Stop! Meme time.
Snagged from Mostly10 on Tumblr here.
Post a few sentences from every WIP you're currently working on, even if it's very short. Then invite people to ask questions about your WIPs. With any luck, the motivation to take that WIP one step closer to completion will appear as if by magic!
Uhm, how current is 'currently'? I have so many WIPs that I check on every now and then but only one I'm really working on, per se. So here, have some old ones as well.
1.
His head thuds against the wall and then he’s coming, cock buried deep down the guy’s throat. It takes him a moment to get his breath back but when he does the guy is already on his feet and turning away. Instinctively Jared shoots a hand out and grabs the guy’s wrist.
“Wait,” he says and the next thing he knows he’s lying on his back, jeans around his thighs and his jaw hurting like a sonofabitch. Through the ringing in his ears he can hear the sound of feet hitting the pavement as his mystery guy disappears into the night. “I just wanted to ask you your name.”
2.
“Oh yeah,” he moaned, inhaling the delicious scent of real food. “God yeah, that’s the stuff.”
A choked off sound made him look up to find Jared gazing down at him, cheeks flushed, lips turned up in a smile. “Keep that up and the woman at the next table is gonna be ordering what you’re having.”
Jensen went beet red. “I’m really hungry,” he mumbled embarrassed as he picked up his utensils. “Like really, really. Starving.”
“I hope it lives up to your expectations,” Jared said with a laugh. He turned as if to leave but then seemed to change his mind and leaned over to whisper, “Just let me know if you want dessert. The chocolate mousse is positively orgasmic. You know, if the steak doesn’t quite get you there.”
3.
“Jared shot me down,” he says, trying to sound like he doesn’t give a shit but of course it comes out small and pathetic.
She stops, looking down at him with a surprised frown. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. But if you wanna have a go I’m pretty sure he’s up for it.” There’s no masking the bitter tone this time.
She sits down again, stealing a sip from his coffee. It’s cold by now and she grimaces before tipping it over, throwing the rest out. Then she puts her arm around him and presses her palm to his cheek until his head rests upon her shoulder. He closes his eyes and sighs, allowing himself to give in to the disappointment he had every intention to ignore.
“He’s not really my type,” she says after a while. “Too gay.”
“Nah, mine neither,” Jensen says flatly. “Too straight.”
She laughs and he cracks a smile even if he’s not really feeling it.
“Honey, you don’t really think he’s straight?” she asks after a while. “I’m pretty sure that amount of pink in your wardrobe automatically cancels your straight membership card for one thing.”
Jensen snorts but he doesn’t say anything.
“Not to mention the way he keeps staring at your pretty ass when he thinks no one’s looking,” she adds with a smile.
“Ever think maybe he was staring because he thinks I’m a freak?” There’s that sting again from this morning, right in his chest.
“Well, there’s that,” Danni says loftily but one look at Jensen’s devastated face and she turns dead serious. “Jenny, I’m kidding. Why the hell would he think you’re a freak?”
4.
“I did not almost faint” Jensen huffs indignantly. “I’m just tired, dickhead. I’m sick, remember?”
Jared turns his head and smiles at him. The gray color is thankfully gone from Jensen’s cheeks, instead he’s flushed and his eyes gleam with laughter. Amusement tugs at his lips, teeth biting into them to try and keep them from turning into a full fledged grin. He looks…
It’s like a punch in Jared’s gut. One moment he’s just sitting there, happily watching Jensen and the next…
He’s still sitting, still watching, but what he’s seeing is all new. It’s like a veil has been lifted from his eyes and suddenly he gets it. Gets what makes crazy fangirls jump Jensen at conventions and the slightly saner ones gush about him on message boards. He gets what makes Megan flail like a teenager every time she sees him and Sandy blush when Jensen kisses her on the cheek.
It’s not like he’s never noticed that Jensen is attractive, he’d be blind not too. It’s just that… Well, it’s Jensen. The guy who scratches his balls when he thinks no one is looking and can burp the alphabet after two beers. Jensen, who is the best friend Jared’s ever had and the most talented guy he knows. Jensen, who is, above all, a guy, and therefore not really qualified to register on Jared’s sexual radar.
Except suddenly he is. Just. Like. That.
5.
It takes Jensen a moment to realize what Jared’s talking about. That whatever Dean might be telling him Jensen is not Dean and Jared is not Sam. They’re not brothers, they’re not cursed or dead twice over. They aren’t fighting or keeping secrets or trying to live with everything they’ve done and been through. They’re Jensen and Jared and they’re supposed to sleep in the same bed, together.
He knew that. He did. He just forgot.
“Must have fallen asleep over the TV,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face to hide Dean’s shocked expression. ‘You’re sleeping with him?’ Dean growls, voice filled with disbelief and disgust. ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’
‘I’m not you,’ Jensen tries to say. ‘He’s not Sam. So back off.’
But Dean isn’t listening. He’s seething with rage, lips curling into a sneer. ‘Fucking fantastic,’ he spits out through grit teeth as he gets to his feet. ‘I need coffee for this.’
Jensen doesn’t argue. He needs coffee too. As he takes the first sip, painfully aware of Jared watching him from the doorway, he wonders if that’s how it started, Dean giving him his addiction for coffee. Then his love for the Impala, followed by his love for Sam. Except it’s not Sam, is it? It’s Jared. Jared who is still watching him. Jared who is quiet. Except Jared doesn’t do quiet.
Sam does.
Jensen puts down his mug carefully and turns around. “Sam?” he says hesitantly and Jared frowns.
“What?” he says and takes a step forward. “What about Sam?”
Jensen blinks. Breathes. Feels Dean’s panic rise in his chest at the realization that his brother isn’t there. “Jared?” he tries and Jared looks at him expectantly and obviously worried.
“Yeah?” he says and Dean starts yelling hysterically in Jensen’s head.
6.
He pushed open the door to the motel to find Dean dressed and packing his duffel bag and his smile dropped like a stone. The weapon bag lay zipped and ready by the foot of the bed and Dean had a gun tucked into the back of his pants.
“Whoa, hey. What’s the rush?” Sam asked, putting the breakfast bag down on the small table as he held out Dean’s cup of coffee. “Dean, what’s going on? I thought we were gonna take it easy for a couple of days.”
Dean didn’t even spare him a glance and Sam put the cup down as well, swallowing the childish feelings of hurt along with a sip of his own coffee. ‘Happy birthday to me,’ he thought grumpily and went to grab his own bag.
“So, care to tell me where we’re going?”
“Wouldn’t kill him to actually talk to me instead of just sending those fucking messages. Hate those goddamn coordinates,” Dean huffed, zipping the bag shut with such force Sam thought he’d rip it apart.
“Wait, Dad sent you a message?” Sam griped. Bet that didn’t have a ‘Happy birthday, Sam!’ either. “What is it this time?” he asked as he hurriedly folded his clothes.
Dean straightened up and closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping tiredly. “God, I’m so sick of this. Don’t know what the hell I’m doing anymore. What the fuck is it for anyway?”
Shocked Sam dropped the t-shirt he’d been folding and stared at Dean. “What? Dean, are you alright?”
Dean didn’t answer, just stood dejectedly by the bed, back turned, one hand coming up to rub over his face. “Sammy, I swear…” He sighed and shook his head.
“Dean?” Increasingly worried Sam zipped up his bag and walked over, coming to a halt less than three feet away from his brother’s defeated form. “Dude, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?”
Dean stood silent and then he slowly straightened up, grabbed his bag off the bed, and turned around. And walked right through Sam.
7.
“Sir, if you don’t step back I will have to call security. I know you’re worried but the doctors are doing all they can. Now go sit down and someone will be with you shortly.”
“He’s… He’s all I have. I need to… God.” He suddenly felt weak, staring at Sam in desperation. The convulsion had stopped and apart from the manhandling of the doctors his brother was eerily still, his pale skin almost translucent against the red blood that seemed to be everywhere. C’mon, Sam. Move those long limbs, flash me that smile. Don’t you die on me!
“Okay. Alright. But you can’t go in. You have to stay here, alright?”
“I should be in there with him. I should…” He swallowed back the tears. “He gets scared when he’s alone.”
“He’s your brother?”
Dean just nodded even though the word brother couldn’t possibly tell this woman what Sam was to him.
“Has anything like this happened before? The bleeding? Or seizures?”
An insane moment he considered telling her about mirrors that implode your eyes and mad scientists that fry your brain but it was brief. Instead he shook his head, eyes never leaving Sam. “No. He has… headaches. Pretty bad ones. Shit. And… and nightmares.”
“Nightmares?”
“His girlfriend died. There was a fire. And then dad…We crashed the car. He died. Dad. He died too.”
He knew he was babbling but he couldn’t stop the words from stumbling out of his mouth. All he could do was try and keep his head together, to not tell her the whole truth.
“But he’s always had them. Nightmares, I mean. Ever since he was a kid. I used to… I kept him safe. I keep. I keep him safe.”
“Okay. Sir? I think you should go sit down now.”
8.
Sometimes, when he comes back to the motel, late and drunk and stinking of strangers, he finds himself standing quiet by Sam's bed, watching him sleep. It relaxes him in ways that whiskey and quick fucks in alleyways never can.
The slow rise and fall of Sam's broad chest, the rapid movements of his eyes underneath paper-thin eyelids. His troubled sleep makes Dean reach out, hand hovering above Sam's cheek, just close enough to feel the heat of his skin. Even if he doesn't touch, the proximity seems enough to calm Sam down, his brow smoothing as whatever dreams haunted his sleep slip away.
On his drunker nights Dean wonders what would happen if he really did touch. If he laid his slightly sweaty palm on Sam's cheek and ran his thumb over those taut lips. Maybe sat down beside Sam's sleeping form on the bed and let his hand slip down Sam's arm and to his waist, under his rucked up t-shirt and splayed his fingers across Sam's back.
He can feel it now across the distance of their beds, Sam's heat, knows how soft his skin would be, how he would smell if Dean leaned down and buried his face in Sam's neck.
He puts it down as loneliness, as grief. Sam smells like dad in a way, except not really. He bears his own scent that is just Sam but he still smells of gun oil and car seat and beer, and to Dean that is home, just like dad was home. It is the smell of family and sometimes he feels as if it’s the only thing connecting them.