ratherastory | Meme! Yet again.

Stolen from my entire flist and then some:

Post the first sentence (or three) from every WIP you're currently working on, even if it's very short. Then invite people to ask questions about your WIPs. With any luck, the motivation to take that WIP one step closer to completion will appear as if by magic!

Untitled h/c Big Bang

"So how long is it going to take?" Sam asks.

It's not really Sam, of course. It's the guy who looks like Sam who's been walking around in his body for the last eighteen months or so and who seems to think he's a new and improved version of Sam. Dean disagrees, but it's hard not to think of him as 'Sam,' even if it's not really Sam he sees when he looks into this guy's dead fish-eyes.

The Angel Pin (for the spn_j2_bigbang)

For a moment he doesn't know where he is when he awakes. His head comes up with a jerk from where it's been resting on his folded arms, and immediately the dusty room tilts to the left, like he's sitting the wrong way around on a see-saw in a kiddie's playground. His mouth is dry and tastes like yesterday's cigarettes, and his head is throbbing mercilessly.
Hunter's Retreat

It's only about five minutes after they get there that Sam figures things out.

“There's no hunt, is there?”

Well, Dean never thought Sam was stupid. It was only a matter of time, and he's actually surprised it took Sam this long at all. That just goes to further prove his point, that Sam is in desperate need of some real, honest-to-God downtime.

Untitled possibly Dean/Gabriel

“What are you even looking at?” Sam twists in his seat to look where Dean's gaze has been trained for the past few minutes.

Dean fidgets, takes a drink of his beer, lets his gaze dart back to the corner of the bar most shrouded in shadow. Dark eyes sparkle at him from the darkness, and he finishes his drink in a long gulp. “Do, uh, do you see anyone there? And Jesus, Sam, could you try to be less obvious about this? You may as well be holding up a neon sign announcing your intentions!”

Sam rolls his eyes. “What intentions? My intention to stare at an empty table because my brother is seeing things?”

“So you don't see anyone there?” Dean squints, but the figure is gone.

“Nope. No one there. You seeing fairies again?”

“Shut up.”

“Fine. Want another beer?”

“God, yes.”

Untitled fic for a prompt from mimblexwimble

It's not that Sam doesn't like Harlan. He doesn't have an opinion one way or the other about his Dad's old hunting buddy. The guy seems okay enough, and Dean's sure taken a shine to him. He knows a lot about hunting, and he and Dad have a history, and Sam doesn't remember Dad ever laughing like that except with Dean. Harlan's pretty good-looking, too, although Sam isn't exactly an expert on male attractiveness: but he's got clever brown eyes and a chiselled jaw and an easy smile. Greets Dad like a long-lost brother, and asks to be introduced to his sons. He claps Dean on the shoulder, shakes his hand, looks him in the eye, and has him eating out of the palm of his hand within about fifteen minutes. Then he ruffles Sam's hair and calls him 'Champ,' and Sam is fifteen years old now and hasn't been called 'Champ' since he was seven years old and didn't know how to strip a .45 in under a minute.

Okay, so maybe Sam doesn't like Harlan.
Untitled sequel to If That Mockingbird Won't Sing

If there's one thing that Dean Winchester knows better than most people, it's grief. Grief has been his intimate friend since he was four years and three quarters and held his baby brother in his arms while he watched his house burn down with his mother still in it.

Part 27 of Fusion

"I think Sam's hiding something," Dean says to Cas abruptly one morning in the bookstore. It's early enough that the store is still all but deserted except for them and Sophie, who's currently in the office catching up on paperwork. Sam bowed out of coming with them to the store, citing his translation work as an excuse, but even Castiel sensed that that wasn't all there was to his reticence.

"What makes you think that?"

Untitled... thing I've had lying around, with sick!Danny

Even in retrospect there is nothing particular about the case that Five-0 are working on which might indicate just how disastrously it ends up going. The only good news in the whole clusterfuck is that they do end up booking the bad guys, in the end. It’s hard to tell exactly when things start to go wrong. There’s a solid indication when the warehouse they’re investigating by the waterfront goes up in a giant ball of flame, and the fact that they then get involved in yet another firefight is probably a hint, but when Steve stops to think about it all later, he figures it all really starts in the morning, with Danny leaning over Steve’s desk, one arm waving wildly as he talks, while he uses his fist to prop himself up on the edge of the desk.

Untitled other thing that will eventually involve a bank robbery. IDK

Danny Williams has hated Mondays ever since the third grade, when Mrs. Sutler, the oldest and crabbiest teacher ever to walk the earth, instituted Mondays as 'Pop Quiz Days.' It was never the same subject, either, resulting in an entire year spent in a haze of anxiety over what the next quiz would bring. Mondays haven't improved much since then, in his opinion.

Untitled Leverage fic that's totally not what it looks like

“Your pet appears to be having some difficulty in following orders.”

It takes every single ounce of willpower Eliot possesses not to glare at the man, to keep his eyes cast down, gaze fixed on the very plush carpet on which he's kneeling. The position isn't an uncomfortable one for him normally —it's close enough to judo that it comes naturally, even here— but everything else is unaccustomed. There's a brush of fingers against his neck, just above the shoulder, a slight scrape of perfectly-manicured nails on delicate skin, and he shudders slightly at the sensation.

“We're still working on control,” Sophie's musical voice wafts above his head. “Aren't we, pet?”

Death Curse

The problem with Black Court practitioners is that they've had a lot of time to practice their art. Okay, there's more than one problem —namely, that they're vampires, they're bloodthirsty and evil, among the first that spring to mind— but the problem that was foremost in my mind as I squared off against Bernard de Rome, was that he was a whole lot older and more experienced than I was, and I was likely to get my butt very solidly kicked.

From the Ashes (original fic project)

The baby was crying. Dinah cradled the little bundle awkwardly in her arms, bouncing on her toes and making what she hoped were soothing clucking sounds with her tongue, but it made very little difference as the child continued to thrash and howl as though she was being murdered. In a way, Dinah supposed she was.

Meme! Yet again.

no subject

no subject