Meme
*waves*
HI THERE!
Totally not dead! Just really busy writing two BigBangs and three term papers and watching Dance Moms (so sue me, it amuses me, okay!) I'm hoping to finish the john_w_bigbang fic in the next couple of days and then focus on the j2 one after all those pesky mid-terms. Blah. Anyway, here, have some snippets until then :)
Post a random sentence (or three) 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, you'll get talking about writing, and the motivation to take that WIP one step closer to completion will appear as if by magic!
1. The skin around Dean’s eye is an angry red; purple where John’s knuckles connected with Dean’s cheekbone. The bruise will turn black and blue over night and John knows he won’t be able to look at it in the morning. He glances down at his right hand, fingers curled loosely around his fork and hopes like hell he still has enough tequila left in his duffle to forget the dull throbbing between his second and third knuckle.
2. “Wait,” Sam shouts when Dean doesn't stop to pick up a jacket on his way out. “Dude, it’s freezing out there.”
Dean stares at him, uncomprehending.
“Put on a jacket,” Sam says when Dean just keeps standing there in his ratty flannel that has holes at every single seam.
“Oh. Uh…yeah, okay.”
Dean picks a jacket off a chair that can’t possibly be his the way it's pooling around his shoulders, sleeves falling down to the tips of his fingers.
Sam shakes his head and goes back to his food. Dean is old enough to know if he wants to fight the apocalypse with a snotty nose or not.
3. “You can share with him,” Dean announces in a tone that John would never have tolerated a couple of years ago, before Sam started lowering the bar. “I’m taking the couch.”
He’s actually striding across the room, ready to rip John’s sheets off the beat-up sofa, only stops when John physically blocks his way.
John jerks his head in the direction of the boys’ room in a get the fuck back to bed kind of motion. Dean shoots him a look and makes to step around him.
“Hey.” John grabs the kid’s shoulder, spins him back around so he can make out the pale face in the dim moon light. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”
4. "Okay, let's take a look at your head again, baby," she says and Dean's hand shoots up, tiny fingers digging into the blood-stained towel to keep it in place. "It's alright," Mary mumbles. "Mommy's got you. We don't want you bleeding out on the kitchen table, do we?"
Dean shakes his head once but doesn't move his hand so Mary pries his fingers away, one by one.
"You should check on Sammy," she says, half turning for the first time, fixing John with a quick glance.
John doesn't want to check on Sammy. He wants to stay here and figure out what possessed his wife to take a sowing needle to his four-year-old son's head.
5. The episodes have always been part of their lives, so Sam wonders why there isn't a single mention of them in Dad's journal.
"There isn't?" Dean asks when Sam brings it up. Honest confusion coloring his face, french fries tumbling out of his slightly open mouth.
"No," Sam shakes his head, then chuckles disbelievingly. "How do you not know that? This is like the only book you've ever read cover to cover in your entire life."
Dean shrugs, his lips pull to the side of his face in a small frown. "I usually skip the parts that gotta do with us."
Sam nods his head, like that makes any kind of sense whatsoever.
He pushes the notebook around on the table, open on a random page, like that will prove his point. "Not a single mention. I mean he goes on and on about the most mundane stuff, but he never talks about you being sick."
Dean shrugs and gets up, then, tightly controlled anger straining his voice until it's almost trembling. "That's because it's not a big deal."
6. Dean is still staring at the bathroom door when Sam comes back out. His lashes are wet, matted together with the faint memory of tears, but Sam is used to that. He wonders if Dean is getting close to dehydration what with all the drinking and crying he's been doing.
"You okay?" Sam asks. That's another one of those stupid phrases that make Dean's eyes melt.
Dean nods mutely, another tear seeps into the mix of bodyliy fluids on the pillow.
7. It's late October when Dean has a nightmare for the first time in almost a year.
It's nothing bad, just your run-of-the-mill, hellhounds-trying-to-rip-out-his-lungs kind of scenario, but it's enough to have him startle upright, knife in hand, heart fluttering away in his throat.
It scares him shitless, not because he hasn't dealt with worse, but because he doesn't know where to go from here.
Comic book's used to do the trick, way back when. Then sex, then alcohol, then the pills. Dean doesn't know what's next on the list. Crystal Meth, maybe.
8. "Jeez," Dean hisses. The bar tender and several patrons are watching them now. "People are gonna think you're a hooker."
Sam sticks his tongue out at him.
"I'd make a good hooker," he slurrs. "People'd come all the time to get a piece of this." His hand pats his flat stomach, slides up and down in a vaguely lewd motion. "See what I did there? Come all the time?"
Dean wants to roll his eyes again, but the proud smile plastered all over his brother's face makes it kinda hard not to grin. "Clever, Sammy. Real clever."
Sam nods earnestly. "Ms Hannigan says I'm the smartest boy in my class."
9. Sam and Bobby tell him not to worry, say to let them handle it, just like they're handling the curse, but quietly, in the secret back of his mind that's locked off and that knows what will happen when his time is up, Dean thinks they aren't handling it at all. We should get him into therapy, Sam said, just the other night, when Dean wasn't supposed to hear, because it was past his bedtime, but he couldn't sleep because he couldn't grab the gun under his pillow, because Sam took it away. Dean could hear Bobby's tired sigh all the way up the stairs, when he said it wouldn't do any good, now, when Dean was going to be dead in a few months anyway.
10. Dean shoots him a dark look from the one eye that isn't swollen shut, pretending the half-faced scowl doesn't hurt his bruised up face something terrible. "Shit makes me weird."
"Tough." Bobby shakes the orange bottle in front of Dean's face. "Get 'em down or I swear to God I'm gonna start counting."
Dean curls his lip up in a disgusted snarl before he settles on a childish pout. "Dude, what am I five?"
"One."
Dean huffs in irritation, but apparently one's all it takes before he snatches the bottle out of Bobby's hands and dry swallows his Codeine.
11. "Sorry for makin' such a mess," Dean mumbles. He turns back around, burries his face in Sam's chest and Sam tries not to be grossed out be the puke-crusted lips pressed against his favorite shirt.
"It's okay," he says again and wipes away some of the moisture on Dean's cheek.
12. Once, last year, before he knew, Sam got up to get some water. He got back to bed and found Dean twisted up in his blankets, whimpering into the pillow that was smashed against his face and when Sam asked him about it the next morning Dean laughed at him and called him doofus and said only babies like Sammy had really bad nightmares.
Sam thinks that's can't be true, because sometimes Dad keeps them awake with his tossing and turning, when he's had too much or too little to drink. He says Mary into his pillow then and takeyourbrotheroutsideasfastasyoucan and sorry and Dean never calls him a baby when he sits with him and brings him whiskey or Aspirin.
HI THERE!
Totally not dead! Just really busy writing two BigBangs and three term papers and watching Dance Moms (so sue me, it amuses me, okay!) I'm hoping to finish the john_w_bigbang fic in the next couple of days and then focus on the j2 one after all those pesky mid-terms. Blah. Anyway, here, have some snippets until then :)
Post a random sentence (or three) 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, you'll get talking about writing, and the motivation to take that WIP one step closer to completion will appear as if by magic!
1. The skin around Dean’s eye is an angry red; purple where John’s knuckles connected with Dean’s cheekbone. The bruise will turn black and blue over night and John knows he won’t be able to look at it in the morning. He glances down at his right hand, fingers curled loosely around his fork and hopes like hell he still has enough tequila left in his duffle to forget the dull throbbing between his second and third knuckle.
2. “Wait,” Sam shouts when Dean doesn't stop to pick up a jacket on his way out. “Dude, it’s freezing out there.”
Dean stares at him, uncomprehending.
“Put on a jacket,” Sam says when Dean just keeps standing there in his ratty flannel that has holes at every single seam.
“Oh. Uh…yeah, okay.”
Dean picks a jacket off a chair that can’t possibly be his the way it's pooling around his shoulders, sleeves falling down to the tips of his fingers.
Sam shakes his head and goes back to his food. Dean is old enough to know if he wants to fight the apocalypse with a snotty nose or not.
3. “You can share with him,” Dean announces in a tone that John would never have tolerated a couple of years ago, before Sam started lowering the bar. “I’m taking the couch.”
He’s actually striding across the room, ready to rip John’s sheets off the beat-up sofa, only stops when John physically blocks his way.
John jerks his head in the direction of the boys’ room in a get the fuck back to bed kind of motion. Dean shoots him a look and makes to step around him.
“Hey.” John grabs the kid’s shoulder, spins him back around so he can make out the pale face in the dim moon light. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”
4. "Okay, let's take a look at your head again, baby," she says and Dean's hand shoots up, tiny fingers digging into the blood-stained towel to keep it in place. "It's alright," Mary mumbles. "Mommy's got you. We don't want you bleeding out on the kitchen table, do we?"
Dean shakes his head once but doesn't move his hand so Mary pries his fingers away, one by one.
"You should check on Sammy," she says, half turning for the first time, fixing John with a quick glance.
John doesn't want to check on Sammy. He wants to stay here and figure out what possessed his wife to take a sowing needle to his four-year-old son's head.
5. The episodes have always been part of their lives, so Sam wonders why there isn't a single mention of them in Dad's journal.
"There isn't?" Dean asks when Sam brings it up. Honest confusion coloring his face, french fries tumbling out of his slightly open mouth.
"No," Sam shakes his head, then chuckles disbelievingly. "How do you not know that? This is like the only book you've ever read cover to cover in your entire life."
Dean shrugs, his lips pull to the side of his face in a small frown. "I usually skip the parts that gotta do with us."
Sam nods his head, like that makes any kind of sense whatsoever.
He pushes the notebook around on the table, open on a random page, like that will prove his point. "Not a single mention. I mean he goes on and on about the most mundane stuff, but he never talks about you being sick."
Dean shrugs and gets up, then, tightly controlled anger straining his voice until it's almost trembling. "That's because it's not a big deal."
6. Dean is still staring at the bathroom door when Sam comes back out. His lashes are wet, matted together with the faint memory of tears, but Sam is used to that. He wonders if Dean is getting close to dehydration what with all the drinking and crying he's been doing.
"You okay?" Sam asks. That's another one of those stupid phrases that make Dean's eyes melt.
Dean nods mutely, another tear seeps into the mix of bodyliy fluids on the pillow.
7. It's late October when Dean has a nightmare for the first time in almost a year.
It's nothing bad, just your run-of-the-mill, hellhounds-trying-to-rip-out-his-lungs kind of scenario, but it's enough to have him startle upright, knife in hand, heart fluttering away in his throat.
It scares him shitless, not because he hasn't dealt with worse, but because he doesn't know where to go from here.
Comic book's used to do the trick, way back when. Then sex, then alcohol, then the pills. Dean doesn't know what's next on the list. Crystal Meth, maybe.
8. "Jeez," Dean hisses. The bar tender and several patrons are watching them now. "People are gonna think you're a hooker."
Sam sticks his tongue out at him.
"I'd make a good hooker," he slurrs. "People'd come all the time to get a piece of this." His hand pats his flat stomach, slides up and down in a vaguely lewd motion. "See what I did there? Come all the time?"
Dean wants to roll his eyes again, but the proud smile plastered all over his brother's face makes it kinda hard not to grin. "Clever, Sammy. Real clever."
Sam nods earnestly. "Ms Hannigan says I'm the smartest boy in my class."
9. Sam and Bobby tell him not to worry, say to let them handle it, just like they're handling the curse, but quietly, in the secret back of his mind that's locked off and that knows what will happen when his time is up, Dean thinks they aren't handling it at all. We should get him into therapy, Sam said, just the other night, when Dean wasn't supposed to hear, because it was past his bedtime, but he couldn't sleep because he couldn't grab the gun under his pillow, because Sam took it away. Dean could hear Bobby's tired sigh all the way up the stairs, when he said it wouldn't do any good, now, when Dean was going to be dead in a few months anyway.
10. Dean shoots him a dark look from the one eye that isn't swollen shut, pretending the half-faced scowl doesn't hurt his bruised up face something terrible. "Shit makes me weird."
"Tough." Bobby shakes the orange bottle in front of Dean's face. "Get 'em down or I swear to God I'm gonna start counting."
Dean curls his lip up in a disgusted snarl before he settles on a childish pout. "Dude, what am I five?"
"One."
Dean huffs in irritation, but apparently one's all it takes before he snatches the bottle out of Bobby's hands and dry swallows his Codeine.
11. "Sorry for makin' such a mess," Dean mumbles. He turns back around, burries his face in Sam's chest and Sam tries not to be grossed out be the puke-crusted lips pressed against his favorite shirt.
"It's okay," he says again and wipes away some of the moisture on Dean's cheek.
12. Once, last year, before he knew, Sam got up to get some water. He got back to bed and found Dean twisted up in his blankets, whimpering into the pillow that was smashed against his face and when Sam asked him about it the next morning Dean laughed at him and called him doofus and said only babies like Sammy had really bad nightmares.
Sam thinks that's can't be true, because sometimes Dad keeps them awake with his tossing and turning, when he's had too much or too little to drink. He says Mary into his pillow then and takeyourbrotheroutsideasfastasyoucan and sorry and Dean never calls him a baby when he sits with him and brings him whiskey or Aspirin.