I HATE PLOT BUNNIES.
I really, really, hate them.
There are way too many unfinished stories already in my WIPs folder. Like, TEN of them. I don't need another one.
And yet, here it is. Look what I was writing on the train this morning!
Dean Winchester has been a hunter, of one sort or another, for as long as he could remember.
Of course, his memory is spotty at best, an effect, he is told, of the physical trauma he sustained before he was healed.
But Dean’s body recalls what his mind cannot, and his hands are quick and sure with blade and gun alike. His mouth shapes Latin words without effort, though his accent is poor and low-class according to some, and his broken memory is a very grimoire of spells and arcane lore.
Sometimes Dean wonders what he was in his other life, that he knows all this: that he *needed* to know all this. He cherishes the vague and fleeting impressions of a golden-haired woman, a dark-bearded man, a chubby, smiling infant, and hopes that once, he was loved.
There’s a tattoo on his inner thigh, large and intricately detailed. He knows without having to ask that it must have been incredibly painful to receive, and therefore, he thinks it must have been incredibly important.
Dean strokes it sometimes, wishing for answers. The image is a wolf in profile, long and lean and almost fox-like, chestnut fur stirring in the wind and with shining hazel human eyes.
Around its neck is a heavy silver chain and arcane pendant, twin to the one Dean wears.
He knows better than to ask questions about the mark. No one around here cares much for wolves.
Dean takes great care to keep the tattoo covered at all times. It’s not as difficult as it sounds, because mostly it just means keeping his pants buttoned. It’s his mouth they all want, anyway.
There are way too many unfinished stories already in my WIPs folder. Like, TEN of them. I don't need another one.
And yet, here it is. Look what I was writing on the train this morning!
Dean Winchester has been a hunter, of one sort or another, for as long as he could remember.
Of course, his memory is spotty at best, an effect, he is told, of the physical trauma he sustained before he was healed.
But Dean’s body recalls what his mind cannot, and his hands are quick and sure with blade and gun alike. His mouth shapes Latin words without effort, though his accent is poor and low-class according to some, and his broken memory is a very grimoire of spells and arcane lore.
Sometimes Dean wonders what he was in his other life, that he knows all this: that he *needed* to know all this. He cherishes the vague and fleeting impressions of a golden-haired woman, a dark-bearded man, a chubby, smiling infant, and hopes that once, he was loved.
There’s a tattoo on his inner thigh, large and intricately detailed. He knows without having to ask that it must have been incredibly painful to receive, and therefore, he thinks it must have been incredibly important.
Dean strokes it sometimes, wishing for answers. The image is a wolf in profile, long and lean and almost fox-like, chestnut fur stirring in the wind and with shining hazel human eyes.
Around its neck is a heavy silver chain and arcane pendant, twin to the one Dean wears.
He knows better than to ask questions about the mark. No one around here cares much for wolves.
Dean takes great care to keep the tattoo covered at all times. It’s not as difficult as it sounds, because mostly it just means keeping his pants buttoned. It’s his mouth they all want, anyway.