Idumea preview, aka Proof that I Still Exist
Yes! I do in fact still exist, looking on in wonder at the more prolific writers among us. Prolific I am not, but I am still writing. Here, have a sample. :-)
Fair warning: 1) These scenes are sequential but not consecutive in the grand scheme of things, and 2) This is largely unedited, and completely untouched by my ever-patient beta. Nonetheless, I'm pretty excited about it, and hopefully it'll pique your interest as well.
Without further ado: bits and pieces from Idumea.
_________________________________________
The heat is pushing down on his lungs, his breathing shallow and labored. He glances to his right. Dean’s out, no problem, flat on his stomach in nothing but his boxers. Dean’s sheets are thrown off the end of the bed, as far away from his body as possible, but Sam can’t quite stand to sleep without the sheet on top of him. It’s like when he was little. Those motel sheets, thin as they were, were his armor against the monsters that crept underneath his bed, waiting for the right moment to pounce. Back then, though, he had the small comfort afforded by doubt.
These days it’s a little girl, all haunted eyes and bruises coming up under translucent skin. She never cries. It’s like she’s beyond it. It’s a look he’s seen before, in his brother’s eyes, when Sam was almost too little to remember. Before Dean got his shit together and learned to push it down. It’s a look that still creeps up sometimes, now that Dad’s gone, slipping in between the anger and the defensive wall and the practiced, fake smile.
He lets his head fall back against the wall. Dawn’s still a long way off.
. . .
. . .
They’re driving back roads in the middle of the night, and Dean’s barely pausing at the four-way stops where County Route 15A meets Sheep Farm Road and Brannick’s Hollow and Aaron Cooper Hill. (“The fuck they need so many stop signs for anyway, Sammy? Not like the cows can read,” and Sam smiles a little but Dean doesn’t because Dean doesn’t know how to smile anymore, and Sam’s face falls.) They can see the next intersection a quarter-mile ahead (and for the middle of nowhere somewhere in New England there sure are a hell of a lot of roads crisscrossing in the middle of the woods), and there’s something wrong with it, something glowing in the darkness. Dean slows down to look.
It’s the ashes of a road flare, still glowing pink and white, and then another, and then a third. Sam supposes Dean’s not the only one who blows through here like he owns the place, and maybe that’s why the dark tracks on the roadway don’t start for far too long, not until they’ve almost met, and then they’re sliding together into the trees (why are there so many goddamn trees) that hem in the oil and stone. They look like strokes of a calligraphy brush, stuttering and then smoothing out where the brakes gave up and locked, and they’re flashing back the headlights’ glow inside pebbles of blue-green glass.
Dean’s breathing shallow and tight beside him, hands bleaching white on the unfamiliar steering wheel. (His girl’s in pieces in South Dakota; how’d they get so far away?) Sam looks back up and catches a road sign, green and white: Idumea Road.
. . .
. . .
The road sign says Idumea, and that’s enough to bring back the song and the fight and how Sam had learned to keep his mouth shut about his senior year and especially about college, even when he and Pastor Jim had jumped around the house when he got his acceptance letter and his full ride. And how Dean’s jaw had clenched every time Sam had left, first for Pastor Jim’s and then for Stanford, and how there are some things (everything) Winchesters just don’t talk about.
. . .
. . .
Bright white light and a little girl’s scream (but it can’t be; her lips are pressed tight, silent and trembling behind his closed eyes) and he’s hot and cold and falling. Dean’s hands are pressing in, rough like Dad’s, everywhere at once, one hand searching out a pulse and the other one a fever, and he wonders if Dean can tell he’s burning.
The cold must be the bit that’s real, though, because the pavement is icy under his palms and his knees. There’s blood on the ice. He went down hard. Dean’s telling someone somewhere to fuck off, only nicer because they’re supposed to be cops, cops or agents or liars, yes, liars, and then the light comes in behind his eyes like a knife and he’s retching into the gutter.
Dean pulls him up and walks him to the car, his palm on Sam’s back like the connection between them is the only thing keeping Sam vertical. Sam would like to be able to protest, but yeah, that’s about the sum of it. Dean hesitates as they approach the car on the driver’s side, but lets Sam go around and open his door alone. The doors swing shut in practiced unison, but Dean waits before turning the key.
“You wanna tell me about it?”
Sam shakes his head, lowering it into his hands. There’s nothing useful. No clues. Just a little girl, and kids are always a bad sign. There’s no way for this to end well.
_________________________________________
To be continued. (The flashbacks that go in between these sections are written, but not ready for anyone save my lovely beta to read, so you'll have to wait on those.)
Happy (belated) New Year, everyone!
Fair warning: 1) These scenes are sequential but not consecutive in the grand scheme of things, and 2) This is largely unedited, and completely untouched by my ever-patient beta. Nonetheless, I'm pretty excited about it, and hopefully it'll pique your interest as well.
Without further ado: bits and pieces from Idumea.
_________________________________________
The heat is pushing down on his lungs, his breathing shallow and labored. He glances to his right. Dean’s out, no problem, flat on his stomach in nothing but his boxers. Dean’s sheets are thrown off the end of the bed, as far away from his body as possible, but Sam can’t quite stand to sleep without the sheet on top of him. It’s like when he was little. Those motel sheets, thin as they were, were his armor against the monsters that crept underneath his bed, waiting for the right moment to pounce. Back then, though, he had the small comfort afforded by doubt.
These days it’s a little girl, all haunted eyes and bruises coming up under translucent skin. She never cries. It’s like she’s beyond it. It’s a look he’s seen before, in his brother’s eyes, when Sam was almost too little to remember. Before Dean got his shit together and learned to push it down. It’s a look that still creeps up sometimes, now that Dad’s gone, slipping in between the anger and the defensive wall and the practiced, fake smile.
He lets his head fall back against the wall. Dawn’s still a long way off.
. . .
. . .
They’re driving back roads in the middle of the night, and Dean’s barely pausing at the four-way stops where County Route 15A meets Sheep Farm Road and Brannick’s Hollow and Aaron Cooper Hill. (“The fuck they need so many stop signs for anyway, Sammy? Not like the cows can read,” and Sam smiles a little but Dean doesn’t because Dean doesn’t know how to smile anymore, and Sam’s face falls.) They can see the next intersection a quarter-mile ahead (and for the middle of nowhere somewhere in New England there sure are a hell of a lot of roads crisscrossing in the middle of the woods), and there’s something wrong with it, something glowing in the darkness. Dean slows down to look.
It’s the ashes of a road flare, still glowing pink and white, and then another, and then a third. Sam supposes Dean’s not the only one who blows through here like he owns the place, and maybe that’s why the dark tracks on the roadway don’t start for far too long, not until they’ve almost met, and then they’re sliding together into the trees (why are there so many goddamn trees) that hem in the oil and stone. They look like strokes of a calligraphy brush, stuttering and then smoothing out where the brakes gave up and locked, and they’re flashing back the headlights’ glow inside pebbles of blue-green glass.
Dean’s breathing shallow and tight beside him, hands bleaching white on the unfamiliar steering wheel. (His girl’s in pieces in South Dakota; how’d they get so far away?) Sam looks back up and catches a road sign, green and white: Idumea Road.
. . .
. . .
The road sign says Idumea, and that’s enough to bring back the song and the fight and how Sam had learned to keep his mouth shut about his senior year and especially about college, even when he and Pastor Jim had jumped around the house when he got his acceptance letter and his full ride. And how Dean’s jaw had clenched every time Sam had left, first for Pastor Jim’s and then for Stanford, and how there are some things (everything) Winchesters just don’t talk about.
. . .
. . .
Bright white light and a little girl’s scream (but it can’t be; her lips are pressed tight, silent and trembling behind his closed eyes) and he’s hot and cold and falling. Dean’s hands are pressing in, rough like Dad’s, everywhere at once, one hand searching out a pulse and the other one a fever, and he wonders if Dean can tell he’s burning.
The cold must be the bit that’s real, though, because the pavement is icy under his palms and his knees. There’s blood on the ice. He went down hard. Dean’s telling someone somewhere to fuck off, only nicer because they’re supposed to be cops, cops or agents or liars, yes, liars, and then the light comes in behind his eyes like a knife and he’s retching into the gutter.
Dean pulls him up and walks him to the car, his palm on Sam’s back like the connection between them is the only thing keeping Sam vertical. Sam would like to be able to protest, but yeah, that’s about the sum of it. Dean hesitates as they approach the car on the driver’s side, but lets Sam go around and open his door alone. The doors swing shut in practiced unison, but Dean waits before turning the key.
“You wanna tell me about it?”
Sam shakes his head, lowering it into his hands. There’s nothing useful. No clues. Just a little girl, and kids are always a bad sign. There’s no way for this to end well.
_________________________________________
To be continued. (The flashbacks that go in between these sections are written, but not ready for anyone save my lovely beta to read, so you'll have to wait on those.)
Happy (belated) New Year, everyone!