Contralateral
So I'm really into Supernatural - the only fandom I frequent is Supernatural (although not too deep - just the shallows are scary enough); the only fanfic I write these days is Supernatural. Tad obsessed, maybe, but I haven't had the time to get into anything else since joining med school. And getting into new interests is seriously time-consuming.
Contralateral is my biggest, most ambitious project in Supernatural so far. I'm posting it in (admittedly slow) installments over at FF.N and SNV.N, but I thought I'd post here too, because I desperately need constructive feedback. At times I feel I have no idea where I'm going with the story, whether it's just plain blah.
It's a divergence fic after the season 4 episode, Jump the Shark (one of my all-time favourites). It's set two years in the future, but is based on my version of the events that happened after JTS. So it goes without saying that here be season 4 spoilers.
Also, the SN usual: violence, blood and gore, slightly iffy religious concepts (which I tried not to go too much into), made-up mythology.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters. They belong to Eric Kripke and the CW.
Prologue
June 6, 2011
It was a dark, damp evening in Stratford, Wisconsin, and no amount of beaming weatherwomen or the prospect of a hot dinner and cool, dry bed could spare the irritation of moisture dripping down the sides of Rob Carlisle's face, entering his eyes, sticking his clothes to his skin. Once again swiping an already-wet handkerchief across his forehead, he fished out his car keys, itching to get into the air-conditioned haven of his brand new Honda.
The weather had gotten steadily worse, he reflected idly, sliding into the driver's seat. For weeks the humidity had gotten increasingly oppressive, stifling and suffocating, making even short walks in the open an exercise in endurance. It had gotten everybody worked up over the possibility of a storm, a big, nasty one, but the meteorologists seemed just confused, tossing out figures and readings and no definitive explanations as to why the weather was behaving the way it was. It had been weeks and weeks since the weather had gotten worse, and aside from the occasional freak electronic storm, the big 'un had not come calling yet.
Taking the 'calm before a storm' a bit too far, he thought, inserting the key into the ignition and reaching out to switch on the air-conditioner.
Which didn't work.
What the hell? Rob thought, his patience rapidly reaching the end of its tether. He had bought this car barely a month ago - tremendous investment, especially considering the New Depression and his suddenly none-too-rewarding job, Millie had definitely not been too happy - and for it start breaking down this soon...
Just as Rob sat fiddling with the air-conditioner dial, repeatedly - and desperately - turning it on and off to no avail, the radio blared to life, static weaving in and out of loud rock music, the loud beats vibrating the car. Rob jerked back, startled.
What the - ?
He reached out to open the door, a little worm of panic nestling in his gut, but as soon as he touched the handle, he convulsed like he'd received an electric shock, a strange feeling igniting every nerve ending, and he fell back on to the seat, body limp, eyes closed.
After what seemed like ages, Rob finally came to, to find that he was still sitting in his Honda, engine idling, the air-conditioner now finally on, radio still blaring.
... Except he wasn't.
Not really.
His hand reached out to turn off the radio off, and Rob actually watched it, in a completely surreal way , he watched his body move of its own accord, because he sure as hell wasn't telling it to do anything. He wanted to scream and startle and panic, but he couldn't, he couldn't really work up any feeling of his own - all that he was getting from his body right then was a strange sort of peace, the warmth of accomplishment tinged by a vague apprehension. His hands settled on the steering wheel in a slow, deliberate motion, fingers curling firmly around the leather.
He wasn't doing any of this.
But those were his hands, right? His hands, his car, his body... he felt like he was a passenger in his own body, and to call it disconcerting would've been seriously underestimating the kind of panic that Rob wanted to feel flowing through his veins like liquid iron.
He caught his eyes in the rearview mirror, and felt the muscles of his face stretch in a smile. He watched as a black film suddenly covered his eyes, every bit of it, pitch black and somehow gleaming as if lit up from within; a mirror of black night.
The desire for panic fled and the need for a deep-rooted apprehension took its place. But his body wasn't responding to him, it had been taken over by something else, but he was still in there somewhere, wasn't he, he was still thinking for his own, and that had to count for something -
"I'm sorry, Rob," he suddenly heard himself say. The blackness disappeared with a blink, like it was some sort of reptilian nictitating membrane, and Rob could feel old childhood nightmares ricochet within the small niche he could still call his own in his mind.
"I'm sorry," he heard himself repeat, his voice several shades deeper, as if pulled down by the invisible weights of some profound feeling. "I won't be in here for long. You'll be safe." The smile turned bitter. "And you won't remember a thing, I can promise you that."
Rob had now crossed all pretensions of coming to grips and was now demanding for a fulfillment to a bubbling anger. Wanted to smash a fist through the dashboard - new car be damned - wanted to gnash his teeth and snarl, feel the prickle of rage on his skin and physically manhandle this intruder out of his body.
Who the hell are you? Rob shouted. What do you want from me?
"Me?" He heard himself laugh, and for a moment he wasn't sure it was even his body anymore, for he had certainly never sounded that bitter in his lifetime. "Lord of Hell to some," he said, amusement in his eyes. "Sam Winchester to others." He now grinned, teeth glinting in the soft light coming from the dashboard. "But you can just call me Sam."
Sam? was all that Rob had time to think before a sudden darkness began to push down upon his consciousness. Like the humidity outside had turned into a physical entity that encroached into his mind, suffocating him and pulling him under an oppressiveness so profound that... wait, that didn't make any sense, but then again, at the moment, nothing did...
"Go to sleep, Rob," Sam said softly, and all was lost to darkness.
(Chapter One)
Contralateral is my biggest, most ambitious project in Supernatural so far. I'm posting it in (admittedly slow) installments over at FF.N and SNV.N, but I thought I'd post here too, because I desperately need constructive feedback. At times I feel I have no idea where I'm going with the story, whether it's just plain blah.
It's a divergence fic after the season 4 episode, Jump the Shark (one of my all-time favourites). It's set two years in the future, but is based on my version of the events that happened after JTS. So it goes without saying that here be season 4 spoilers.
Also, the SN usual: violence, blood and gore, slightly iffy religious concepts (which I tried not to go too much into), made-up mythology.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters. They belong to Eric Kripke and the CW.
Prologue
June 6, 2011
It was a dark, damp evening in Stratford, Wisconsin, and no amount of beaming weatherwomen or the prospect of a hot dinner and cool, dry bed could spare the irritation of moisture dripping down the sides of Rob Carlisle's face, entering his eyes, sticking his clothes to his skin. Once again swiping an already-wet handkerchief across his forehead, he fished out his car keys, itching to get into the air-conditioned haven of his brand new Honda.
The weather had gotten steadily worse, he reflected idly, sliding into the driver's seat. For weeks the humidity had gotten increasingly oppressive, stifling and suffocating, making even short walks in the open an exercise in endurance. It had gotten everybody worked up over the possibility of a storm, a big, nasty one, but the meteorologists seemed just confused, tossing out figures and readings and no definitive explanations as to why the weather was behaving the way it was. It had been weeks and weeks since the weather had gotten worse, and aside from the occasional freak electronic storm, the big 'un had not come calling yet.
Taking the 'calm before a storm' a bit too far, he thought, inserting the key into the ignition and reaching out to switch on the air-conditioner.
Which didn't work.
What the hell? Rob thought, his patience rapidly reaching the end of its tether. He had bought this car barely a month ago - tremendous investment, especially considering the New Depression and his suddenly none-too-rewarding job, Millie had definitely not been too happy - and for it start breaking down this soon...
Just as Rob sat fiddling with the air-conditioner dial, repeatedly - and desperately - turning it on and off to no avail, the radio blared to life, static weaving in and out of loud rock music, the loud beats vibrating the car. Rob jerked back, startled.
What the - ?
He reached out to open the door, a little worm of panic nestling in his gut, but as soon as he touched the handle, he convulsed like he'd received an electric shock, a strange feeling igniting every nerve ending, and he fell back on to the seat, body limp, eyes closed.
After what seemed like ages, Rob finally came to, to find that he was still sitting in his Honda, engine idling, the air-conditioner now finally on, radio still blaring.
... Except he wasn't.
Not really.
His hand reached out to turn off the radio off, and Rob actually watched it, in a completely surreal way , he watched his body move of its own accord, because he sure as hell wasn't telling it to do anything. He wanted to scream and startle and panic, but he couldn't, he couldn't really work up any feeling of his own - all that he was getting from his body right then was a strange sort of peace, the warmth of accomplishment tinged by a vague apprehension. His hands settled on the steering wheel in a slow, deliberate motion, fingers curling firmly around the leather.
He wasn't doing any of this.
But those were his hands, right? His hands, his car, his body... he felt like he was a passenger in his own body, and to call it disconcerting would've been seriously underestimating the kind of panic that Rob wanted to feel flowing through his veins like liquid iron.
He caught his eyes in the rearview mirror, and felt the muscles of his face stretch in a smile. He watched as a black film suddenly covered his eyes, every bit of it, pitch black and somehow gleaming as if lit up from within; a mirror of black night.
The desire for panic fled and the need for a deep-rooted apprehension took its place. But his body wasn't responding to him, it had been taken over by something else, but he was still in there somewhere, wasn't he, he was still thinking for his own, and that had to count for something -
"I'm sorry, Rob," he suddenly heard himself say. The blackness disappeared with a blink, like it was some sort of reptilian nictitating membrane, and Rob could feel old childhood nightmares ricochet within the small niche he could still call his own in his mind.
"I'm sorry," he heard himself repeat, his voice several shades deeper, as if pulled down by the invisible weights of some profound feeling. "I won't be in here for long. You'll be safe." The smile turned bitter. "And you won't remember a thing, I can promise you that."
Rob had now crossed all pretensions of coming to grips and was now demanding for a fulfillment to a bubbling anger. Wanted to smash a fist through the dashboard - new car be damned - wanted to gnash his teeth and snarl, feel the prickle of rage on his skin and physically manhandle this intruder out of his body.
Who the hell are you? Rob shouted. What do you want from me?
"Me?" He heard himself laugh, and for a moment he wasn't sure it was even his body anymore, for he had certainly never sounded that bitter in his lifetime. "Lord of Hell to some," he said, amusement in his eyes. "Sam Winchester to others." He now grinned, teeth glinting in the soft light coming from the dashboard. "But you can just call me Sam."
Sam? was all that Rob had time to think before a sudden darkness began to push down upon his consciousness. Like the humidity outside had turned into a physical entity that encroached into his mind, suffocating him and pulling him under an oppressiveness so profound that... wait, that didn't make any sense, but then again, at the moment, nothing did...
"Go to sleep, Rob," Sam said softly, and all was lost to darkness.
(Chapter One)