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werewolves in progress
Lo and behold, I've actually started putting words into my 'new' werewolf 'verse story again. By its very nature, it's all over the place, but I'm trying to make myself relax and take advantage of it - allow myself to jump all over the place in the writing stages instead of grinding to a halt as I attempt to push at one particular bit that won't budge.
At any rate, a small handful of people expressed excitement at the prospect of a new story in this 'verse, so I thought I'd do that WIP meme thing again - where I post snippets of in-progress stories. And, well, this is the only one really in progress at the moment. All of the others have not been worked on since forever, or have no more than a line or two, or are no more than twinkles in my eye at this stage.
Anyway. Here's a whole section for ya:
I feel a bit weird about this story, now. It's become fanfiction of my fanfiction. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but it departs very much from the canon we know and into my own head, which makes me a bit anxious (i.e. why would people want to read that??)
But we'll see how it goes. I've been thinking of these things for a long time, so it will be good to try and express them (ain't art grand?).
And, for your convenience, I've just tagged previous wip meme postings, if you're new and interested in reading snippets of the long-languishing John/Dean bodyswap, or a passage of Sam mauling his professor at Stanford, or selected parts of stories that have long since been posted.
At any rate, a small handful of people expressed excitement at the prospect of a new story in this 'verse, so I thought I'd do that WIP meme thing again - where I post snippets of in-progress stories. And, well, this is the only one really in progress at the moment. All of the others have not been worked on since forever, or have no more than a line or two, or are no more than twinkles in my eye at this stage.
Anyway. Here's a whole section for ya:
The sound of the stream is soft; Dad’s breathing less so. He lies like he’s dead, like the movement of his chest is the last kick of life inside him trying to get out, escape the cadaver.
Sam can hear him. See him, through the middle-distance fuzz of green foliage. Smell him, different than when they’d first scented him; the mix of mud and sweat and river water, and the stale-blood edge of fear fading off, now.
The early light is golden, but clear and cool by the water, like the movement of it clarifies everything, rinses away the haze. It cuts through their territory, a split seam torn through to the ocean. Clear stream rushes into river complicated by the depth and splash of water, a ley line drawing out with the current, leading to the vast open space.
Tirra lirra, Sam thinks, and then Dean’s hand is over his mouth, taste of sun-warmed earth and sharp fume of sap bursting against Sam’s tongue, more familiar than the shape of the words were.
Sam angles his gaze, finds Dean looking back at him. Dad looks different, recognisable immediately but startling in the change. Dean looks the same. Autumn-faded olive of his skin, hair on the edge of needing cropping again, day’s worth of stubble dusting his jaw. Sam knows the feel of it against his own skin, and the way the prickle of it against his fingertips sometimes balances out the often-frustration of too-short, useless, bitten fingernails. He knows the way the scent changes from the corner of Dean’s jaw to his mouth to the tender flesh under his arm.
Everything’s sharper in the waning. Sam breathes out a whine that makes Dean’s hand press harder against his mouth, the heel of Dean’s palm crushing Sam’s lip against his teeth. Sam bites without aggression, presses the thick flesh of Dean’s palm between his teeth, and Dean bares his own teeth silently before pushing his hand back, sap-stickiness pulling briefly at the delicate hairs on the back of Sam’s neck, then fingers grip-tugging.
Dad’s awake. Still motionless, but a little more contained, muscles more tense. It’s time to go. The journal feels odd in Sam's hands, feels like skin, pen-scratches on the pages sharp enough to lose meaning.
Dean’s already moving away from him and Sam turns to follow. The angular cut of the W in the tree ahead pushes some kind of urge to struggle up through his chest, the pointed angles of it carving discord. Their mark scarred into the trees now, like the first push of a prow into water. They head downstream.
I feel a bit weird about this story, now. It's become fanfiction of my fanfiction. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but it departs very much from the canon we know and into my own head, which makes me a bit anxious (i.e. why would people want to read that??)
But we'll see how it goes. I've been thinking of these things for a long time, so it will be good to try and express them (ain't art grand?).
And, for your convenience, I've just tagged previous wip meme postings, if you're new and interested in reading snippets of the long-languishing John/Dean bodyswap, or a passage of Sam mauling his professor at Stanford, or selected parts of stories that have long since been posted.
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