On me...yes yes, fascinating! And...'In Dreams'
*waves tiredly*
See that icon? That is *so* me. But, i've work yet to do. The last couple days have been hardcore cleaning and packing and moving. Forty minute drive each way, unloading, more cleaning... Today was more of the same with added DSL and Cable-guy antics, which took much longer than anticipated.
Tomorrow - the great move-in, in which our beds and toiletries go to the new house! Wheeeeee! And computers, too. :)
So, i haven't been around, won't be for a couple more days, just lurking but man, so busy.
And so, so tired. Did i mention i was tired?
*yawn*
Anyway - back to getting my desk/computer ready to be loaded up in the morning.
I leave you with a teeny coda to 'The Song of the Treadmill'. marciaelena wanted to know what it was like when Dean killed the demon. This probably isn't enough to suit, but i hope it still satisfies!
*yawns more*
Okay, this is me, signing out.
In his dreams, the sword is weightless. A shaft of pure light, that hurts to look at. In his dreams, Sam's blood is hot and vital on his tongue, setting him alight - sending seething flame all through his body for just a moment.
In his dreams, he steps across the ward and he can feel it. It's like stepping through a wave at the sea - like walking out of calm into a strong wind, and he falters for a moment. The demon towers over him, and its body is at once a pillar of flame and a twisted rope of raw flesh and blood - bone and maggots and the sheen of sunlight on water. He can't sort it into one or the other, and doesn't want to.
It whispers at him, mocking - curls around him like a snake, making his skin shiver. In his dreams, he's not afraid.
He lifts the sword and brings it down, flashing arc, and the demon screams. Where the sword has cleaved it, it bleeds. Muddied light, like a shoal of tarnished silver fish, fans out from it, dissolving. It ravels apart like a poorly made scarf, essence unspooling into the ether until it sputters into nothing. Gone, just like that, and he grins.
Turns to Sam, to *stranger, brother, lover, other, family* and lifts the sword in half-mocking, half-serious salute.
'Sammy, man, you gotta get you one of these.'
In his dreams, Sam grins back - steps out of the invisible pulse of the ward and yanks him close by a fistful of leather and scarf. 'I think one's plenty, don't you?'
In his dreams, Sam's mouth is cold and chapped and tastes of salt, and coffee, and mint. In his dreams, it takes his breath away - makes heat curl in his belly, makes his heart pound.
In real life, it's ten times better.
Treadmill timestamp.
*super-sekrit missage to Snow...*clings*...
See that icon? That is *so* me. But, i've work yet to do. The last couple days have been hardcore cleaning and packing and moving. Forty minute drive each way, unloading, more cleaning... Today was more of the same with added DSL and Cable-guy antics, which took much longer than anticipated.
Tomorrow - the great move-in, in which our beds and toiletries go to the new house! Wheeeeee! And computers, too. :)
So, i haven't been around, won't be for a couple more days, just lurking but man, so busy.
And so, so tired. Did i mention i was tired?
*yawn*
Anyway - back to getting my desk/computer ready to be loaded up in the morning.
I leave you with a teeny coda to 'The Song of the Treadmill'. marciaelena wanted to know what it was like when Dean killed the demon. This probably isn't enough to suit, but i hope it still satisfies!
*yawns more*
Okay, this is me, signing out.
In his dreams, the sword is weightless. A shaft of pure light, that hurts to look at. In his dreams, Sam's blood is hot and vital on his tongue, setting him alight - sending seething flame all through his body for just a moment.
In his dreams, he steps across the ward and he can feel it. It's like stepping through a wave at the sea - like walking out of calm into a strong wind, and he falters for a moment. The demon towers over him, and its body is at once a pillar of flame and a twisted rope of raw flesh and blood - bone and maggots and the sheen of sunlight on water. He can't sort it into one or the other, and doesn't want to.
It whispers at him, mocking - curls around him like a snake, making his skin shiver. In his dreams, he's not afraid.
He lifts the sword and brings it down, flashing arc, and the demon screams. Where the sword has cleaved it, it bleeds. Muddied light, like a shoal of tarnished silver fish, fans out from it, dissolving. It ravels apart like a poorly made scarf, essence unspooling into the ether until it sputters into nothing. Gone, just like that, and he grins.
Turns to Sam, to *stranger, brother, lover, other, family* and lifts the sword in half-mocking, half-serious salute.
'Sammy, man, you gotta get you one of these.'
In his dreams, Sam grins back - steps out of the invisible pulse of the ward and yanks him close by a fistful of leather and scarf. 'I think one's plenty, don't you?'
In his dreams, Sam's mouth is cold and chapped and tastes of salt, and coffee, and mint. In his dreams, it takes his breath away - makes heat curl in his belly, makes his heart pound.
In real life, it's ten times better.
Treadmill timestamp.
*super-sekrit missage to Snow...*clings*...