will the mountain keep on giving.
Again, via wizened_cynic. So. Bored.
Five random bits of current WIP.
1. The girls were chasing each other through a Burger King playground, shoeless, their hair flying every which way. Lorelai had barbecue sauce from her chicken nuggets smeared all over her face like war paint. She tackled Alex in the ball pit, her victory scream piercing and long.
"God, they're little monsters," Sam said. He looked over at Dean and wanted to touch the back of his neck, so he did.
"We can't anymore," Dean said.
Sam said, "What?" and his fingers caught in the collar of Dean's coat.
"If we're keeping them," Dean said. He moved out of Sam's reach. "We have to--"
"Dean," Sam said, frowning, catching on.
"No, Sam," Dean said. "Not with them--if they're staying--. We have to stop."
2. About the Things that You've Done
The mirror is scratched; the backing is coming off too, so there are spots of clear glass, where you can see the wall showing through. It's better than looking at your reflection, anyway. The sink is chipped, with little shaving hairs and dried streams of blood, spit, beer running down to the rusty drain. You can see the big black plunger and the plastic package of no-name industrial toilet paper sitting under it. There's a lone white bottle of Toilet Duck under there too, with greasy grey fingerprints on each side.
The water is cold, no matter how many times you turn the hot tap. You put your freezing wet hands over your face. The last of the beer-whiskey fuzziness around the edges of your eyes fades away, leaving you stone-cold alert with an illusion of sobriety. You get that from your mother.
There isn't any paper towel, just a cloth loop that hangs almost to the floor. It's stained brown and pink and black in places. You wipe your hands on the ass of your jeans, and unlock the door.
You're in the hall before you notice Gordon waiting, just past the reach of the bar's patchy light.
3. can't you see that we're going to hell
Sam has a scar on the corner of his jaw, just beside his right ear, from his run-in with the bus. His skin is pale. Dean never noticed how pale he was when he was comatose.
"It's been eight months," Dean says, because at least he can answer Sam's question.
Sam's face twists disbelievingly. "Eight months?"
Dean shrugs. "Yeah."
Sam looks out the window. He picks at the yellow tape fixing his IV to the soft place between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand.
"Where's Dad?" he says. "I need Dad's help. I have to get out of here."
Dean says, "I don't know where he is." The hurt and old anger on Sam's face almost make up for him saying I instead of we and asking for their father of all people.
"Has he been here at all?" Sam asks.
Dean shakes his head, and it's not satisfying when Sam nods like he should have known, like he should have expected his own father not to come when he needed him.
"He sent me," Dean says. "It's not safe--"
"It's safe for me?" Sam asks fiercely.
4. The Devil's Water, It Ain't So Sweet
Sam heads into the library to pillage Chapman's book collection. Dean goes through the rest of the house, casting salt circles and marking things for exorcism, destruction, Good Will.
In the laundry room, Dean taps a cloudy blue glass jar and jerks back when something inside twitches. He steps away. The lid of the jar cracks open, topples off, breaking on the tile floor. Something comes out into the room, much larger than the jar could contain.
"Killed him."
Its voice is low wind through dry grass. Its mouth doesn't move when it speaks. Its eyes are enormous and dark, its body phosphorescent white. It's half-formed and transparent, and Dean decides it's a spirit.
"Chapman? Yeah," he says. He brings his gun up.
5. Sam slaps the laptop closed and pushes away from the kitchenette table, chair legs scraping on linoleum. "That's not what I'm saying--sometimes people just go missing, Dean. Sometimes it's not up to us to find them."
Dean is in front of the wall where they've tacked up their notes, clues, and research. There are photographs of women scattered between torn-out newspaper articles, pristine laser copies, his hurried capitals and Sam's jagged handwriting. They have collected over a hundred names and almost seventy photographs. Sam has taped or pinned them up in chronological order.
"A hundred and twelve women," Dean says to Sam. "A hundred and twelve women over the last three hundred years, insides turned to pulp, their hands tossed out with the trash. You don't think that's a little beyond the scope of your everyday psycho serial killer?"
---
Bye.
PS: I was making icons last night, and I drew a cartoon Andrew John Hurley (kind of). ADORABLE.
Five random bits of current WIP.
1. The girls were chasing each other through a Burger King playground, shoeless, their hair flying every which way. Lorelai had barbecue sauce from her chicken nuggets smeared all over her face like war paint. She tackled Alex in the ball pit, her victory scream piercing and long.
"God, they're little monsters," Sam said. He looked over at Dean and wanted to touch the back of his neck, so he did.
"We can't anymore," Dean said.
Sam said, "What?" and his fingers caught in the collar of Dean's coat.
"If we're keeping them," Dean said. He moved out of Sam's reach. "We have to--"
"Dean," Sam said, frowning, catching on.
"No, Sam," Dean said. "Not with them--if they're staying--. We have to stop."
2. About the Things that You've Done
The mirror is scratched; the backing is coming off too, so there are spots of clear glass, where you can see the wall showing through. It's better than looking at your reflection, anyway. The sink is chipped, with little shaving hairs and dried streams of blood, spit, beer running down to the rusty drain. You can see the big black plunger and the plastic package of no-name industrial toilet paper sitting under it. There's a lone white bottle of Toilet Duck under there too, with greasy grey fingerprints on each side.
The water is cold, no matter how many times you turn the hot tap. You put your freezing wet hands over your face. The last of the beer-whiskey fuzziness around the edges of your eyes fades away, leaving you stone-cold alert with an illusion of sobriety. You get that from your mother.
There isn't any paper towel, just a cloth loop that hangs almost to the floor. It's stained brown and pink and black in places. You wipe your hands on the ass of your jeans, and unlock the door.
You're in the hall before you notice Gordon waiting, just past the reach of the bar's patchy light.
3. can't you see that we're going to hell
Sam has a scar on the corner of his jaw, just beside his right ear, from his run-in with the bus. His skin is pale. Dean never noticed how pale he was when he was comatose.
"It's been eight months," Dean says, because at least he can answer Sam's question.
Sam's face twists disbelievingly. "Eight months?"
Dean shrugs. "Yeah."
Sam looks out the window. He picks at the yellow tape fixing his IV to the soft place between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand.
"Where's Dad?" he says. "I need Dad's help. I have to get out of here."
Dean says, "I don't know where he is." The hurt and old anger on Sam's face almost make up for him saying I instead of we and asking for their father of all people.
"Has he been here at all?" Sam asks.
Dean shakes his head, and it's not satisfying when Sam nods like he should have known, like he should have expected his own father not to come when he needed him.
"He sent me," Dean says. "It's not safe--"
"It's safe for me?" Sam asks fiercely.
4. The Devil's Water, It Ain't So Sweet
Sam heads into the library to pillage Chapman's book collection. Dean goes through the rest of the house, casting salt circles and marking things for exorcism, destruction, Good Will.
In the laundry room, Dean taps a cloudy blue glass jar and jerks back when something inside twitches. He steps away. The lid of the jar cracks open, topples off, breaking on the tile floor. Something comes out into the room, much larger than the jar could contain.
"Killed him."
Its voice is low wind through dry grass. Its mouth doesn't move when it speaks. Its eyes are enormous and dark, its body phosphorescent white. It's half-formed and transparent, and Dean decides it's a spirit.
"Chapman? Yeah," he says. He brings his gun up.
5. Sam slaps the laptop closed and pushes away from the kitchenette table, chair legs scraping on linoleum. "That's not what I'm saying--sometimes people just go missing, Dean. Sometimes it's not up to us to find them."
Dean is in front of the wall where they've tacked up their notes, clues, and research. There are photographs of women scattered between torn-out newspaper articles, pristine laser copies, his hurried capitals and Sam's jagged handwriting. They have collected over a hundred names and almost seventy photographs. Sam has taped or pinned them up in chronological order.
"A hundred and twelve women," Dean says to Sam. "A hundred and twelve women over the last three hundred years, insides turned to pulp, their hands tossed out with the trash. You don't think that's a little beyond the scope of your everyday psycho serial killer?"
---
Bye.
PS: I was making icons last night, and I drew a cartoon Andrew John Hurley (kind of). ADORABLE.