SPN snippet, and other random shit
Sep. 19th, 2010 04:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
glorious_spoonGanked from ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
naatz , who pulls it off much better:
Also:
Here! Have five random snippets from five stories I may or may not actually finish writing:
1. Dean is born eight weeks and five days premature, so tiny that John can cradle his body in the palm of one hand. His fingers feel huge and rough when he touches his son's blue-veined skin, when he holds out a thumb that his baby boy is too weak to grasp.
His eyes are vague and fragile behind the thin shells of his eyelids, always closed, like he finds life impossibly exhausting after just a day in. It's unfair, so unfair that when they tell John that a machine is breathing for his son, he storms outside looking for something--someone--to hit.
***
2. There's a few things all hunters learn if they survive the first six months of the job. Plenty don't, but the ones that do know to keep their guns oiled and loaded, fuck what gun safety manuals say. Salt, silver, and iron repel most things, and spells work better in their original language. University libraries are good places for information, but hunters' bars are better and Harvelle's Roadhouse is the best of those.
Keep your mouth shut around the locals and walk soft around other hunters. Contacts are fine, but be careful who you get friendly with.
And whatever you do, don't fuck with the Winchesters.
***
3. What does he say to that?
"I was raised in the backseat of an old Chevy and in a thousand dirty motel rooms that blur together in my head."
Or, "CPS took me once when I was in sixth grade and I couldn't remember what Dean told me to say about how I broke my fingers. They sent me to live with an old lady who had four other fosters and I slept in a bunk bed for three weeks and when Dad and Dean broke me out in the middle of the night I didn't want to go with them. "
***
4. "Dean, what--" He finally manages to pry his eyes open and haul himself into a sitting position, and that's when the full weirdness of the situation dawns on him.
Dean's nowhere in sight. Instead, there's a furious half-naked woman standing at the foot of his bed, arms folded, legs spread like a gunslinger's. Sam blinks. Then, with a sinking feeling, takes in the close-cropped brown hair, the faded boxer briefs stretched across broad hips, the green eyes and familiar scowl. "Jesus Christ. Dean?"
***
5. "Victor. Good to hear your voice, buddy."
"We're not friends." Victor feels compelled to point this out every time they talk, like it's something Dean's going to forget. Hell, the man's off his rocker; who knows what goes on in his head.
"Man, you are such a downer. Did you check out those files I sent you?"
"Yes."
"And...?"
"You didn't kill those girls." It feels like a betrayal of some principle, just admitting that much, and Dean's exasperated chuckle doesn't help.
And finally, so this isn't completely an exercise in OTT self-indulgence, have a drabble:
Title: The Worst Thing
naatz , who pulls it off much better:If you read this, you're tagged. Take a picture of you in your current state, no changing your clothes or quickly putting on makeup. NO PHOTOSHOP. Show your f-list the real you!
Sadly, yes, I was already wearing the hat:
Also:
Here! Have five random snippets from five stories I may or may not actually finish writing:
1. Dean is born eight weeks and five days premature, so tiny that John can cradle his body in the palm of one hand. His fingers feel huge and rough when he touches his son's blue-veined skin, when he holds out a thumb that his baby boy is too weak to grasp.
His eyes are vague and fragile behind the thin shells of his eyelids, always closed, like he finds life impossibly exhausting after just a day in. It's unfair, so unfair that when they tell John that a machine is breathing for his son, he storms outside looking for something--someone--to hit.
***
2. There's a few things all hunters learn if they survive the first six months of the job. Plenty don't, but the ones that do know to keep their guns oiled and loaded, fuck what gun safety manuals say. Salt, silver, and iron repel most things, and spells work better in their original language. University libraries are good places for information, but hunters' bars are better and Harvelle's Roadhouse is the best of those.
Keep your mouth shut around the locals and walk soft around other hunters. Contacts are fine, but be careful who you get friendly with.
And whatever you do, don't fuck with the Winchesters.
***
3. What does he say to that?
"I was raised in the backseat of an old Chevy and in a thousand dirty motel rooms that blur together in my head."
Or, "CPS took me once when I was in sixth grade and I couldn't remember what Dean told me to say about how I broke my fingers. They sent me to live with an old lady who had four other fosters and I slept in a bunk bed for three weeks and when Dad and Dean broke me out in the middle of the night I didn't want to go with them. "
***
4. "Dean, what--" He finally manages to pry his eyes open and haul himself into a sitting position, and that's when the full weirdness of the situation dawns on him.
Dean's nowhere in sight. Instead, there's a furious half-naked woman standing at the foot of his bed, arms folded, legs spread like a gunslinger's. Sam blinks. Then, with a sinking feeling, takes in the close-cropped brown hair, the faded boxer briefs stretched across broad hips, the green eyes and familiar scowl. "Jesus Christ. Dean?"
***
5. "Victor. Good to hear your voice, buddy."
"We're not friends." Victor feels compelled to point this out every time they talk, like it's something Dean's going to forget. Hell, the man's off his rocker; who knows what goes on in his head.
"Man, you are such a downer. Did you check out those files I sent you?"
"Yes."
"And...?"
"You didn't kill those girls." It feels like a betrayal of some principle, just admitting that much, and Dean's exasperated chuckle doesn't help.
And finally, so this isn't completely an exercise in OTT self-indulgence, have a drabble:
Title: The Worst Thing
Summary: It's still the worst thing. Warnings for general Dean angst, predictability, total lack of a point.
After Hell, after Alastair and Lilith, after Ruby and the Horsemen, after he spent ten years forgetting so thoroughly how to be human that he's not sure he'll ever really remember again, after the sleepless nights and the endless drives and the blood and the bodies, after everything, the worst memory that lives in his head, the one he'd carve out with his own two hands if he could, is of Cold Oak, and the moment Sam's heart fluttered and stopped beneath his fingers.
Because that's what it comes back to, always. In the end. Sammy, his Sammy crumpling in the cold mud, collapsing like a broken puppet as the joints in his legs give way, falling. The weight of him, head dropping heavy onto Dean's shoulder, face going slack and he's never been a praying man but no, no, God please no falls out of his mouth like his lips and tongue were made for the words.
It's a sucker bet, anyway. Praying. Steep as the rates get, Hell's always had much better customer service.
After Hell, after Alastair and Lilith, after Ruby and the Horsemen, after he spent ten years forgetting so thoroughly how to be human that he's not sure he'll ever really remember again, after the sleepless nights and the endless drives and the blood and the bodies, after everything, the worst memory that lives in his head, the one he'd carve out with his own two hands if he could, is of Cold Oak, and the moment Sam's heart fluttered and stopped beneath his fingers.
Because that's what it comes back to, always. In the end. Sammy, his Sammy crumpling in the cold mud, collapsing like a broken puppet as the joints in his legs give way, falling. The weight of him, head dropping heavy onto Dean's shoulder, face going slack and he's never been a praying man but no, no, God please no falls out of his mouth like his lips and tongue were made for the words.
It's a sucker bet, anyway. Praying. Steep as the rates get, Hell's always had much better customer service.
