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April is turning out to be my sequel/prequel month it looks like. I'll be doing the requests I got, I've started posting My Daddy Didn't Have Days Like This which is the followup to a icon ficlet that just took my brain and swallowed it whole, I'm working on the prequel to Not The World I Left Behind and the third part of Forgetting To Fall (which I just realised I was lame and mucked up the link to on my master list. *fixes*).
So here, for your viewing pleasure just before my Easter hiatus (as they say, SOON! because I'm evil like that), are snippets from both the prequel to World and the sequel to the wing!fic. Also, since I've been pottering my way through the cliches for Supernatural (I did it for SGA and SG-1 so I was about due), below is a snippet of my take in winsister!fic. Here's the thing... neither Sam nor Dean are the sister.
The Space In Between
It was still fascinating.
Dean watched Sam navigate his way through a crowded market, people completely missing the fact that they were brushing past a six-foot-five guy with wings almost as big. At first Dean had been expecting Sam to push things over and knock folks flat but Sam had just shrugged and said, “I’m getting used to them, and it’s not like your own arms get in the way, right?”
Sam had started using the wings like Dean remembered, an extension of himself. His body remembered faster than his brain and although they would still have broken plates and smashed glasses because Sam turned around in the kitchen too fast, he was getting better. The actual flying was the last thing to come together but over the last couple of weeks, Sam had improved greatly, landing on his feet rather than the undignified sprawl he had been managing which was hilarious but inconvenient.
Dean pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and hit the speed dial when he saw Sam hovering over the cereal selections. “Put the shredded wheat back and get me my Coco Puffs, bitch,” Dean said when Sam answered. In response, Sam picked up a box Dean could see was green and probably contained something that tasted like cardboard and waggled it aloft. “Oh you are just cruisin’ for a bruisin’ sunshine,” Dean warned.
“Yeah, and nineteen eighty five called and they want their expression back,” Sam replied and hung up.
“Son of a…” Dean grumbled.
You Can't Go Home Again
Sam has one eye squinted shut, aiming a rubber ball at the back of Dean’s head when he stumbles. Sam looks around, feeling like he was shoved from behind but there is nothing there except a vacant-looking kid leaning up against the wall of the motel office. Sam turns around just in time to see Dean stiffen, look around and something like anger flash across his face when he catches sight of Sam.
Sam is moving towards the trunk of the Impala before he has time to think about it.
Holywaterholywaterholywater, he’s chanting to himself as he gets the trunk open and starts pawing through the contents. He wishes fervently that Dean had packed it the night before instead of him because Dean had some weird system that means everything you were looking for would just find its way into your hands which Sam had never learned the knack of. Sam’s shoulders are hunched down because he’s expecting a blow from behind but it doesn’t come. Sam risks a look around the open trunk and sees that Dean is gone.
Sam walks around the side of the car and hunkers down next to the front tyre. In the dirt, unstoppered and leaking holy water into the dust is Dean’s silver flask.
Working Title
Dean startled awake on what he thought must be the fifth day to the sounds of shouts and gunfire. After pressing his fingers against Sam’s throat and feeling stark relief to still find a pulse, Dean carefully removed Sam’s head from his lap and moved across to the bars of their cell.
There was a few more shots and then silence.
Dean was a realist. He didn’t believe in the cavalry swooping in to the rescue at the last moment, but he liked to think that even hardened realist’s were allowed a flash of optimism every now and again.
“Hey! Hey, down here!” he shouted, grimacing when his voice tapered off to a reedy whisper at the end. He went over to the faucet and twisted it on, taking a swallow of water and then crossed to the bars to try again. “Hey goddamit! Down in the cellar!”
The silence persisted for a few moments and then there was the squeal of a heavy door swinging open. Dean moved sideways so he was between Sam and the rest of the room and clenched his hands on the bars. What he wasn’t expecting was to see a pair of bare, bloodied feet appear at the top of the stairs.
Small feet.
Girl’s feet.
So here, for your viewing pleasure just before my Easter hiatus (as they say, SOON! because I'm evil like that), are snippets from both the prequel to World and the sequel to the wing!fic. Also, since I've been pottering my way through the cliches for Supernatural (I did it for SGA and SG-1 so I was about due), below is a snippet of my take in winsister!fic. Here's the thing... neither Sam nor Dean are the sister.
The Space In Between
It was still fascinating.
Dean watched Sam navigate his way through a crowded market, people completely missing the fact that they were brushing past a six-foot-five guy with wings almost as big. At first Dean had been expecting Sam to push things over and knock folks flat but Sam had just shrugged and said, “I’m getting used to them, and it’s not like your own arms get in the way, right?”
Sam had started using the wings like Dean remembered, an extension of himself. His body remembered faster than his brain and although they would still have broken plates and smashed glasses because Sam turned around in the kitchen too fast, he was getting better. The actual flying was the last thing to come together but over the last couple of weeks, Sam had improved greatly, landing on his feet rather than the undignified sprawl he had been managing which was hilarious but inconvenient.
Dean pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and hit the speed dial when he saw Sam hovering over the cereal selections. “Put the shredded wheat back and get me my Coco Puffs, bitch,” Dean said when Sam answered. In response, Sam picked up a box Dean could see was green and probably contained something that tasted like cardboard and waggled it aloft. “Oh you are just cruisin’ for a bruisin’ sunshine,” Dean warned.
“Yeah, and nineteen eighty five called and they want their expression back,” Sam replied and hung up.
“Son of a…” Dean grumbled.
You Can't Go Home Again
Sam has one eye squinted shut, aiming a rubber ball at the back of Dean’s head when he stumbles. Sam looks around, feeling like he was shoved from behind but there is nothing there except a vacant-looking kid leaning up against the wall of the motel office. Sam turns around just in time to see Dean stiffen, look around and something like anger flash across his face when he catches sight of Sam.
Sam is moving towards the trunk of the Impala before he has time to think about it.
Holywaterholywaterholywater, he’s chanting to himself as he gets the trunk open and starts pawing through the contents. He wishes fervently that Dean had packed it the night before instead of him because Dean had some weird system that means everything you were looking for would just find its way into your hands which Sam had never learned the knack of. Sam’s shoulders are hunched down because he’s expecting a blow from behind but it doesn’t come. Sam risks a look around the open trunk and sees that Dean is gone.
Sam walks around the side of the car and hunkers down next to the front tyre. In the dirt, unstoppered and leaking holy water into the dust is Dean’s silver flask.
Working Title
Dean startled awake on what he thought must be the fifth day to the sounds of shouts and gunfire. After pressing his fingers against Sam’s throat and feeling stark relief to still find a pulse, Dean carefully removed Sam’s head from his lap and moved across to the bars of their cell.
There was a few more shots and then silence.
Dean was a realist. He didn’t believe in the cavalry swooping in to the rescue at the last moment, but he liked to think that even hardened realist’s were allowed a flash of optimism every now and again.
“Hey! Hey, down here!” he shouted, grimacing when his voice tapered off to a reedy whisper at the end. He went over to the faucet and twisted it on, taking a swallow of water and then crossed to the bars to try again. “Hey goddamit! Down in the cellar!”
The silence persisted for a few moments and then there was the squeal of a heavy door swinging open. Dean moved sideways so he was between Sam and the rest of the room and clenched his hands on the bars. What he wasn’t expecting was to see a pair of bare, bloodied feet appear at the top of the stairs.
Small feet.
Girl’s feet.