. He hadn't forgotten …

BLAM!

Walls.

He had forgotten the bunker has walls.

xxxxx

end

SUCKS TO BE YOU

xxxxx

The Impala watched the other cars as she hurtled along the highway; all of them far newer than her, with gleaming metallic paintwork and more whizz-bang special effects than a Spielberg movie.

She could see them sneering at her rust-spotted chrome and the boxy lines of her chassis; smirking, as they passed, at the agricultural growl of her fifty-year-old engine.

There was no whistle from lego shoved in their heating vents, or persistent rattle from a toy soldier jammed in their ashtrays.

No-one small and lonely had scratched their names into those vehicles' door trim.

They were pristine. They were perfect.

She pitied them.

xxxxx

end