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I’ve committed fic. Now I haven’t written anything in almost two years. I used to have a feel for my writing. It used to be that I could tell if something was good or if it wasn’t worth crap. I don’t have that anymore.
So I am posting this here, as a test run. It’s totally not my usual writing, which may be why I can’t judge its quality. I do, however, value the opinion of my flist, so I’m throwing it out to you. It’s a fanfic for Supernatural, so don’t feel obligated to read it, but if you’re so inclined, please let me know what you think.
Title: For the Wicked
Characters: Sam and Dean
Genre: Gen
Spoilers: Set in early 4th season, you need to know what’s gone on before.
Rating: PG-13
Length: 686 words
Disclaimer: Fanfic
The first night is easy. Just lay in the bed, eyes closed and wait until Sam’s breathing evens out. He doesn’t stir when the television comes on, and doing research or looking for a new case is even less likely to wake him. After that, it’s a five-mile run around four in the morning, come back and shower, get some coffee and give Sammy a hard time about sleeping his life away when he wakes at eight.
The second night is harder. There’s no lying down and pretending to sleep. Instead, there’s a new six-pack or bottle of Jack to take the edge off the gnawing fear. Sam chews his lip and hints around about getting a full night’s sleep but after a couple of jokes and a false promise of “just one more”, Sam gives up and crawls into bed. There’s always some stupid show on TV that needs to finish or is just about to start. If the idiot box fails, there’s always that next new hunt that needs to be found or the final touches on the plans to kill the current beastie.
The irony of needing to hunt monsters to stop remembering being one never gets old. Hating Sam because he can sleep is a recent and worrying emotion. It could just be jealously – please let it just be jealously – but Sam has his own secrets and thinking about what they could be is worse than listening to the screaming that seeps out of the dark corners of memories.
This night’s run is longer and painful, fueled by anger and alcohol. Even the smallest town has dangerous back roads and half the run is spent hoping for a confrontation with something – anything – but of all the evil things that lurk in the dark, it might just be that the worst one is the one running past.
The shower that follows is too cold and too long and half the time breakfast is replaced by stale beer and an obsessive need to get moving again. On those days, Sam ignores the surly attitude but he hurries through his morning routine. Once on the road, with the hum of the wheels providing the illusion of purpose, it’s almost possible to pretend to be normal.
But exhaustion can’t be outrun and all the pretending in the world doesn’t stop the inevitable. By nightfall every muscle cries out for rest and each blink becomes a fight to reopen the eyes. As fatigue takes over reality fades and memory wins. The screams and pleading, the slick feel of the blade as it carves through flesh, the coppery taste of the spray of blood – it’s all there. Eyes closed, eyes open – it’s all the same. There’s no denying the reality of it. No amount of work or running or alcohol can disguise the truth. It’s all so real it’s a wonder Sam doesn’t feel it. With no victory in staying awake it’s easy to surrender to the horror-filled oblivion of sleep.
Waking is climbing out of hell. Hands groping, tearing; choking and screaming through a fog of pain; the stench of sulfur and rot that takes hours to fade and never completely goes away. The warring feelings of loathing and pleasure, satisfaction and revulsion taste like bile at the back of the throat. There is no awakening jerk, no sudden bust into consciousness. Movement in hell equaled pain but there was hope of peace in stillness. Sunlight is the surest sign of freedom and eyes blink hungrily into it.
Sitting up disrupts the makeshift cover of a familiar leather coat. Something Sam did, sometime in the night. A reminder of the past, of days when brotherly love didn’t hurt and when a coat over a sleeping form was the surest expression of solidarity.
The grateful smile for Sam as he hands the coffee over is easy and natural. As is the customary banter while packing up and leaving. Ten miles in it’s time for breakfast and for that morning life is good. The lie is almost effortless.
Because that first night, that first night is easy.
So I am posting this here, as a test run. It’s totally not my usual writing, which may be why I can’t judge its quality. I do, however, value the opinion of my flist, so I’m throwing it out to you. It’s a fanfic for Supernatural, so don’t feel obligated to read it, but if you’re so inclined, please let me know what you think.
Title: For the Wicked
Characters: Sam and Dean
Genre: Gen
Spoilers: Set in early 4th season, you need to know what’s gone on before.
Rating: PG-13
Length: 686 words
Disclaimer: Fanfic
The first night is easy. Just lay in the bed, eyes closed and wait until Sam’s breathing evens out. He doesn’t stir when the television comes on, and doing research or looking for a new case is even less likely to wake him. After that, it’s a five-mile run around four in the morning, come back and shower, get some coffee and give Sammy a hard time about sleeping his life away when he wakes at eight.
The second night is harder. There’s no lying down and pretending to sleep. Instead, there’s a new six-pack or bottle of Jack to take the edge off the gnawing fear. Sam chews his lip and hints around about getting a full night’s sleep but after a couple of jokes and a false promise of “just one more”, Sam gives up and crawls into bed. There’s always some stupid show on TV that needs to finish or is just about to start. If the idiot box fails, there’s always that next new hunt that needs to be found or the final touches on the plans to kill the current beastie.
The irony of needing to hunt monsters to stop remembering being one never gets old. Hating Sam because he can sleep is a recent and worrying emotion. It could just be jealously – please let it just be jealously – but Sam has his own secrets and thinking about what they could be is worse than listening to the screaming that seeps out of the dark corners of memories.
This night’s run is longer and painful, fueled by anger and alcohol. Even the smallest town has dangerous back roads and half the run is spent hoping for a confrontation with something – anything – but of all the evil things that lurk in the dark, it might just be that the worst one is the one running past.
The shower that follows is too cold and too long and half the time breakfast is replaced by stale beer and an obsessive need to get moving again. On those days, Sam ignores the surly attitude but he hurries through his morning routine. Once on the road, with the hum of the wheels providing the illusion of purpose, it’s almost possible to pretend to be normal.
But exhaustion can’t be outrun and all the pretending in the world doesn’t stop the inevitable. By nightfall every muscle cries out for rest and each blink becomes a fight to reopen the eyes. As fatigue takes over reality fades and memory wins. The screams and pleading, the slick feel of the blade as it carves through flesh, the coppery taste of the spray of blood – it’s all there. Eyes closed, eyes open – it’s all the same. There’s no denying the reality of it. No amount of work or running or alcohol can disguise the truth. It’s all so real it’s a wonder Sam doesn’t feel it. With no victory in staying awake it’s easy to surrender to the horror-filled oblivion of sleep.
Waking is climbing out of hell. Hands groping, tearing; choking and screaming through a fog of pain; the stench of sulfur and rot that takes hours to fade and never completely goes away. The warring feelings of loathing and pleasure, satisfaction and revulsion taste like bile at the back of the throat. There is no awakening jerk, no sudden bust into consciousness. Movement in hell equaled pain but there was hope of peace in stillness. Sunlight is the surest sign of freedom and eyes blink hungrily into it.
Sitting up disrupts the makeshift cover of a familiar leather coat. Something Sam did, sometime in the night. A reminder of the past, of days when brotherly love didn’t hurt and when a coat over a sleeping form was the surest expression of solidarity.
The grateful smile for Sam as he hands the coffee over is easy and natural. As is the customary banter while packing up and leaving. Ten miles in it’s time for breakfast and for that morning life is good. The lie is almost effortless.
Because that first night, that first night is easy.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-11-09 01:29 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-11-10 02:14 am (UTC)From:Glad you liked it. It's so totally not my usual fic; I'm happy to know that it worked.
And I adore that icon.
no subject
Date: 2009-11-11 04:38 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-11-14 04:09 pm (UTC)From:Dean always fights to deal internally with his emotional turmoil until it almost kills him. Then he still doles out information a little at a time.
no subject
Date: 2009-11-11 06:33 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-11-14 04:25 pm (UTC)From:I'm glad to hear that you thought it fit Dean. Thanks again!
no subject
Date: 2009-11-12 01:18 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2009-11-14 04:27 pm (UTC)From:Watching season four I was struck with how little Dean ever seemed to sleep and how often he awoke, fully clothed on top of the bedding. Dean always seemed like the type who would want to run from his problems but who's own honor code would keep him from doing so.