Writer's meme
Aug. 1st, 2007 09:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladyjanellySnagged from
fandom_meWhen you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
Okay, this meme is like tattling on myself for all the stuff I write when I should be writing the fics that people already care about, or at least finishing them and posting them. Although many people should be happy to see the ones come up that already have posted chapters or story arcs.
Today's Tom Sawyer
He likes to drive, but he almost likes to watch Sam drive more. He piles their bags of clothes and blankets up against the passenger-side door in the back, and stretches out. There are lines on his face, sharp by his mouth, deep and heavy between his eyebrows, crinkly like crushed metal in the corners of his eyes. Ben wants to look like that, strong. He likes to watch Sam’s eyes, the way he looks ahead, always ready for trouble, or a last-minute detour. Sometimes, just for a second, Sam will look into the mirror at Ben, and Ben knows he belongs, knows he has a home and a purpose and that he’ll never be lost again.
Jensen isn’t used to wanting something that has even a chance of coming true. He’d never have liked Jared if he’d known where it would lead, that he’d be in Jared’s truck, in his parent’s house, that Jared would show up to Garrett’s game at Jensen's invitation. It’s new and it’s weird and it scares the crap out of him.
Threw Away the Sun Sam/Dean AU
“So how much is this gonna cost me?” Dean asks, because in his experience, professional help doesn’t come at low, low prices. The way down the stairs is slow. Sam clings to the rail with one hand and Jess with the other. He feels the edge of every step with his foot before he steps down. Dean can already see that the slow pace is gonna drive him nuts.
“I’ve got reasons of my own,” Sam says. “Out of one hundred futures where I tell you now what they are, in twenty nine, you don’t believe me. In forty three, it changes the way you react to certain things and you die. In eighteen it changes the way your father reacts and he dies instead. In seven you are so shocked you leave without me. In three, everybody lives and nobody is hurt. When the odds change on that, I might tell you then, but not now.”
Goddamn psychics, Dean thinks. Even if it’s true, it only makes him want to know more than he did before. Stupid mumbo-jumbo logic.
Son of a Preacher Man Sam/Dean AU
“Take Sammy,” he heard his own voice say, and the words tore him apart. His blood or not, Sammy was his son in every way that mattered. He should have let the man take Dean too, let them be together at least, but he was so afraid that if both his boys were gone he’d have nothing to live for, nothing to keep him going while he hunted for the thing that killed his Mary.
The man reached down with his gentle hands and eased the baby out of Dean’s death-grip. The blue cotton of the makeshift diaper was wet again but the man didn’t flinch as he cuddled Sammy to his chest.
“Will you come to visit?” He asked, hesitating by the door.
“No,” John growled between clenched teeth. “I’d want to take him back, every time. I can’t break Dean’s heart more than once.”
John locked eyes with the man that was taking his boy, wanting him to understand what this was costing John. “We won’t be back.”
Dean drifted, following his calling. He killed more of what his dad would call monsters than he killed people by far--a Huldra in
Most human monsters he could stop without killing--an anonymous tip here, a leading clue moved to there. He killed two more men in the next three years, one of them twice, when his hungry spirit picked up where the murderous flesh left off. Dean was careful, left no clue he didn't mean to, no pattern, no connections.
Un-named Ben/Alec that is NOT allowed to be part of the Today's Tom Sawyer 'verse.
“This one’s still twitching,” the closer of them said. He slid a fresh clip into his gun, should have done it earlier, and Alec was once again insulted by the low quality of the men who would end his life. A third slid in behind them, a pistol in each hand, so smooth and quiet. Alec tried to meet his eyes through the mirrored visor. His throat was too full of blood to speak, but he willed the newcomer to understand the plea on his face. Kill me, he begged with his eyes. Kill me before these buffoons can do it.
The bright strobe of muzzle flash and the sound of gunfire exploded into the close confines of the area. The bullets must have caught the approaching troopers in the small gap between the back of their helmets and the tops of their armored collars, because the exit wounds make red mist of their throats.
Rollerball! Oh god. Jared/Jensen AU. So much crack.
He turns and stalks away to his private locker area. Jared hesitates for a second, then ducks through the crowd and picks up the discarded helmet. He gets a few funny looks, but the players probably figure he couldn’t have gotten this far without clearance, so he’s safe enough.
The private dressing room is more of a niche with a massage table in the middle. For the briefest moment, Jared catches Ackles unguarded, his features not twisted by anger or whatever that had been. He looks scared, maybe, and his fingers shake as he works at the buckles of his sleek costume.
The plan clicks in Jared’s head, how to play this, how to handle this guy.
He raps on the open archway. His momma didn’t raise no stupid boys, and Jared can figure out how it would go if he stuck up on him.
Ackles snaps around at the sound, one hand coming up like he expects a fight.
“You dropped something,” Jared says with a lazy smile and a slow
Ackles’ lip curls. “The fuck are you?” His gaze flicks past Jared, like he’s trying to calculate if the rest of the team would help him or the intruder if they threw down.
“I’m Jared. Your new personal assistant.”
Oh god. Did they really mean "As many as you can find?" Crap. More folders.
"The things they make in china these days " Jared/Jensenbot
A jolt of sick fear twists in his gut, because even expecting a realistic product, the first thought he has when he sees the foam-cradled person is “Oh God, Jensen is dead in a box in my living room.”
Then it breathes, his ridiculously expensive toy, and some of the initial horror fades. Jared takes a deep breath of his own and really looks at it.
He’d specified a version of Jensen that was different enough from the person he knew that there would be no chance of confusing the two. Those Chinese guys sure did a good job though. He, it, is like Jensen six years ago, at the end of Dark Angel’s run, younger than the Jensen Jared knows, his hair longer and darker. He’s smoother shaven than would be possible on the real Jensen, his chin and jaw unshadowed by stubble.
If they had a problem with the beard, the rest of his facial hair is a different story. They’re perfect, down to the soft curl of his eyelashes, the smooth arch of his eyebrows.
Jared reaches out and strokes his fingertips across the companion-bot’s unfreckled cheekbone. Its skin is as soft as Jared ever imagined Jensen's would be, smooth and warm against his touch.
Sunny Days Jeff/Dean
“Hey,” says Dean, like six months haven’t passed, like Jeff hadn’t worried he was dead. Besides the split lip, he looks good, well-fed, clean. His hair’s growing in, and his clothes are more stylishly worn than falling apart. “Can I buy you a beer?”
“Little late for a bar, isn’t it?” He wants to throw Dean against the wall, make sure he’s real and taste that dark line on his lip where someone’s hit him. He adjusts his robe instead.
Dean’s cocksure grin falters the slightest bit. “Can I come in?” His voice is lower, softer, and Jeff almost lets him in without a challenge.
“Once.” His voice is gritty with sleep and he’s not choosing his phrasing as well as he’d like. “You get to do this once, running off like that. You need time, you need space, you tell me you’re leaving.”
Dean looks down and Jeff resists the urge to shuffle his bare feet. “I fucked up,” Dean says. “Won’t happen again.”
I'm not typing stuff up jut to post it in this meme.
Okay, maybe I am.
Un-named firefighter J2 AU
Jensen's breathing is loud behind the clear plexi of his mask, a harsh Darth Vader rasp of the air canister. Everything else sounds muffled, feels muffled through his heavy gloves, coat, boots. Looks muffled too, the edges softened with the smoke pouring down the hall.
He can feels the minutes go by, sharp where everything else is soft. He busts open a door, 4C, and knows that time is running out and the chief is gonna order him out. He can feel that this isn’t done, that if he leaves they’ll find one more corpse, one more person who’s alive now and won’t be soon.
“Ackles!” Bradley shouts into the radio, right on schedule. “Time’s up!”
“Not yet,” Jensen yells back, “I hear something. I’m almost there.” He stops to get his bearings, and then he does hear it, a high pitched keening like no human cry that he’s ever heard.
Okay. Holy crap.
I'm done now. And my brain's full of fic bunnies running around like crazy things.
Shit.
-J.
