Taking prompts!

[ratherastory]

Okay, flist. I'm going to try this cool new thing tonight called "actually writing." Crazy, right?

So, comment here. For every comment I will write you 100-500 words. Anything goes. Existing 'verses, new ideas, anything. Any fandom I have written in is fair game. For the record those are, in no particular order:

Supernatural (FPF and RPF)
Hawaii Five-0
Leverage
Teen Wolf
White Collar
Avengers & related characters (mostly MCU, but I have read some of Bendis' comics)
Cracked (Season 1 only, I have not been watching S2)
Burn Notice (though only the once)
Dresden Files (I am NOT caught up on all the books, so be nice about spoilers!)

If you happen to know of a show that I watch(ed) (or a book series that I read, for that matter), and you want to prompt me for that, feel free. I'll try to list a few shows I can think of off the top of my head (I watch a lot of TV, apparently):

Haven
Person of Interest
Grimm
Covert Affairs
Lost Girl
Elementary
Farscape
Firefly
The Pretender

Uh, that's all I can come up with right now. But yeah, improvise if you want. :)

:::ETA::: There have been a lot of requests for Fusion, but since all the prompts are pretty loose, what I will do is work on a separate instalment and post that instead.

Comments

[ratherastory.livejournal.com]

“Don’t you dare come near me with that thing!” Sam says sharply, voice rising about an octave higher with the strength of his indignation.

Dean leans in the doorway, casually twirling a Sharpie over the knuckles of the fingers of his right hand. Years of being bored in class have made him an expert pen-twirler, and even now, well over two decades later, he hasn’t lost his edge. He grins at Sam.

“Come on, Sammy, don’t be like that. You can’t expect me to leave a blank canvas like that unadorned, am I right?”

Sam mutters something mutinous under his breath about country hospitals and backward medical practices and why couldn't he have gotten a fibreglass cast, then glares at Dean hard enough to peel paint off the walls. Dean has to concede that having your leg encased in a plaster cast for the better part of an entire summer is the height of discomfort.

“I’m serious, Dean. It’s bad enough I have to have this on for months, I’m not going to have you drawing dicks and breasts on it on top of that! I swear to God, you try anything and I will hit you with my nice new metal crutches, and I guarantee I’ll make it hurt.”

Dean places a hand over his heart in what he hopes is a suitably dramatic gesture. “Sammy, you wound me! I was going to draw little hearts and write a get well soon note! Maybe include a phone number, so people will think chicks dig you. Besides, who else is going to sign your cast?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. He knows it as soon as the words have left his mouth, but there’s no way to take them back. Sam’s expression closes off, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

“Right,” he says stiffly.

Because, of course, what Sam heard was: Everyone we love is dead and it’s all your fault. And Dean can’t even blame him for having that particular mental filter these days, because Dean himself was instrumental in helping him put it in place, harping on for--what--two whole years about how Sam couldn’t be trusted and every decision he made was shit. He wasn’t wrong at the time, but he wasn’t entirely right either, and Sam has more than made up for all that. Except Sam himself doesn’t believe it, not after all those years of brainwashing. Shit.

Sam reaches for his crutches. “I’m going to get some air,” he says to the couch cushions, before struggling to his feet--foot--and nearly falling over as one of the crutches catches on the leg of the coffee table. Dean darts forward to, hell, catch him or something, but Sam finds his balance at the last minute, and jerks away with an exasperated huff and a roll of the eyes.

“Look, Sam, I didn’t mean--”

“I know,” Sam cuts him off. “I still want to go outside.”

“I’ll come with you,” Dean offers, even though he’s pretty sure that’s the last thing Sam wants. But he hasn’t been out of the hospital 24 hours yet, and he’s still shaky, and that makes Dean feel a little shaky too, if not quite in the same way. Not that he’d ever let on.

“Dean…” Sam starts, then hesitates, shooting him one of those irritatingly penetrating looks he gets when he’s being insightful. “Yeah, okay. You know what? Why don’t you take us into town for an ice cream?”

“Ice cream?”

“Yes. It’s blistering out there, I’m hot and I can’t take a proper shower for another few days, and I’d like an ice cream. Think of it as apologising in advance for all the times you’re going to be a dick about the fact that I’m in a cast for the whole summer.”

There’s no denying the logic there. Dean grins.

“Okay, Sammy, you got it.”

[harrigan.livejournal.com]

Squee! Just what the doctor ordered! (The fact that it's blistering hot summer and Sam is craving ice cream is an unexpected treat right now.) I love the determined-to-get-out-and-not-be-an-invalid Sam, and I love how you set it when there is still baggage between them, because that's one of the things good h/c does best. Puts the characters in a position to think about the other person's feelings and to offer help or ask for help when a non-h/c scenario wouldn't let that happen. THANK YOU!

[ratherastory.livejournal.com]

I love my h/c with a huge helping of Character Issues. That's what h/c is for, if you ask me. ;)