look what I found
I want to write so bad, but nothing appeals ... or, that's not right - everything kind of has its appeal, and I can't settle down and decide what to try. More Winsister fic? Helpless, hopeless darkfic? Curtainfic (because I've only made like ... two attempts that really didn't pan out)? Older brother!Sam (my new fixation)? WHAAAAAT.
Some Bobby and Ellen snippet:
"This ain't gonna help Jo, you know," he says. Ellen's striding step for step with him, and damn, but he's never seen a woman so prideful just by walking. "She's gonna end up hooked on huntin - it takin the two people she loves most away from her."
Ellen stalls and Bobby does, too, up ahead and turning back to face her blacked out form. They're silent, only Ellen's harsh breath clear between them, and the low song of crickets behind it. "I'm not dying."
He snorts, idjit. "But you ain't there, either."
"She's twelve, Bobby, she don't need me around every second of every day. Besides, she's looked after."
"She's twelve, and she just lost her daddy," Bobby says, "do you have a right to runnin away?"
He sees the tears in the dark. They make her eyes shine something fierce. "Don't you - " and she's coming towards him, shotgun pointed down and finger on the guard. Her other hand's up, sharp and pointed, ready to poke him square in the chest. "Don't you dare lecture me, Bobby Singer. I know what your little town thinks of you."
He wants to flinch, but her acid isn't anything new. He knew day one what her temper was like, fast and deep, written all over her face. "It's the truth, Ellen, and that's fine. But I don't have a kid. Not then and not now. I had allowances you don't get." He doesn't apologize for it - she doesn't need it, doesn't want it, he knows that.
"So I - I should be like John, huh, is that what you're saying? Some good-for-nothing, sonuvabitch draggin a kid around?" Bobby's starting to think it's not gonna be ending with a poke in the chest, but that shotgun coming up and whacking him in the head.
"Ellen," he says, and it's a warning. Not stop, not don't you dare, because those don't work with hunters. It's remember where we are; dead weight's not what you need right now.
She jerks back from leaning in, jaw up and tight as her short nod.
John and Mary backstory snippet:
What was strange when Mary was pregnant with Dean was that the beginning was blurry in John's mind. He couldn't remember how and when Mary actually told him. It seemed like they were moving into their house, sickeningly infatuated with each other when they weren't raring to kill each other, and then she was bent over the toilet, and John was there, nodding like he knew everything about the situation and saying, "morning sickness," like Mary didn't have a clue.
They fought about that particular personality quirk a lot. It's always the same as before the pregnancy, but John remembered it better because Mary's belly was big under one of John's old shirts; big with her belly button poking out ("like cooking a Thanksgiving turkey," Mary would say and pat her belly, smiling like everything was a secret. "Almost done.").
"This," she said, voice that mix of vicious and dark that had taken John by surprise the first few times he heard it. It's a voice that knew how to hurt, and John learned, a few times flayed alive by her tongue, and he knew just what was coming. "This is why I didn't like you back in high school, John. You're a condescending bastard, but you know what? What are you? A washed up ex-Marine? A car repairman?" Mary's eyes always snapped, everything was always so alive, even her hate. "So quit acting like you're the king of the mountain. You're just like the rest of us lowly humans."
The words stay crisp in his mind, then and years later, although he won't remember when they burrowed deep into his skull. He was too busy practically sprinting for the door. He'd grown up seeing his father put his hands on his mother. He'd heard the screams and saw the bruises and the fear and the blood. That's why he joined the Corps, when he felt the beginnings of a useless, frazzled anger, when daydreams suddenly seemed a bit too real, too violent. It calmed him down, the training, the war, the bloodshed. And now that he's back?
Better just to leave.
Some unfinished ohsam prompt fill (Sam and Dean, gen):
Blood drips down his hands. It's a slow track that itches and crawls over oldnewold wounds, and he twists to get away, aches firing over and over, face a strained, burned mask; he screams no. Nononono.
Dean says, "Sammy," and Sam can feel his brother's fingers pressed into his shoulder blade, palm cupped over the curve of his neck, thumb dipped in the hollow of the throat.
"It was a dream," he says, and there are shadows playing over Dean's face, murky light graying out eyes and nose and mouth. His brother is sharp angles and no relief. "I was dreaming."
Dean drifts away, then. Fingers slowly sliding away, too obvious points of cool air against his hot skin.
Sam shifts. He watches the dim moonlight shift and grow along the seams of the ceiling. He doesn't sleep.
**
The first time Dean had woken him up, Sam had been full of hellfire and pain, acid breathing pain over him, and he'd leashed out, caught Dean right across the cheek, tumbled his brother back into the bed across from him.
"Fuck, Sam," Dean'd said. His cheek had split along the bone, blood leaked down, red and lazy. Sam stared at blunt, square fingers painted red from where Dean'd touched the cut. "You gotta know it's me, right?"
Sam had flinched, and Dean must have taken it for guilt. Sam didn't say, it's you. It is you.
**
He watches his brother tie them up. Smirking and angry and willing to hurt. Sam stands back, holding knives and holy water. Dead man's blood. He watches them scream and Dean laugh, toss a look over his shoulder.
Hey, Sammy, hey get over here.
In his dreams, Dean's his big brother, covered in plaid and cocky and beautiful. Eyes green and clear and never black or red or yellow.
Sam's always at his feet, on the rack, under his blades and his hands. Dying and screaming and trying to remember.
This is what we do to monsters.
**
What did you do to them, he wants to ask, and he means what would you have done to me.
He remembers when Dean came back, and how messed up his brother had been. One late night, bedside light on, flickering and yellow, a bottle of Jack in Dean's shaking hands, heads close together.
Dean saying, what I did. God, god, what I did, Sammy, and there were tears in Dean's eyes, old tracks on his face.
Sam can see it play over and over behind his eyes: the shattering pieces of his brother's face (grief and horror and agony), and his eyes standing out, wet and open and watchful.
STUFF! (why can't i wriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiite)
Some Bobby and Ellen snippet:
"This ain't gonna help Jo, you know," he says. Ellen's striding step for step with him, and damn, but he's never seen a woman so prideful just by walking. "She's gonna end up hooked on huntin - it takin the two people she loves most away from her."
Ellen stalls and Bobby does, too, up ahead and turning back to face her blacked out form. They're silent, only Ellen's harsh breath clear between them, and the low song of crickets behind it. "I'm not dying."
He snorts, idjit. "But you ain't there, either."
"She's twelve, Bobby, she don't need me around every second of every day. Besides, she's looked after."
"She's twelve, and she just lost her daddy," Bobby says, "do you have a right to runnin away?"
He sees the tears in the dark. They make her eyes shine something fierce. "Don't you - " and she's coming towards him, shotgun pointed down and finger on the guard. Her other hand's up, sharp and pointed, ready to poke him square in the chest. "Don't you dare lecture me, Bobby Singer. I know what your little town thinks of you."
He wants to flinch, but her acid isn't anything new. He knew day one what her temper was like, fast and deep, written all over her face. "It's the truth, Ellen, and that's fine. But I don't have a kid. Not then and not now. I had allowances you don't get." He doesn't apologize for it - she doesn't need it, doesn't want it, he knows that.
"So I - I should be like John, huh, is that what you're saying? Some good-for-nothing, sonuvabitch draggin a kid around?" Bobby's starting to think it's not gonna be ending with a poke in the chest, but that shotgun coming up and whacking him in the head.
"Ellen," he says, and it's a warning. Not stop, not don't you dare, because those don't work with hunters. It's remember where we are; dead weight's not what you need right now.
She jerks back from leaning in, jaw up and tight as her short nod.
John and Mary backstory snippet:
What was strange when Mary was pregnant with Dean was that the beginning was blurry in John's mind. He couldn't remember how and when Mary actually told him. It seemed like they were moving into their house, sickeningly infatuated with each other when they weren't raring to kill each other, and then she was bent over the toilet, and John was there, nodding like he knew everything about the situation and saying, "morning sickness," like Mary didn't have a clue.
They fought about that particular personality quirk a lot. It's always the same as before the pregnancy, but John remembered it better because Mary's belly was big under one of John's old shirts; big with her belly button poking out ("like cooking a Thanksgiving turkey," Mary would say and pat her belly, smiling like everything was a secret. "Almost done.").
"This," she said, voice that mix of vicious and dark that had taken John by surprise the first few times he heard it. It's a voice that knew how to hurt, and John learned, a few times flayed alive by her tongue, and he knew just what was coming. "This is why I didn't like you back in high school, John. You're a condescending bastard, but you know what? What are you? A washed up ex-Marine? A car repairman?" Mary's eyes always snapped, everything was always so alive, even her hate. "So quit acting like you're the king of the mountain. You're just like the rest of us lowly humans."
The words stay crisp in his mind, then and years later, although he won't remember when they burrowed deep into his skull. He was too busy practically sprinting for the door. He'd grown up seeing his father put his hands on his mother. He'd heard the screams and saw the bruises and the fear and the blood. That's why he joined the Corps, when he felt the beginnings of a useless, frazzled anger, when daydreams suddenly seemed a bit too real, too violent. It calmed him down, the training, the war, the bloodshed. And now that he's back?
Better just to leave.
Some unfinished ohsam prompt fill (Sam and Dean, gen):
Blood drips down his hands. It's a slow track that itches and crawls over oldnewold wounds, and he twists to get away, aches firing over and over, face a strained, burned mask; he screams no. Nononono.
Dean says, "Sammy," and Sam can feel his brother's fingers pressed into his shoulder blade, palm cupped over the curve of his neck, thumb dipped in the hollow of the throat.
"It was a dream," he says, and there are shadows playing over Dean's face, murky light graying out eyes and nose and mouth. His brother is sharp angles and no relief. "I was dreaming."
Dean drifts away, then. Fingers slowly sliding away, too obvious points of cool air against his hot skin.
Sam shifts. He watches the dim moonlight shift and grow along the seams of the ceiling. He doesn't sleep.
**
The first time Dean had woken him up, Sam had been full of hellfire and pain, acid breathing pain over him, and he'd leashed out, caught Dean right across the cheek, tumbled his brother back into the bed across from him.
"Fuck, Sam," Dean'd said. His cheek had split along the bone, blood leaked down, red and lazy. Sam stared at blunt, square fingers painted red from where Dean'd touched the cut. "You gotta know it's me, right?"
Sam had flinched, and Dean must have taken it for guilt. Sam didn't say, it's you. It is you.
**
He watches his brother tie them up. Smirking and angry and willing to hurt. Sam stands back, holding knives and holy water. Dead man's blood. He watches them scream and Dean laugh, toss a look over his shoulder.
Hey, Sammy, hey get over here.
In his dreams, Dean's his big brother, covered in plaid and cocky and beautiful. Eyes green and clear and never black or red or yellow.
Sam's always at his feet, on the rack, under his blades and his hands. Dying and screaming and trying to remember.
This is what we do to monsters.
**
What did you do to them, he wants to ask, and he means what would you have done to me.
He remembers when Dean came back, and how messed up his brother had been. One late night, bedside light on, flickering and yellow, a bottle of Jack in Dean's shaking hands, heads close together.
Dean saying, what I did. God, god, what I did, Sammy, and there were tears in Dean's eyes, old tracks on his face.
Sam can see it play over and over behind his eyes: the shattering pieces of his brother's face (grief and horror and agony), and his eyes standing out, wet and open and watchful.
STUFF! (why can't i wriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiite)