Snippet
With Season 3 almost upon us, all those WsIP I've got start to look a bit in danger of being Jossed. There's one in particular that I'm very attached to and is becoming rather epic. It stands at about 12k already and I'm only just maybe halfway through.
It's not that I don't want S3 yet - I really really do - but I am concerned that this fic will fall by the wayside when I have new pretties with which to distract myself.
So think of this post as something like a placeholder. This is a very early part of a fic that I really do want to finish someday. It's Sam/Dean, though this part isn't very much so, and it's one of those fics where the warnings (or lack of) would rather give the plot away.
There’s a noise from the altar and Sam passes into the nave, searching for the source of the sound. A priest moves into sight, a beguilingly open expression on his face. He's young and angelically beautiful. He'd make a good poster boy for the Church, except, perhaps… As Sam considers him, he wonders if he's maybe a little too pretty. Soft lush mouth and a body of lithe muscle and easy grace. One look at him and the mind reflexively turns to thoughts of fucking.
He's not a poster boy for the Church; he's how temptation should look: deceptively wholesome, a seduction you don't even see coming.
"Hi," he says. "Can I help? Or do you just want some time to yourself?"
Sam doesn't answer, just keeps on walking towards him. He sees the exact moment the priest decides something's off, his head tilts like an animal scenting danger and his stance tightens.
"Can I help you?" he says again, quieter, firmer, but no less sincere.
Sam's close enough now to see the green eyes framed with a dusky smudge of long lashes. He's close enough to smell the reek of the cross about the priest's throat. Close enough to feel the thrum of blood through his body, hot and bitter. Sam licks his lips, the mere thought of the taste of it making his mouth wet.
He smiles and lets his eyes go wide and soft, and it throws the priest all over again. Temptation is a liar but so is the innocence in which Sam is an expert. Countless men and women have died horrible, messy deaths because of Sam's puppy-dog look. How could such a lost little boy, caught up in that lanky body he can barely keep from tripping over, be anything to worry over?
"Father Dean Winchester?" he says.
"That's me. Can I help?"
"That's the third time you've asked me that, Dean. You don't mind if I call you Dean, do you? S'just, I hated my father and y'know how the brain works, don't wanna end up hating you too just because of the fucked-up associations of a word. You understand where I'm coming from?"
The words trip smoothly off his tongue but they don't distract either of them. He hasn't stopped moving closer to Dean and now Dean starts backing up. It's a cautious retreat, as if Dean hasn't quite got the measure of him yet and doesn't want to act until he has. Instead he smiles and it's a bright, beautiful, meaningless thing. Sam can see right through it to the mind working furiously behind it.
"Well three times a charm," says Dean. "And you still haven't answered me. So, can I?"
Dean stumbles back against the altar and the slender white columns of the unlit candles, waiting for the next service, rattle in their holders. The feel of the altar at his back seems to steady Dean and he straightens up, looks Sam square in the eye. He'd've made a good crusader, thinks Sam, all righteous strength and an unwavering faith in the cause. He'd look good with the blood of heretics splashed over his skin. Scratch that, he'd look good with anyone's blood on his skin, even his own. Maybe especially his own.
"No," says Sam. "I don't think you can."
Blackness fills his eyes but Dean has no time to react aside for his lips parting into a small, startled 'o'. Sam sends him flying across the church, slamming into pews and landing in a huddled, black-suited heap on the stone floor.
It's not that I don't want S3 yet - I really really do - but I am concerned that this fic will fall by the wayside when I have new pretties with which to distract myself.
So think of this post as something like a placeholder. This is a very early part of a fic that I really do want to finish someday. It's Sam/Dean, though this part isn't very much so, and it's one of those fics where the warnings (or lack of) would rather give the plot away.
There’s a noise from the altar and Sam passes into the nave, searching for the source of the sound. A priest moves into sight, a beguilingly open expression on his face. He's young and angelically beautiful. He'd make a good poster boy for the Church, except, perhaps… As Sam considers him, he wonders if he's maybe a little too pretty. Soft lush mouth and a body of lithe muscle and easy grace. One look at him and the mind reflexively turns to thoughts of fucking.
He's not a poster boy for the Church; he's how temptation should look: deceptively wholesome, a seduction you don't even see coming.
"Hi," he says. "Can I help? Or do you just want some time to yourself?"
Sam doesn't answer, just keeps on walking towards him. He sees the exact moment the priest decides something's off, his head tilts like an animal scenting danger and his stance tightens.
"Can I help you?" he says again, quieter, firmer, but no less sincere.
Sam's close enough now to see the green eyes framed with a dusky smudge of long lashes. He's close enough to smell the reek of the cross about the priest's throat. Close enough to feel the thrum of blood through his body, hot and bitter. Sam licks his lips, the mere thought of the taste of it making his mouth wet.
He smiles and lets his eyes go wide and soft, and it throws the priest all over again. Temptation is a liar but so is the innocence in which Sam is an expert. Countless men and women have died horrible, messy deaths because of Sam's puppy-dog look. How could such a lost little boy, caught up in that lanky body he can barely keep from tripping over, be anything to worry over?
"Father Dean Winchester?" he says.
"That's me. Can I help?"
"That's the third time you've asked me that, Dean. You don't mind if I call you Dean, do you? S'just, I hated my father and y'know how the brain works, don't wanna end up hating you too just because of the fucked-up associations of a word. You understand where I'm coming from?"
The words trip smoothly off his tongue but they don't distract either of them. He hasn't stopped moving closer to Dean and now Dean starts backing up. It's a cautious retreat, as if Dean hasn't quite got the measure of him yet and doesn't want to act until he has. Instead he smiles and it's a bright, beautiful, meaningless thing. Sam can see right through it to the mind working furiously behind it.
"Well three times a charm," says Dean. "And you still haven't answered me. So, can I?"
Dean stumbles back against the altar and the slender white columns of the unlit candles, waiting for the next service, rattle in their holders. The feel of the altar at his back seems to steady Dean and he straightens up, looks Sam square in the eye. He'd've made a good crusader, thinks Sam, all righteous strength and an unwavering faith in the cause. He'd look good with the blood of heretics splashed over his skin. Scratch that, he'd look good with anyone's blood on his skin, even his own. Maybe especially his own.
"No," says Sam. "I don't think you can."
Blackness fills his eyes but Dean has no time to react aside for his lips parting into a small, startled 'o'. Sam sends him flying across the church, slamming into pews and landing in a huddled, black-suited heap on the stone floor.