WIP fic meme, redux

[hope]

Need to do this meme again, to rev myself up for actually getting writing again. Though, I shouldn't actually be writing fic at the moment. At least not til the end of October!

Anyway, these are real sloppy and sometimes experimental and stuff. I seem to finally be reaching a point in my writing practice where I'm just typing away experimentally instead of worrying about the finished product and it being all self-contained and perfect.

But, here we go:


Slut!Sam at Stanford. Being co-written with derryderrydown.

Winchester fidgets when he gets into the office; steps forward to stand in front of the desk as if awaiting reprimand, not turning around as Langdale shuts the door behind them. He doesn’t go behind the desk, instead to one of the bookcases lining the wall. He pulls a couple of books out, sets them on the desk. Winchester doesn’t sit, so Langdale keeps standing also, hands loosely in his pockets and elbows bent outward, watching.

Winchester picks up one, opens it randomly, frowns, sets it down again. “I just think that by not accounting for non-nuclear families in his theory Freud was pathologising any of those who didn’t fit his mould.”

“That’s one reading of it. But you have to keep in mind the time at which Freud was writing, he—”

“I mean, I agree with the feminist readings – Electra is far less fleshed out that Oedipus, but what about families without the maternal influence?” Winchester runs his hand through his hair, jaw clenching before he takes a step closer. His brows are heavy, mouth serious. “And what about orphans, huh? Are they all deviants because they weren’t able to go through the proper stage of development?”

“I think Freud’s theories—”

“It just doesn’t seem right that he has to become the grand old master of psychoanalysis when he doesn’t allow for—” Winchester’s stepped closer again, gesticulating a little, voice intense.

“Sam, I don’t think that—” The edge of a wooden shelf clunks against the back of Langdale’s skull as Winchester shoves him back, Winchester’s hands fisting in the front of his jacket and not letting go, then Winchester’s mouth hard and wet and sloppy over his. His mouth tastes like sour, too-sweet coffee, tongue slippery and insistent, and then just as abruptly gone.

“Oh, sh— shoot,” Winchester says, dropping his hands and backing away, looking absolutely horrified. “I’m sorry. Oh man, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—Oh god.” And then the door’s slamming closed again behind him.

John, set between Salvation & Devil's Trap. Those lost hours.

Stilled movement. He’s alone.

For a moment only, then the gunmetal shadow of the van interior lightens with the cold paleness of a streetlight, headlights, clunk-creak of the back door pulled open. They don’t speak. Don’t need to. John can’t speak; can feel the coldness of the night air against his teeth, lips, but can’t open his jaw against the force holding it closed. Can feel most of the rest of him, though; hands numb and icy in the small of his back, legs from thighs down muscle-weak and trembling with effort to re-assert their control, if even just to establish equilibrium as he’s hauled out and his feet hit the pavement.

Numb, solid blocks below his ankles and maybe they’re not as smart as they think or maybe they just wanted to see him try to run. Three steps.

Face-forward, he can’t tell how many of them there are. More than the two who brought him here. The amiable light inside the foyer of the building makes his eyes smart, and the stretch and burn of the muscles in his ankles is almost incongruously pleasant as his toes drag across the smooth granite.

There’re mirrors in the elevator, polished to invisibility. Bright, clean light from above, white and yellow trim. His gaze slides off his own face like the involuntary, continuing movement of the world around and behind him when the car’s stopped. The other faces, reflected and repeated in a skewed echo; impervious masks with obsidian eyes. It’s almost absurd, the extended moment of stillness, and then the doors open.

John/Dean bodyswap, still being worked on. Sigh. Eventually porny, probably quite long.

John raises an eyebrow, Dean at least has the good grace to glance away. “I’m the one with the hangover here, kiddo, don’t bullshit me with the ‘few beers’ crap.”

“Yes sir,” Dean says, and John shifts his stance and feels the movement through the slight change in balance on his knees, thighs; muscles bordering his spine and taut angle of his shoulders. He feels ready, ready for anything, and he grips his hands fierce on his upper arms as Dean drops his ass onto the nearest bed, staring back at him now, slightly less remorsefully.

“Rather wake up with a hangover than goddamn arthritis,” he says, bordering on accusatory.

“It’s not arthritis,” John says. “Got popped out of its socket by a poltergeist when you were—”

“When I was eleven, yeah, I remember, Dad.” Dean rolls his shoulder awkwardly, grimacing. “Why didn’t you tell me it was still this bad?”

“It’s not,” John says, feeling stupidly defensive. “It isn’t, if you treat it right. What the hell have you been doing, anyway?”

Which is apparently the wrong question to ask; Dean’s dropping his hands to his lap again, looking anywhere but directly at John. “I stayed right here,” he says. “Like you told me to.”

There’s a pause long enough to underline the awkwardness of the moment; John doesn’t want to ask for more information but at the same time wants to push it, wants to order answers from Dean, explanations. Wants Dean not keeping anything from him, even though. Even though, jesus, he has to swallow down a mouthful of saliva at the sense-memory of coming, eager rush through his (Dean’s) body, the smell of Dean’s come brief before the shower washed it all away.

“How am I meant to treat it, then?” Dean asks, and John realizes that they’ve been staring at each other again. There’s a look on Dean’s face that John’s never seen in the mirror; whether because it’s so open or so foreign, he can’t tell.

John clears his throat. “You need to…” he gestures, lifts his own right hand, curls it over the back of his left shoulder. “Kind of dig your fingers under the tendon, there.”

“Like this…?”

“Yeah, but more… Up a little. Closer to the neck. There.”

“There…?” Dean fumbles a little, movements stilted and hesitant as he squeezes and kneads his shoulder, flush rising up across the skin of his neck from under the collar of the tee-shirt, the rhythmic pressure quickly increasing the blood flow.

John gestures again, drops his hands. Dean’s still staring at him. “Yeah, like that.” Dean groans; and it’s purely a John-sound, not one that sounds like Dean speaking with John’s voice; a sound John’s familiar with.

“Yeah,” Dean says, eyes sliding closed briefly. “That is better.”

John’s poised on the balls of his feet, but he’s not moving any closer. He’s not.

“So you got a plan?” Dean asks gruffly, dropping his hands to rub them briefly against the tops of his thighs.

Other things I've got stewing that I haven't actually put words on page for:

• More in the El Camino Real 'verse. Maybe set pre- that story, maybe set during the DMB/Salvation/DT timeframe. Mmm, ot3.


• A "five fairy tales SPN fucked up (even more)" meta-type fic.


• A "five ways the 'Tiber-verse ended badly". Which i will probably never write, because, it's just too... fucked up and unnecessary.


• More pre-series fic. Baby fic. Because... BECAUSE. THAT'S WHY.


• Amnesiac!John fic. Could be:
  - pre-series gen, where Daddy doesn't come back from a hunt this one time, and then when he eventually does, yeah. His memory's reverted to mid-war, probably. Ooooh. The more I think, the more I want to write this. OR:
  - Sam-at-Stanford John/Dean slash. Like, Dean takes advantage of the fact that John doesn't remember that they're related. And it's ok, right? Because Dad would never forget Dean, right? So this can't be Dad. So it's perfectly fine for Dean to have sex with him. Right? Right?