thuvia ptarth (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thuviaptarth) wrote2007-03-04 08:54 pm
thuviaptarth) wrote2007-03-04 08:54 pm
Entry tags:
Supernatural fic: Outtakes
I missed WiP Amnesty Week or Weekend or whatever it was, but then I don't really have any Ws in P I want to give up on. I do have some scraps I like even though they didn't end up fitting in their stories, though, and I am feeling particularly self-indulgent tonight, so: here are some outtakes. All gen, unless you want to read Sam and Lenore as subtexty. Unbeta'd.
Succubus fic (no spoilers, 260 words)
Two weeks staking out hag-ridden teenagers and even Dean's run out of leers and innuendos. And that's before the bitch takes flight, freaking literally, and not like she's dumb enough to light out down the highway, where the Impala has a hope in hell of catching her ("You're dreaming," Sam says on the way back, and Dean runs a soothing hand over the dash: "Don't listen, baby, I know you'd come through for me"). No, they chase her through a tangle of suburban back woods, baby oaks and skinny pines, thrashing through the underbrush like idiots before she scrambles out of their reach and into a patch of moonlight clear enough to show there's a way out and that's up; and up she goes.
Dean goes down, a tackle misdirected by a tree root, rolls with the fall and rolls onto his back and shouts, "Son of a bitch," after her retreating black wingspan, just on general principles. It's not as loud as he'd like, not from flat on his back. Sam bends over, hands on his knees, panting too hard to laugh, or laughing too hard to breathe, big almost-silent gasps. Dean stares up at the moon and wonders why the hell he's trying to save a bunch of pimply teenage boys from getting laid. So their souls get sucked out their dicks. They're teenage boys. Not like they'll mind, or anyone else'll notice.
"Dude," he says, thunderstruck by his own grumpiness, "I think I'm getting old," and Sam wheezes and then laughs so hard he falls over.
Old Bones outtake - John ("Everybody Loves A Clown" spoilers, 158 words)
John Winchester's handwriting is heavy and slanting, easy to read but not pretty to look at. Pages are missing, always have been; before reading it straight through, Sam skims it for mail drops, coordinates, places where Dad might have stashed extra notes, ammunition, keys, clues. He doesn't expect to find any; Dean would have discovered them this past year on the road, the nights he stayed up reading in motel armchairs, when he thought Sam was asleep. But Dad always taught them to be careful, so Sam double-checks.
The journal's organization is a mess: Dude, are you kidding me? Dean always asked when Sam complained. You want to use the Dewey Decimal System?
Diary entries, newspaper clippings, diagrams, recipes for potions and bullets. The instructions for how to fill bullets with rock salt are in Dean's handwriting. Sam turns the pages slowly, caught by his brother's name, his own. Accounts of sightings, hunts, his father's bewildered grief.
Sam and Lenore ("Bloodlust" spoilers, 371 words)
Lenore is a soft weight in Sam's arms, her breath a shaky warmth on his throat: “It's okay,” he says, “you're gonna be okay,” though what he really wants to do is ask her why she's not cold, is it the effects of the poison or are vampires always warmer than they look, are they undead or just different, strange biology, not supernatural at all? He braces her against the side of the Impala and manages to open the door one-handed, then lowers her carefully into the passenger seat. He's leaning across her to buckle her in when he feels her fingers ghost across the inside of his arm, just below the cut Gordon made.
They breathe out slowly in unison.
Sam pulls back far enough to see her face. “Would it help?”
They both wait, for the next breath, for Sam to retract the offer. But it's Lenore who closes her eyes, half-shakes her head. “No. No. It would be—it would be dangerous.” Her accent is so careful, too careful, over-precise. English isn't her native language, or at least not English the way people speak it now. She clasps her hands tightly in her lap. “Please. Could you bandage it? The smell is tempting.”
Sam's breath huffs out, almost a laugh. I'm okay. I'm okay! Are you?
He gets the first aid kit out of the trunk, smears some antiseptic on his arm—maybe it'll cut the smell, humans sure don't find hospitals appetizing—and ties a bandage around his arm with one hand and his teeth.
He comes round to the driver's side and gets in. Lenore is pressing her cheek against the window when he's done; he guesses cold glass kills dizziness and headaches for vampires, too. He pulls the Impala out and heads back to town; he can ask her where to go in four and a half minutes, and in the meantime she might as well rest.
She's so much smaller than Dean; his peripheral vision doesn't catch much of her unless he turns his head and then her presence startles him, the wrong person in the seat, the world just off, like he's tried to prop himself up against empty air.
Gordon ("Bloodlust" spoilers, 221 words)
You stupid son of a bitch. I didn't think you were this fucking weak. You've got to know you're wrong, right? You know what I'm talking about. You know they can lie but they're killers underneath, born what they are as surely as we are. You've got to know that.
Seriously, man, you think this is right? You think this is good? Letting those things out to kill more people? Would you let a demon walk around all dressed up in your brother's skin? It's an abomination, man, those things, once they're turned, if you didn't know one before, you've got no idea what monsters they really are.
You think this is about the pain? You think I got off on torturing that bitch? It ain't like that, and you should know it. Killing 'em's a mercy. It's all you can do for them. You'll see what it's like, your brother comes back turned from “saving” that fang from me. And even if I'm wrong—even if that fang's gone veggie now—you think she never killed anyone before? You think her hands are clean?
You just see what you want to see. I'm disappointed in you, man. I thought you were better than that. Stronger than that. I thought you could stand to see things the way they really are.
Gordon and Dean ("Bloodlust" spoilers, 191 words)
For a while, Dean settles into a chair behind Gordon, keeping his eyes on the other man's hands, alert for rope-cutting, knot-loosening, hell, just kicking the chair over for a distraction. His muscles begin to tighten up, though, and it's too easy to pay attention to the ache of the bruises coming out, so Dean limps around a bit, working his shoulders and arms the best he can without getting distracted.
They don't talk much. “Hey, man, you need to piss, just let me know,” Dean offers. “I ain't into that Gitmo shit.” Gordy's silent, so Dean shrugs, focuses on walking without staggering too much. Some time past midnight, Gordon says, “You really think this is the right thing to do?” not even trying to keep the contempt out of his voice.
Dean drops back into the chair, settles his elbows on his knees, clasps his hands; looks at his hands for a long time, instead of Gordon's back. “I'm sorry about your sister,” he says finally, and that's the last thing either of them says till after sunrise, when they hear Sam pull up in the car outside.
Succubus fic (no spoilers, 260 words)
Two weeks staking out hag-ridden teenagers and even Dean's run out of leers and innuendos. And that's before the bitch takes flight, freaking literally, and not like she's dumb enough to light out down the highway, where the Impala has a hope in hell of catching her ("You're dreaming," Sam says on the way back, and Dean runs a soothing hand over the dash: "Don't listen, baby, I know you'd come through for me"). No, they chase her through a tangle of suburban back woods, baby oaks and skinny pines, thrashing through the underbrush like idiots before she scrambles out of their reach and into a patch of moonlight clear enough to show there's a way out and that's up; and up she goes.
Dean goes down, a tackle misdirected by a tree root, rolls with the fall and rolls onto his back and shouts, "Son of a bitch," after her retreating black wingspan, just on general principles. It's not as loud as he'd like, not from flat on his back. Sam bends over, hands on his knees, panting too hard to laugh, or laughing too hard to breathe, big almost-silent gasps. Dean stares up at the moon and wonders why the hell he's trying to save a bunch of pimply teenage boys from getting laid. So their souls get sucked out their dicks. They're teenage boys. Not like they'll mind, or anyone else'll notice.
"Dude," he says, thunderstruck by his own grumpiness, "I think I'm getting old," and Sam wheezes and then laughs so hard he falls over.
Old Bones outtake - John ("Everybody Loves A Clown" spoilers, 158 words)
John Winchester's handwriting is heavy and slanting, easy to read but not pretty to look at. Pages are missing, always have been; before reading it straight through, Sam skims it for mail drops, coordinates, places where Dad might have stashed extra notes, ammunition, keys, clues. He doesn't expect to find any; Dean would have discovered them this past year on the road, the nights he stayed up reading in motel armchairs, when he thought Sam was asleep. But Dad always taught them to be careful, so Sam double-checks.
The journal's organization is a mess: Dude, are you kidding me? Dean always asked when Sam complained. You want to use the Dewey Decimal System?
Diary entries, newspaper clippings, diagrams, recipes for potions and bullets. The instructions for how to fill bullets with rock salt are in Dean's handwriting. Sam turns the pages slowly, caught by his brother's name, his own. Accounts of sightings, hunts, his father's bewildered grief.
Sam and Lenore ("Bloodlust" spoilers, 371 words)
Lenore is a soft weight in Sam's arms, her breath a shaky warmth on his throat: “It's okay,” he says, “you're gonna be okay,” though what he really wants to do is ask her why she's not cold, is it the effects of the poison or are vampires always warmer than they look, are they undead or just different, strange biology, not supernatural at all? He braces her against the side of the Impala and manages to open the door one-handed, then lowers her carefully into the passenger seat. He's leaning across her to buckle her in when he feels her fingers ghost across the inside of his arm, just below the cut Gordon made.
They breathe out slowly in unison.
Sam pulls back far enough to see her face. “Would it help?”
They both wait, for the next breath, for Sam to retract the offer. But it's Lenore who closes her eyes, half-shakes her head. “No. No. It would be—it would be dangerous.” Her accent is so careful, too careful, over-precise. English isn't her native language, or at least not English the way people speak it now. She clasps her hands tightly in her lap. “Please. Could you bandage it? The smell is tempting.”
Sam's breath huffs out, almost a laugh. I'm okay. I'm okay! Are you?
He gets the first aid kit out of the trunk, smears some antiseptic on his arm—maybe it'll cut the smell, humans sure don't find hospitals appetizing—and ties a bandage around his arm with one hand and his teeth.
He comes round to the driver's side and gets in. Lenore is pressing her cheek against the window when he's done; he guesses cold glass kills dizziness and headaches for vampires, too. He pulls the Impala out and heads back to town; he can ask her where to go in four and a half minutes, and in the meantime she might as well rest.
She's so much smaller than Dean; his peripheral vision doesn't catch much of her unless he turns his head and then her presence startles him, the wrong person in the seat, the world just off, like he's tried to prop himself up against empty air.
Gordon ("Bloodlust" spoilers, 221 words)
You stupid son of a bitch. I didn't think you were this fucking weak. You've got to know you're wrong, right? You know what I'm talking about. You know they can lie but they're killers underneath, born what they are as surely as we are. You've got to know that.
Seriously, man, you think this is right? You think this is good? Letting those things out to kill more people? Would you let a demon walk around all dressed up in your brother's skin? It's an abomination, man, those things, once they're turned, if you didn't know one before, you've got no idea what monsters they really are.
You think this is about the pain? You think I got off on torturing that bitch? It ain't like that, and you should know it. Killing 'em's a mercy. It's all you can do for them. You'll see what it's like, your brother comes back turned from “saving” that fang from me. And even if I'm wrong—even if that fang's gone veggie now—you think she never killed anyone before? You think her hands are clean?
You just see what you want to see. I'm disappointed in you, man. I thought you were better than that. Stronger than that. I thought you could stand to see things the way they really are.
Gordon and Dean ("Bloodlust" spoilers, 191 words)
For a while, Dean settles into a chair behind Gordon, keeping his eyes on the other man's hands, alert for rope-cutting, knot-loosening, hell, just kicking the chair over for a distraction. His muscles begin to tighten up, though, and it's too easy to pay attention to the ache of the bruises coming out, so Dean limps around a bit, working his shoulders and arms the best he can without getting distracted.
They don't talk much. “Hey, man, you need to piss, just let me know,” Dean offers. “I ain't into that Gitmo shit.” Gordy's silent, so Dean shrugs, focuses on walking without staggering too much. Some time past midnight, Gordon says, “You really think this is the right thing to do?” not even trying to keep the contempt out of his voice.
Dean drops back into the chair, settles his elbows on his knees, clasps his hands; looks at his hands for a long time, instead of Gordon's back. “I'm sorry about your sister,” he says finally, and that's the last thing either of them says till after sunrise, when they hear Sam pull up in the car outside.
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There are so many perfect lines in this. Sam and the journal: their father's bewildered grief. The way Lenore takes up less space in the Impala. Gordon's baffled outrage at Dean and Dean's inability to come up with anything to say to Gordon in response.
But this was just, Oh: "Dude," he says, thunderstruck by his own grumpiness, "I think I'm getting old," and Sam wheezes and then laughs so hard he falls over.
I cackled.
More, I want more!
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The succubus bit is just so wrong for the story, which is all angst and screwy POVs and the kind of stuff you'd expect in a story from me. I don't know how comedy happened! It must have snuck over from
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♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥
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