grindeldore a-go-go: now with added GIP
Holy crap, guys.
WE CAN HAS CANON GHEY NAO?
One of my slash OTPs has come true! I'm sure the rest shall follow along any moment now.
Any moment now.
(I had to share my joy with my dad. He just kinda... looked at me. Dammit, I need me some fannish people IRL.)
Now that the SHEER GLEE OF CANON CONFIRMATION has worn off, I'm very interested as to how the exposition of their relationship will be handled in the DH film. I hope we get a director who'd be willing to touch upon the subtext, now that we know the oft-quoted anagram is TRUFAX.
I'd still love for Terry Gilliam to get his mitts on some HP directing, but it has just now occurred to me how completely fucking awesome it would potentially be if Edgar Wright did it. Can you imagine?
PS. I wrote me some SPN fic. Straight into Word, no less! Unfortunately, the entire basis of said fic was me thinking about how much of a pussy the kid from Sixth Sense was compared to the Winchesters. Which, whilst entertaining, it turns out does not a plot make.
Perhaps I'll figure out wtf to do with it.
Things crawl out of the cracks to talk to them. You live this life and you get used to speaking in Latin and knowing twenty-five ways to kill the stuff most people don’t even believe in and coming home at all hours covered in werewolf guts, but somehow Dean just can’t get used to that.
“How do they even know we’re in to this shit?” he exclaims one night in an empty house as Sammy waves off a little boy with a hole in his head, fading into light.
“They’re dead,” is all Sam says, brushing salt and soot from his hands. Like that explains it all, or something.
Sure, Sam likes to think he’s so far removed from the family business, but if he gets any more cryptic he’s gonna grow a beard and start answering to ‘John’.
+
It’s just so fucking Sixth Sense, is the problem.
(Yeah, Dean’s seen that movie, and you’d think a kid who sees dead people all the time would put some actual fucking research into What To Do When Your Life’s Full Of Freaky Shit, wouldn’t you? Amateur.)
+
He was eight the first time. Which should probably be totally traumatizing, but you can learn a lot in four years if your daddy teaches fast enough. And Daddy musta taught fast enough, ‘cause when a clammy, mottled hand pulls aside his shower curtain, Dean doesn’t even scream.
“Go away ‘else my daddy’ll salt you,” he demands imperiously, planting his hands on his hips and glaring like their dad does when they won’t go to bed.
The girl looks about as old as him, and it’s years down the road before Dean realizes she wasn’t really, not at all. She’s pale as bone and her head lolls and her skin shines wetly and she whispers, “Careful you don’t slip.”
She leads him to her bones all by himself, a jumbled secret mess at the bottom of the garden, and waves goodbye as she burns away. Two years later, Dad gets the rock salt gun working just right and when Dean shoots a murderous librarian right between the eyes he gets to pick dinner that night.
He chooses spaghetti hoops anyway ‘cause that’s Sammy’s favourite, and it doesn’t feel like his first hunt at all, not really.
+
It’s nearly two decades since some unhappy little ghost figured out they were the go-to men, and it seems like word spreads when you’re dead.
Dean’s toed the other side of the line that he thinks they should make him an honourary member of the ghost communication network, or whatever the fuck it is that wakes up all the not-so-evil-spirit-bastards when the Winchesters come rolling into town.
-
LOL unedited. Still, it is a start. And also a bit of practise at getting Dean's voice right.
(also, firefox is still on the American spellchecking despite my installing the British dictionary. wtf, ff.)
-
PPS. I think I've just had what may well become known as the coolest idea ever.
CYBERPUNK RETELLINGS OF SHAKESPEARE.
WHO'S WITH ME?
WE CAN HAS CANON GHEY NAO?
One of my slash OTPs has come true! I'm sure the rest shall follow along any moment now.
Any moment now.
(I had to share my joy with my dad. He just kinda... looked at me. Dammit, I need me some fannish people IRL.)
Now that the SHEER GLEE OF CANON CONFIRMATION has worn off, I'm very interested as to how the exposition of their relationship will be handled in the DH film. I hope we get a director who'd be willing to touch upon the subtext, now that we know the oft-quoted anagram is TRUFAX.
I'd still love for Terry Gilliam to get his mitts on some HP directing, but it has just now occurred to me how completely fucking awesome it would potentially be if Edgar Wright did it. Can you imagine?
PS. I wrote me some SPN fic. Straight into Word, no less! Unfortunately, the entire basis of said fic was me thinking about how much of a pussy the kid from Sixth Sense was compared to the Winchesters. Which, whilst entertaining, it turns out does not a plot make.
Perhaps I'll figure out wtf to do with it.
Things crawl out of the cracks to talk to them. You live this life and you get used to speaking in Latin and knowing twenty-five ways to kill the stuff most people don’t even believe in and coming home at all hours covered in werewolf guts, but somehow Dean just can’t get used to that.
“How do they even know we’re in to this shit?” he exclaims one night in an empty house as Sammy waves off a little boy with a hole in his head, fading into light.
“They’re dead,” is all Sam says, brushing salt and soot from his hands. Like that explains it all, or something.
Sure, Sam likes to think he’s so far removed from the family business, but if he gets any more cryptic he’s gonna grow a beard and start answering to ‘John’.
+
It’s just so fucking Sixth Sense, is the problem.
(Yeah, Dean’s seen that movie, and you’d think a kid who sees dead people all the time would put some actual fucking research into What To Do When Your Life’s Full Of Freaky Shit, wouldn’t you? Amateur.)
+
He was eight the first time. Which should probably be totally traumatizing, but you can learn a lot in four years if your daddy teaches fast enough. And Daddy musta taught fast enough, ‘cause when a clammy, mottled hand pulls aside his shower curtain, Dean doesn’t even scream.
“Go away ‘else my daddy’ll salt you,” he demands imperiously, planting his hands on his hips and glaring like their dad does when they won’t go to bed.
The girl looks about as old as him, and it’s years down the road before Dean realizes she wasn’t really, not at all. She’s pale as bone and her head lolls and her skin shines wetly and she whispers, “Careful you don’t slip.”
She leads him to her bones all by himself, a jumbled secret mess at the bottom of the garden, and waves goodbye as she burns away. Two years later, Dad gets the rock salt gun working just right and when Dean shoots a murderous librarian right between the eyes he gets to pick dinner that night.
He chooses spaghetti hoops anyway ‘cause that’s Sammy’s favourite, and it doesn’t feel like his first hunt at all, not really.
+
It’s nearly two decades since some unhappy little ghost figured out they were the go-to men, and it seems like word spreads when you’re dead.
Dean’s toed the other side of the line that he thinks they should make him an honourary member of the ghost communication network, or whatever the fuck it is that wakes up all the not-so-evil-spirit-bastards when the Winchesters come rolling into town.
-
LOL unedited. Still, it is a start. And also a bit of practise at getting Dean's voice right.
(also, firefox is still on the American spellchecking despite my installing the British dictionary. wtf, ff.)
-
PPS. I think I've just had what may well become known as the coolest idea ever.
CYBERPUNK RETELLINGS OF SHAKESPEARE.
WHO'S WITH ME?