[FIC] sharlot1926; Dust Devils
[ Gen]
Title: Dust Devils
Writer:sharlot1926
Alternate links: Fan Fiction. net
Status of work: complete
Characters and/or pairings: Sam, Dean, Ellen, Bobby, originals
Rating: R
Warnings, kinks & contents: Spoilers for S2 up to and including BUABS [Click to read]Language, disturbing imagery, sexual situations, children in peril, violence, reference to sexual assault.
Length: 150k words, total
Summary: The Winchesters fight time, a vengeful spirit, and a wind demon in order to save a little girl from the monster who's stalking her. Hurt!Dean, Heavily Dean-centric
Reccer's notes: I love this story. I looked forward to the posting days. It is the story that made me get a Delicious account and is the first story I recc'd on my own journal. The writing is phenomenal and so well-researched that you can picture everything. It has you smiling one moment and in tears the next. Her original characters are so fleshed-out that they take on a life of their own. It is set around a real event but is given a supernatural twist. 150k looks intimidating, but you won't feel that it's enough as you read, you just want more.
[Short excerpt]Florabel Livingston slammed the screen door of the farmhouse with a hollow, squeaking bang as she did every morning on her way out to do her chores. And her mother hollered for her to quiet down and act like a lady just as she did every morning on her daughter’s way out to do her chores. The child chuckled, set her pail down and stuck her forefinger in her mouth, wetting it good and plucking it out with a juicy pop. She held it up, testing the wind and surveying the morning. Her eyes followed the hopeful color in the sky as pink and turquoise blended with the pale gold of the sun on the horizon. But any promise the sun may have made was broken when the liquid disk failed to soften the stark, slate-gray flat of the plain below. Florabel’s world, from horizon to the very porch she stood upon, was like a dusty charcoal drawing, varying shades of gray coated the landscape, broken only by the dark silhouettes of distant, hardscrabble farms with their lifeless barns and empty silos. Her foot lazily traced a looping pattern in the dark dust, its fine grains the consistency of talcum powder.
The seeming silence was pointedly broken by the reverberating, metallic knocking of the windmill as it churned endlessly in the ever-present swish of the wind-a wind that sought out and infested everything with its mischief. It wailed like a banshee as it struck the tarpaper roof of the chicken coop and whistled shrilly in the eaves as it clipped the farmhouse. Florabel wiggled her finger. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for or what her wet finger was supposed to find. But her papa had always greeted the morning with his wet finger held in the wind, so she did it now. Nothing happened except that the blowing dirt clung to the small digit, turning it the color of the horizon. The color of dust. Studying the vacant landscape before her, she tried to imagine it like her mama said it had once been. But she just couldn’t. Green prairie grass and wildflowers were unimaginable for the seven year old. She wiped her gritty finger on her bib-overalls, leaving a smudge she was sure her mother would scold her for later.