That extraordinarily well-timed WIP meme
likethesun2 picked up the "post snippets from all your works in progress meme" that is rolling through fandom. Very well timed for me, as I'm about three pages away from the start of the last chapter of the Work that has been In Progress for seven months.
So. Here are 610 words from the first chapter of "Mockingbird," which I plan to start posting in the next week or so. I'll be posting two chapters a week for five weeks.
Dean sat in the car taking advantage of the rare moment alone to make some calls before launching himself back across the highway to pick up Sam.
Ellen sounded just as tired as always when she answered. Dean hated asking her for anything, but she'd insisted that he and Sam were family now, and God knew there wasn't anything that woman wouldn't do for her family.
"Don't know how this could be anything but good news, sweetie, but Ash's system's showing a big old nothing anywhere, and a double serving of nothing in Oregon."
Dean rubbed his chin, considering.
"You think something's coming down?" She didn't ask whether the brothers were actually in Oregon. They'd all learned John Winchester's need-to-know rule firsthand, and hard.
"I dunno. Probably just a fluke." Dean wasn't sure he believed that-his gut told him something was going on-but he didn't want to get Ellen involved any more than he had to.
The line buzzed between them for a long moment.
"How's Sam doing?" Ellen asked.
"Good," Dean answered readily.
The tone was a lie; he didn't know whether the words themselves were. Sam was alive. His arm had healed. Sam could talk and eat and dress himself, and for the first time in his life he did what Dean told him without asking questions. All of those things were good, considering.
"Sam's good," Dean repeated. "He says hi."
Ellen's breathing hitched in a quiet chuckle. "Tell him I said hi back. You take care now, Dean. Call if you need anything."
"I will."
"Bye, sweetie."
Dean felt a familiar wave of grief and affection roll over him as he hit the "end" button, but he pushed it aside and dialed again.
"A vision, huh?" Bobby asked when Dean explained the situation.
"Only he said 'dream,' not 'vision,' and it didn't seem to hit him the way they used to. No headache, anyway. And it wasn't one of his nightmares."
"He still having them, though?"
"Same bat time, same bat channel," Dean confirmed, weariness slipping into his voice under the weak joke. He could hear Bobby scratching his beard.
"He got anything to say about them? Either kinda dream, I mean."
"Sam?" Dean's laugh caught before it could escape, and he choked on it a little, had to clear his throat. "Sam's got squat to say about anything these days, Bobby. I'm surprised he told me about the dream at all, to tell the truth."
"Uh huh. And how's the burn?"
"Still just a burn. Scarring up real nice."
Like all of Dean’s conversations seemed to lately, this one filled with a thick silence. Finally, Bobby blew out some air and said, "Hell if I know, son. I'll keep my ears on. But maybe… Maybe he's just starting to … you know. Dream normal again. Or normal for a Winchester, anyway."
Another silence filled Dean's phone.
"Yeah. Maybe." Dean looked out the window, across Highway 101's four lanes of traffic, to the diner. He could just see Sam's dark head through the window. "Listen, Bobby, we're gonna stay put a few days, just in case. I got a gig here-week or so of day work."
"You need money?"
"No. No, I'm good, thanks. Just… Just call if you hear anything, okay? I got a weird feeling."
"You do the same," Bobby returned, and there was one more pause before he added, "Dean? You look after yourself, too, you hear? Nothing you can do for Sam or anyone else if you wear yourself to a knob."
Dean's mouth was tight when he answered, "I'll do my best."
"All right. I'll talk to you soon."
***
And because I'm finally getting to the point where I can squint real hard and see other fic in my future, here's a snippet from the start of the case file I abandoned in January to work on "Mockingbird," tentatively titled
(Librarians as a rule, fall hard for Geekboy, though Dean's run into a fair number eager to shake their hair down and take their bad-boy issues out on him. He's obliged a few of them, but carefully. There's not a lot Dean likes less than finding out, usually as he's pulling his jeans back on, that a girl who shows every sign of understanding he'll be gone before morning turns out to think she's the one to make him stay this time. She never is, and Dean may lie to girls about a lot of things, but he tries not to have that be one of them. Those bookish types, though-them and girls who work in bus stations or truck stops-they tend toward the romantic, and that can be trouble. They do better to aim that stuff at Sam, who should do cover shots for Non-Threatening Boys Magazine.)
Anyway, here's this chick: cute, a little tweedy for Dean's taste, but right up Sam's alley (or what should be Sam's alley), showing Sam her neck, looking up at him all sideways and head-tilted, fingers in her hair-classic shy-girl mating signals-and Sammy's all business. Using equal parts vocabulary and puppy eyes to get at the collections without a student ID, but fundamentally lacking in a clue of any kind. And when Dean brings the cluelessness to Sam's attention as they pull out of the parking lot behind the library, Sam gives him that face-mouth squinched up like his slice of lemon came with a twist of lime. Dean thought some progress had been made with Sarah, but Sam's got his nun on again, chaste as ever and twice as much stick up his ass
***
And while I'm giving my hard drive the kill-eye, here's one last little smidge that is no longer eligible for the found_fic_spn challenge that inspired it.
They find the right cemetery the next day. Public records confirmed the PD's sweet "Did I say 'Mountainside'? Oh... That's where my uncle's buried. I must have gotten mixed up. See, my notes say 'Green Valley'... sorry." It's embarrassing, really, to have so obvious a jones for that punk. He's gonna have to work on that. Anyway, they find what they're looking for at Green Valley, ten hours too late. Textbook Winchester desecration-nice, neat, ninety-degree corners on the grave, coffin battered open, corpse carbonized.
They're still in Little Rock the next day, questioning the idiots who run the Green River County Detention Center, when the first sign appears. It's not a surprise to find a note like that outside a police station, but theirs is the only civilian car in the lot. A rental Mazda, for Christ's sake, not even a converted Crown Victoria or Impala. Nothing but where it's parked to justify the "COPS SUCK" sign under the windshield wipers. Henriksen smashes it into a ball and chucks it at a nearby black and white, and Reid raises an eyebrow at him. Never says nothing, that one, when a look'll get the point across better.
***
And now I'm done. Yeah. Gonna go see if I can finish Chapter 9 tonight.
So. Here are 610 words from the first chapter of "Mockingbird," which I plan to start posting in the next week or so. I'll be posting two chapters a week for five weeks.
Dean sat in the car taking advantage of the rare moment alone to make some calls before launching himself back across the highway to pick up Sam.
Ellen sounded just as tired as always when she answered. Dean hated asking her for anything, but she'd insisted that he and Sam were family now, and God knew there wasn't anything that woman wouldn't do for her family.
"Don't know how this could be anything but good news, sweetie, but Ash's system's showing a big old nothing anywhere, and a double serving of nothing in Oregon."
Dean rubbed his chin, considering.
"You think something's coming down?" She didn't ask whether the brothers were actually in Oregon. They'd all learned John Winchester's need-to-know rule firsthand, and hard.
"I dunno. Probably just a fluke." Dean wasn't sure he believed that-his gut told him something was going on-but he didn't want to get Ellen involved any more than he had to.
The line buzzed between them for a long moment.
"How's Sam doing?" Ellen asked.
"Good," Dean answered readily.
The tone was a lie; he didn't know whether the words themselves were. Sam was alive. His arm had healed. Sam could talk and eat and dress himself, and for the first time in his life he did what Dean told him without asking questions. All of those things were good, considering.
"Sam's good," Dean repeated. "He says hi."
Ellen's breathing hitched in a quiet chuckle. "Tell him I said hi back. You take care now, Dean. Call if you need anything."
"I will."
"Bye, sweetie."
Dean felt a familiar wave of grief and affection roll over him as he hit the "end" button, but he pushed it aside and dialed again.
"A vision, huh?" Bobby asked when Dean explained the situation.
"Only he said 'dream,' not 'vision,' and it didn't seem to hit him the way they used to. No headache, anyway. And it wasn't one of his nightmares."
"He still having them, though?"
"Same bat time, same bat channel," Dean confirmed, weariness slipping into his voice under the weak joke. He could hear Bobby scratching his beard.
"He got anything to say about them? Either kinda dream, I mean."
"Sam?" Dean's laugh caught before it could escape, and he choked on it a little, had to clear his throat. "Sam's got squat to say about anything these days, Bobby. I'm surprised he told me about the dream at all, to tell the truth."
"Uh huh. And how's the burn?"
"Still just a burn. Scarring up real nice."
Like all of Dean’s conversations seemed to lately, this one filled with a thick silence. Finally, Bobby blew out some air and said, "Hell if I know, son. I'll keep my ears on. But maybe… Maybe he's just starting to … you know. Dream normal again. Or normal for a Winchester, anyway."
Another silence filled Dean's phone.
"Yeah. Maybe." Dean looked out the window, across Highway 101's four lanes of traffic, to the diner. He could just see Sam's dark head through the window. "Listen, Bobby, we're gonna stay put a few days, just in case. I got a gig here-week or so of day work."
"You need money?"
"No. No, I'm good, thanks. Just… Just call if you hear anything, okay? I got a weird feeling."
"You do the same," Bobby returned, and there was one more pause before he added, "Dean? You look after yourself, too, you hear? Nothing you can do for Sam or anyone else if you wear yourself to a knob."
Dean's mouth was tight when he answered, "I'll do my best."
"All right. I'll talk to you soon."
***
And because I'm finally getting to the point where I can squint real hard and see other fic in my future, here's a snippet from the start of the case file I abandoned in January to work on "Mockingbird," tentatively titled
(Librarians as a rule, fall hard for Geekboy, though Dean's run into a fair number eager to shake their hair down and take their bad-boy issues out on him. He's obliged a few of them, but carefully. There's not a lot Dean likes less than finding out, usually as he's pulling his jeans back on, that a girl who shows every sign of understanding he'll be gone before morning turns out to think she's the one to make him stay this time. She never is, and Dean may lie to girls about a lot of things, but he tries not to have that be one of them. Those bookish types, though-them and girls who work in bus stations or truck stops-they tend toward the romantic, and that can be trouble. They do better to aim that stuff at Sam, who should do cover shots for Non-Threatening Boys Magazine.)
Anyway, here's this chick: cute, a little tweedy for Dean's taste, but right up Sam's alley (or what should be Sam's alley), showing Sam her neck, looking up at him all sideways and head-tilted, fingers in her hair-classic shy-girl mating signals-and Sammy's all business. Using equal parts vocabulary and puppy eyes to get at the collections without a student ID, but fundamentally lacking in a clue of any kind. And when Dean brings the cluelessness to Sam's attention as they pull out of the parking lot behind the library, Sam gives him that face-mouth squinched up like his slice of lemon came with a twist of lime. Dean thought some progress had been made with Sarah, but Sam's got his nun on again, chaste as ever and twice as much stick up his ass
***
And while I'm giving my hard drive the kill-eye, here's one last little smidge that is no longer eligible for the found_fic_spn challenge that inspired it.
They find the right cemetery the next day. Public records confirmed the PD's sweet "Did I say 'Mountainside'? Oh... That's where my uncle's buried. I must have gotten mixed up. See, my notes say 'Green Valley'... sorry." It's embarrassing, really, to have so obvious a jones for that punk. He's gonna have to work on that. Anyway, they find what they're looking for at Green Valley, ten hours too late. Textbook Winchester desecration-nice, neat, ninety-degree corners on the grave, coffin battered open, corpse carbonized.
They're still in Little Rock the next day, questioning the idiots who run the Green River County Detention Center, when the first sign appears. It's not a surprise to find a note like that outside a police station, but theirs is the only civilian car in the lot. A rental Mazda, for Christ's sake, not even a converted Crown Victoria or Impala. Nothing but where it's parked to justify the "COPS SUCK" sign under the windshield wipers. Henriksen smashes it into a ball and chucks it at a nearby black and white, and Reid raises an eyebrow at him. Never says nothing, that one, when a look'll get the point across better.
***
And now I'm done. Yeah. Gonna go see if I can finish Chapter 9 tonight.