Lazy, uncreative day. Here, have some memes.
I think I've done this meme every year, so I may as well keep up the tradition.
First sentence from the first entry of every month this year (an entry or two skipped due to entries containing nothing but YouTube videos):
January: To those complaining about your word count this year: don't. I spit out a grand total of 4007 words.
February: So I just finished up the first draft of my Secret Angels fic, checked the word count, and busted up laughing.
March: (LJ writer's block asks: If you could ask your pet any question (and they could answer you), what would it be?) "Which one of you tore apart my last roll of toilet paper and left it in little bits all over my freaking apartment?"
April: I've massively stalled on my Big Bang.
May: OMG WTF BULLPEN. D: Perez, Jensen - you're fired.
June: Most confusing subject line ever. Hopefully it'll make more sense after you read it.
July: And they're very random ones, at that.
August: I'm starting to think that the animal kingdom in the baseball world antics need their own tag.
September: Okay, so I disappeared off the face of the internet (except for Facebook).
October: Text messages from the ether. Random phone number: Aye girl
November: SO not attempting NaNoWriMo this year.
December: It seems this has BEEN making the rounds on LJ for a bit, so everyone probably already has it, but I've got five Google Wave invites up for grabs.
Some of those entries are locked, including that last one. Speaking of Google Wave invites, though, I've suddenly got 18 more. Pretty sure everyone who wants it has it now, but there they are. (Also, if anyone requested one last time and didn't get one, here's the place to ask.) Leave your e-mail if you want it. Comment notifications are back on (for the most part - I'm still missing notifications from days ago), and I'm not screening, so you can just leave your e-mail and delete your comment if you don't want your e-mail out in the wild world of LJ.
The first two make me giggle because I know my word count for this year dwarfs the count for last year. Yes, I know some of you are all 100K and much much more, but for me? That's an accomplishment. :P
Oh, and the word count for all the WIPs I've got going on? Over 35,000. Yeah, 35,000 words of shit that isn't finished. A couple of people have gotten to read snippets/scenes/big chunks of some of them, but most of them are just hiding in my G-docs.
Which brings me to the WIP meme that I see making the rounds again.
Post a sentence/paragraph/snippet from every wip you can find. No explanations allowed, just the excerpt.
Some of these might be finished someday. Some of them I know won't be finished, but I'm still too attached to them to continue. They're also in completely random order because I enjoy confusing people. \o/
(These are pretty large excerpts. Uhm. O_O)
There are boobs on his television screen.
Dean nearly falls off the bed when he first hits the power button on the remote and he gets an eyeful of huge, beautiful, abso-fucking-lutely amazing tits - tits that aren't covered with pesky clothing, but out and bouncing in their full, nipply glory.
The term 'boob tube' has never been more appropriate, because the television is tuned to some pay-per-view channel, and that channel has somehow been paid for. He wonders if it's a glitch in the hotel's cable or if someone had pre-paid for his room and left, but the curiosity flees within seconds when it finally sinks in that he has actual lesbian porn, and he has it for fucking free.
So he just counts his blessings, and then begins to count the multiple clits and breasts gracing the glowing screen in front of him. He flashes a grin at the empty room, then cranks the volume and leans back to enjoy the show.
Dean is blinking owlishly at Castiel, and Sam represses a sigh when he recognizes Dean's 'I've been imbibing' face. Dean not only has the usual glassy gaze, but he's also one of those people who get a slight lazy eye when drunk. It makes it easy for Sam to know a trashed Dean on sight, and a trashed Dean is definitely what's in front of him.
"Are you all right, Dean?" Castiel asks.
Dean finally lets a toothy grin spread across his lips. "Dude!" he declares in such a loud voice that Sam winces; if they have any neighbors sleeping in the motel room next to theirs, those neighbors definitely aren't sleeping now. "That was almost better than... well, it was just full-on awesome!" Dean continues, not a bit quieter.
"Uh, Dean?" Sam asks tentatively. "You may want to bring it down a notch."
"Sammy," Dean says as he rocks backwards without releasing his hold on Castiel's neck. He's looking at Sam half upside-down, which makes his lopsided grin appear even more lopsided. "Cas took me flying!"
"I..." Sam starts wondering if his brother is tripping, and not just drunk. Or maybe he's possibly on ecstasy, what with how touchy-feely he's being with Castiel. Sam has always thought Dean couldn't stand the angel; instead his brother apparently likes to rub himself all over - and there is no freaking way Sam is going to finish that line of thought. "I thought you hated flying," Sam finally says.
"I thought so, too," Dean says as he rolls his head to the side. "I think I just hate planes." Dean giggles - and dear lord, Dean is freaking giggling, and Sam doesn't know if that's one of the signs of the apocalypse. It would make sense, especially since Castiel, who only seemed to show up with news about the end of the world, had graced them with his presence. "I don't think any birds would get stuck in an angel's engines," Dean continues, and Sam figures Dean would probably be relieved by knowing that at least he has a manly giggle. Sam definitely needs to find his phone; he still needs that camera, and now he's pretty sure he needs the sound recorder, too.
As far as deaths went, Dean definitely preferred his second to his first.
Not that he'd wanted to die again, but if he had to choose between Hellhounds ripping him to pieces in some shitty suburban dining room and, well, this? Dude, that isn't even a choice.
Sure, the second death had still been violent. That goes without saying. With the life that Dean had led, how could it not end in battle? It was still better than dying in a fiery car crash (God forbid he should take the Impala with him, after all), or slowly rotting to an empty shell in a hospital bed.
It had definitely still hurt the second time around, but instead of being torn to shreds for an agonizing minute that felt like hours, it was one blast of pain. He didn't have to feel his flesh being torn from his chest, feel his lungs struggling to fill themselves, or feel his heart give one last excruciating pump before giving out on him. One second of pain, and then he felt nothing.
The not-shapeshifter immediately starts moving towards them. "Inside, now."
John steps in between Dean and his look-alike. "There's no way I'm letting you in -"
"Now!" The way the not-shapeshifter says it is like an order, so completely unlike Dean, who is better at taking orders than dishing them out. "I know you have no reason to trust us, especially looking the way we do, but we all need to get inside right the fuck now." He glances back up into the sky. "Those are demons. A lot of them. And they're going to go into town, find some people to possess, and they'll be coming straight here." The not-shifter picks up the knife he dropped earlier and stares at the unmoving John. "Would you rather face us or them?"
"I know what demons are and how to deal with them," John says, finding himself more irritated than anything else. "I don't know what the hell you are."
"Oh, for shittin' out loud -"
"Dean!" The taller guy reaches forward and puts a hand on the not-shapeshifter's arm, glaring at him before turning his attention back to John and Dean. "Look, we completely - completely - understand what we look like. But right now, you don't have a choice. You can't face off against as many demons are on their way." That sense of familiarity wells up inside John again; the way this guy moves and talks in a placating manner made him feel like he should know him, but John just can't put his finger on it.
Even that doesn't make John budge, though. "Who are you?" he asks again.
He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and when he jerked his head over he noticed that his shoes were sliding across the floor, oddly looking like small cars driving side by side. He watched them for a few minutes as they slowly moved forward a few feet, and then suddenly jerked back to their original position only to begin the journey all over again. It was strange, and Castiel wondered why his shoes were doing that.
They did it over and over again, until he finally decided that the shoes must have been unable to make their trip across the room by themselves. He crawled off of his mattress and over to his shoes, sliding them into the corner where he thought they'd been trying to go. The shoelaces waved at him in thanks, so he smiled down at them and moved back to his bed, where he laid down with a small sense of satisfaction that he could at least be of assistance in some way.
His pillow was extremely soft, and he sighed happily in comfort as he stared up at the ceiling, studying the grain of the wood. The flat, sanded surface appeared layered and three dimensional, the different shades standing apart from each other and shifting against the color beneath. He wanted to reach up and grab the darkest color, the one closest to the surface, and tear it away from the others. It reminded him of demon smoke as it slithered and hovered over the lighter colors. It was too similar to the world he lived in.
It was strange, disenchanting, to remember just how many people in the world had no clue as to what moved among them. They went about their lives, never knowing how close they were to death. In a way, though, Castiel thought they might have it easier. At least they weren't spending the last of their days worrying about the end. They could enjoy their last moments.
Castiel thought he might envy that ignorance.
"Cas?" Dean hovered over him, and Castiel realized he hadn't even heard Dean come in. He smiled, glad that Dean came to be with him.
"Jesus, Cas." Dean sat down beside Castiel, and Castiel tilted his head up into the fingers suddenly running through his hair. "Your pupils are the size of a fucking quarter. What the hell did you take?"
"I wanted to try something new." Castiel didn't want to move, enjoying how he sank down into the mattress. "I can think now. Everything's clearer."
Dean muttered something Castiel couldn't understand. "What's clearer?"
"Life. The world. We don't find hope - we create it. We create it in everything we do." Castiel was particularly pleased with this revelation, and even more excited to share it with Dean. "The 'false hope' you spoke of - I'm creating that every day."
Dean studied him for a few moments before cupping his cheek and leaning down to kiss him on the forehead. Castiel nearly gasped at the feeling - Dean's touch seemed amplified, sparking his nerve endings from head to toe. "You're tripping," Dean said quietly.
"Is that what this is called?" Castiel raised his hand and his fingers landed on Dean's lips. "Soft..." he whispered.
Dean sighed, grasping Castiel's wrist and pulling it away from him. "I've got some things to take care of," he said. "I'll tell you about them when you come down, okay?"
Castiel nodded, sinking further down into the mattress.
"Will you be okay by yourself?" Dean asked as he climbed to his feet.
"I will be fine."
Dean left, and Castiel continued sinking.
First sentence from the first entry of every month this year (an entry or two skipped due to entries containing nothing but YouTube videos):
January: To those complaining about your word count this year: don't. I spit out a grand total of 4007 words.
February: So I just finished up the first draft of my Secret Angels fic, checked the word count, and busted up laughing.
March: (LJ writer's block asks: If you could ask your pet any question (and they could answer you), what would it be?) "Which one of you tore apart my last roll of toilet paper and left it in little bits all over my freaking apartment?"
April: I've massively stalled on my Big Bang.
May: OMG WTF BULLPEN. D: Perez, Jensen - you're fired.
June: Most confusing subject line ever. Hopefully it'll make more sense after you read it.
July: And they're very random ones, at that.
August: I'm starting to think that the animal kingdom in the baseball world antics need their own tag.
September: Okay, so I disappeared off the face of the internet (except for Facebook).
October: Text messages from the ether. Random phone number: Aye girl
November: SO not attempting NaNoWriMo this year.
December: It seems this has BEEN making the rounds on LJ for a bit, so everyone probably already has it, but I've got five Google Wave invites up for grabs.
Some of those entries are locked, including that last one. Speaking of Google Wave invites, though, I've suddenly got 18 more. Pretty sure everyone who wants it has it now, but there they are. (Also, if anyone requested one last time and didn't get one, here's the place to ask.) Leave your e-mail if you want it. Comment notifications are back on (for the most part - I'm still missing notifications from days ago), and I'm not screening, so you can just leave your e-mail and delete your comment if you don't want your e-mail out in the wild world of LJ.
The first two make me giggle because I know my word count for this year dwarfs the count for last year. Yes, I know some of you are all 100K and much much more, but for me? That's an accomplishment. :P
Oh, and the word count for all the WIPs I've got going on? Over 35,000. Yeah, 35,000 words of shit that isn't finished. A couple of people have gotten to read snippets/scenes/big chunks of some of them, but most of them are just hiding in my G-docs.
Which brings me to the WIP meme that I see making the rounds again.
Post a sentence/paragraph/snippet from every wip you can find. No explanations allowed, just the excerpt.
Some of these might be finished someday. Some of them I know won't be finished, but I'm still too attached to them to continue. They're also in completely random order because I enjoy confusing people. \o/
(These are pretty large excerpts. Uhm. O_O)
There are boobs on his television screen.
Dean nearly falls off the bed when he first hits the power button on the remote and he gets an eyeful of huge, beautiful, abso-fucking-lutely amazing tits - tits that aren't covered with pesky clothing, but out and bouncing in their full, nipply glory.
The term 'boob tube' has never been more appropriate, because the television is tuned to some pay-per-view channel, and that channel has somehow been paid for. He wonders if it's a glitch in the hotel's cable or if someone had pre-paid for his room and left, but the curiosity flees within seconds when it finally sinks in that he has actual lesbian porn, and he has it for fucking free.
So he just counts his blessings, and then begins to count the multiple clits and breasts gracing the glowing screen in front of him. He flashes a grin at the empty room, then cranks the volume and leans back to enjoy the show.
Dean is blinking owlishly at Castiel, and Sam represses a sigh when he recognizes Dean's 'I've been imbibing' face. Dean not only has the usual glassy gaze, but he's also one of those people who get a slight lazy eye when drunk. It makes it easy for Sam to know a trashed Dean on sight, and a trashed Dean is definitely what's in front of him.
"Are you all right, Dean?" Castiel asks.
Dean finally lets a toothy grin spread across his lips. "Dude!" he declares in such a loud voice that Sam winces; if they have any neighbors sleeping in the motel room next to theirs, those neighbors definitely aren't sleeping now. "That was almost better than... well, it was just full-on awesome!" Dean continues, not a bit quieter.
"Uh, Dean?" Sam asks tentatively. "You may want to bring it down a notch."
"Sammy," Dean says as he rocks backwards without releasing his hold on Castiel's neck. He's looking at Sam half upside-down, which makes his lopsided grin appear even more lopsided. "Cas took me flying!"
"I..." Sam starts wondering if his brother is tripping, and not just drunk. Or maybe he's possibly on ecstasy, what with how touchy-feely he's being with Castiel. Sam has always thought Dean couldn't stand the angel; instead his brother apparently likes to rub himself all over - and there is no freaking way Sam is going to finish that line of thought. "I thought you hated flying," Sam finally says.
"I thought so, too," Dean says as he rolls his head to the side. "I think I just hate planes." Dean giggles - and dear lord, Dean is freaking giggling, and Sam doesn't know if that's one of the signs of the apocalypse. It would make sense, especially since Castiel, who only seemed to show up with news about the end of the world, had graced them with his presence. "I don't think any birds would get stuck in an angel's engines," Dean continues, and Sam figures Dean would probably be relieved by knowing that at least he has a manly giggle. Sam definitely needs to find his phone; he still needs that camera, and now he's pretty sure he needs the sound recorder, too.
As far as deaths went, Dean definitely preferred his second to his first.
Not that he'd wanted to die again, but if he had to choose between Hellhounds ripping him to pieces in some shitty suburban dining room and, well, this? Dude, that isn't even a choice.
Sure, the second death had still been violent. That goes without saying. With the life that Dean had led, how could it not end in battle? It was still better than dying in a fiery car crash (God forbid he should take the Impala with him, after all), or slowly rotting to an empty shell in a hospital bed.
It had definitely still hurt the second time around, but instead of being torn to shreds for an agonizing minute that felt like hours, it was one blast of pain. He didn't have to feel his flesh being torn from his chest, feel his lungs struggling to fill themselves, or feel his heart give one last excruciating pump before giving out on him. One second of pain, and then he felt nothing.
The not-shapeshifter immediately starts moving towards them. "Inside, now."
John steps in between Dean and his look-alike. "There's no way I'm letting you in -"
"Now!" The way the not-shapeshifter says it is like an order, so completely unlike Dean, who is better at taking orders than dishing them out. "I know you have no reason to trust us, especially looking the way we do, but we all need to get inside right the fuck now." He glances back up into the sky. "Those are demons. A lot of them. And they're going to go into town, find some people to possess, and they'll be coming straight here." The not-shifter picks up the knife he dropped earlier and stares at the unmoving John. "Would you rather face us or them?"
"I know what demons are and how to deal with them," John says, finding himself more irritated than anything else. "I don't know what the hell you are."
"Oh, for shittin' out loud -"
"Dean!" The taller guy reaches forward and puts a hand on the not-shapeshifter's arm, glaring at him before turning his attention back to John and Dean. "Look, we completely - completely - understand what we look like. But right now, you don't have a choice. You can't face off against as many demons are on their way." That sense of familiarity wells up inside John again; the way this guy moves and talks in a placating manner made him feel like he should know him, but John just can't put his finger on it.
Even that doesn't make John budge, though. "Who are you?" he asks again.
He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and when he jerked his head over he noticed that his shoes were sliding across the floor, oddly looking like small cars driving side by side. He watched them for a few minutes as they slowly moved forward a few feet, and then suddenly jerked back to their original position only to begin the journey all over again. It was strange, and Castiel wondered why his shoes were doing that.
They did it over and over again, until he finally decided that the shoes must have been unable to make their trip across the room by themselves. He crawled off of his mattress and over to his shoes, sliding them into the corner where he thought they'd been trying to go. The shoelaces waved at him in thanks, so he smiled down at them and moved back to his bed, where he laid down with a small sense of satisfaction that he could at least be of assistance in some way.
His pillow was extremely soft, and he sighed happily in comfort as he stared up at the ceiling, studying the grain of the wood. The flat, sanded surface appeared layered and three dimensional, the different shades standing apart from each other and shifting against the color beneath. He wanted to reach up and grab the darkest color, the one closest to the surface, and tear it away from the others. It reminded him of demon smoke as it slithered and hovered over the lighter colors. It was too similar to the world he lived in.
It was strange, disenchanting, to remember just how many people in the world had no clue as to what moved among them. They went about their lives, never knowing how close they were to death. In a way, though, Castiel thought they might have it easier. At least they weren't spending the last of their days worrying about the end. They could enjoy their last moments.
Castiel thought he might envy that ignorance.
"Cas?" Dean hovered over him, and Castiel realized he hadn't even heard Dean come in. He smiled, glad that Dean came to be with him.
"Jesus, Cas." Dean sat down beside Castiel, and Castiel tilted his head up into the fingers suddenly running through his hair. "Your pupils are the size of a fucking quarter. What the hell did you take?"
"I wanted to try something new." Castiel didn't want to move, enjoying how he sank down into the mattress. "I can think now. Everything's clearer."
Dean muttered something Castiel couldn't understand. "What's clearer?"
"Life. The world. We don't find hope - we create it. We create it in everything we do." Castiel was particularly pleased with this revelation, and even more excited to share it with Dean. "The 'false hope' you spoke of - I'm creating that every day."
Dean studied him for a few moments before cupping his cheek and leaning down to kiss him on the forehead. Castiel nearly gasped at the feeling - Dean's touch seemed amplified, sparking his nerve endings from head to toe. "You're tripping," Dean said quietly.
"Is that what this is called?" Castiel raised his hand and his fingers landed on Dean's lips. "Soft..." he whispered.
Dean sighed, grasping Castiel's wrist and pulling it away from him. "I've got some things to take care of," he said. "I'll tell you about them when you come down, okay?"
Castiel nodded, sinking further down into the mattress.
"Will you be okay by yourself?" Dean asked as he climbed to his feet.
"I will be fine."
Dean left, and Castiel continued sinking.