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*waves*
Hallo, flist. Man, oh man. Struck low! I got some sort of...something. Dunno. Sore throat, cough, lungs like ancient, crackling bellows. Sheesh. Easing off now, thank gods. I almost never get that kind of 'winter cold' kind of thing - what a pain!
And my gods, you people - so much *stuff*! I still have way too many bookmarks.
It's flurrying outside, hissing down into the heaps of broken limbs and mess still left by the Ice!Storm! What fun it'll be to cut our lawn this spring!
Wanted to rec a couple things. The first is an SPN trio of stories, and i must say - just lovely. Gorgeous prose, emotional without being over the top *or* ooc. The kind of stuff that makes you grin like a fool and sniffle, too. Three parts, by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hansbekhart: The Miner's Lamp, Ruddy with the Light and I See You Better in the Dark. Worth the read, people.
Now, you all knowsweptawaybayou. She doesn't write long, tangled, chaptered fics. She writes *slices*. Moments. Little bits of lives that we might never see, otherwise. Moments of introspection, of despair, of joy and sorrow and loss. And lust. Oh, yis. :) This particular bit of life - this moment of 'after' - is just...sublime. It hurts - it's beautiful. It made me cry. So go and read. Pardon of the Soul.
And then, i'm posting the bit of SPN fic here in my journal. Mostly 'cause i'm twitchy that way, but omg - it literally took me fifteen or more mintues to find it over at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
supernaturalfic! I almost lost it! Heh. So, better that it goes here where i can keep an eye on it.
*cough*
*yis, i'm weird*
It was like that time in Tennessee when Sam was ten and the motel they were staying at didn't have a kitchenette. So Dean was making grilled cheese sandwiches with the clothes iron. The first one was soggy 'cause Dean'd forgotten to turn the steam function off, but Sam ate it anyway.
The crappy TV only got five channels so it was a toss-up between reruns of Beverly Hills 90210 or The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Dean thought Hillary was hotter than any of the 90210 chicks, so it was Will Smith all afternoon. Sam giggled at the corny jokes – ate another grilled cheese and watched Dean fussily iron the next one, making sure he got the corners good and toasted.
*Dean knows how to do everything,* Sam had thought, and at that moment it was true.
Or it was like that time in Arizona. Little town called Morenci, where the hills were stripped back in layers, mined to their bones for copper. Sam was sixteen and he got hurt – got jumped – by a bunch of kids. Immigrants' sons pretending they were a gang, gunning for the skinny white gringo who spent too much time alone.
Broken hand, broken ribs, two shallow knife-cuts across his back that made sleeping impossible. Loose tooth and a broken cheekbone. Sense of stifled shame because Sam knew how to fight, but there had been five of them, and the broken cheekbone had come by way of a stone thrown with deadly accuracy, taking him by complete surprise. The doctor gave him codeine and Sam ended up stealing half the doc's prescription pad and forging three extra refills because that stuff... That stuff made the ugly little mining town and the run-down shotgun house and the obituaries and horror stories pinned all over the walls just...go away.
Sam was liking that a lot until the day Dean figured it out. Found the pills and flushed them and locked them both up in that crappy house with ten gallons of water, three loaves of bread and a big green can of government peanut butter from the commodities line down near the reservation. Sam doesn't remember where Dad was, only that he never found out.
Withdrawal didn't kick in for almost a day and then Sam spent what felt like forever throwing up. Shaking and fevered and dizzy and so mad at Dean he actually attacked him. Dean just knocked him down and rolled him up in a sheet – held him so tight Sam thought he might suffocate.
When he was finally clean of it he was thinner, paler and weak as a kitten. Ashamed of himself and horrified at the marks of his knuckles on Dean's face. Dean just sat down on the floor with him and slung an arm around Sam's shoulders – pulled him in close, smell of sweat and dust and peanut butter. Held him in silence, twilight coming through the windows. All the shadows like blue and purple velvet, the sky through the uncurtained windows like old, sand-etched glass. Dean's arm warm and heavy – solid anchor that Sam willingly roped himself to.
*Dean will always be able to fix me,* Sam thought, never imagining a time when he might be beyond fixing of any kind.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was like that time in Oregon. Two months after Jess and Sam was just...hanging on. Twenty-two going on eighty and barely making it most days. Some days not at all. Dreams that morphed into nightmares and nightmares that followed him into the daylight and he just...couldn't. Couldn't let go, couldn't stop remembering, couldn't stop blaming himself.
So while Dean was hustling a game or three of pool, getting cash for supplies and rooms and diner food, Sam was drinking. Bourbon on the rocks, because wouldn't that piss Dean off? Halfway watching some football game and making snide remarks when the favored team screwed up. Ignoring the muttering and the sideways looks when he got a little loud – got a little obnoxious.
Couldn't ignore the hand on his shoulder, though, or the two guys standing there, murder in their eyes. Sam kinda remembered saying something crude to the bartender, who looked like somebody's mom. Hell, maybe she was their mom, but right then, Sam didn't give a fuck. He said so, too.
They did, though, and a minute or so later Sam was reeling back, dazed, into grasping, pushing hands and he barely managed to duck the fist that would have broken his nose. Didn't duck the one that split his lip or knocked the air out of him, or the knee that drove up into his ribs, sharp stab of pain that brought him to his knees.
Then the looming shadows of the men were breaking up – moving back – and Dean was there. Pushing and shoving and cussing – getting a shoulder under Sam's arm and hoisting him up. Dragging him out into the cold, wet air.
And Sam just lost it. Again. Shoved Dean away and then shoved harder when Dean wouldn't let go. Balled up his fists and just – went for it. He felt his knuckles connect. One, two – almost three but then Dean hit him back. Hit him right where it counted, point of his chin, and Sam was on the ground. Wet soaking into the ass of his jeans, legs splayed out. Head ringing and hands hurting and blood in his mouth.
After a minute Dean crouched down next to him – wrapped his hand around the back of Sam's neck and tilted his face up, turning it this way and that in the sodium-white of the streetlight. Blood on Dean's mouth and a raw looking spot on his cheekbone and Sam....
Couldn't. He didn't even know he was crying until the scalding tears hit the scrapes on his face and stung and then he was doubling over, sobbing so hard it hurt. So hard he was all but gagging, gasping for air and holding his bruised ribs. He felt Dean sit down beside him – felt Dean's arms come around him, tucking him close and holding on tight. Making little shushing noises like Sam was a baby or a hurt animal and Sam twisted his fists in the back of Dean's shirt and shoved his face deeper into the tear-wet heat of Dean's neck and let it happen.
Later – fifteen minutes, maybe – Sam was cried out. Wrung out and aching, jeans clinging wetly to the backs of his thighs and his nose stopped up – his throat raw. Dean pushed his hand back through Sam's hair and got them both up and walking and Sam leaned into him, dizzy. Feeling light – so light. Like a breeze could lift him and waft him away.
*Dean will always...always be there...* Sam thought, and for the first time in a long time, that felt like solid bedrock under his feet instead of a millstone around his neck.
Sam waited, blood in his mouth and a broken bone in his leg like a knife. Cold and dirty and his hands numb from the rope. Watching the others, the ones that had broken and the ones that were breaking. Making himself smaller and smaller; so small he almost wasn't there. Little shadow-shape, slipping down and down – fish diving for the very bottom of the pitch-black sea. Last-ditch effort, last trick he had. Last hope but one of escaping the demon that grinned across at him, long fingers stained with Sam's blood.
Waiting for Dean. Holding out, for Dean. Because Dean... *Dean knows...everything, and he can fix this. Fix me...fix this mess I made. Dean...will always be there...always...* The distant crack crack crack of gunfire was like a benediction and he closed his eyes and took a deep breath and gathered up all the fraying, fading remnants of his strength. *Time to go home.*
Hallo, flist. Man, oh man. Struck low! I got some sort of...something. Dunno. Sore throat, cough, lungs like ancient, crackling bellows. Sheesh. Easing off now, thank gods. I almost never get that kind of 'winter cold' kind of thing - what a pain!
And my gods, you people - so much *stuff*! I still have way too many bookmarks.
It's flurrying outside, hissing down into the heaps of broken limbs and mess still left by the Ice!Storm! What fun it'll be to cut our lawn this spring!
Wanted to rec a couple things. The first is an SPN trio of stories, and i must say - just lovely. Gorgeous prose, emotional without being over the top *or* ooc. The kind of stuff that makes you grin like a fool and sniffle, too. Three parts, by
hansbekhart: The Miner's Lamp, Ruddy with the Light and I See You Better in the Dark. Worth the read, people.Now, you all know
sweptawaybayou. She doesn't write long, tangled, chaptered fics. She writes *slices*. Moments. Little bits of lives that we might never see, otherwise. Moments of introspection, of despair, of joy and sorrow and loss. And lust. Oh, yis. :) This particular bit of life - this moment of 'after' - is just...sublime. It hurts - it's beautiful. It made me cry. So go and read. Pardon of the Soul.And then, i'm posting the bit of SPN fic here in my journal. Mostly 'cause i'm twitchy that way, but omg - it literally took me fifteen or more mintues to find it over at
supernaturalfic! I almost lost it! Heh. So, better that it goes here where i can keep an eye on it.*cough*
*yis, i'm weird*
It was like that time in Tennessee when Sam was ten and the motel they were staying at didn't have a kitchenette. So Dean was making grilled cheese sandwiches with the clothes iron. The first one was soggy 'cause Dean'd forgotten to turn the steam function off, but Sam ate it anyway.
The crappy TV only got five channels so it was a toss-up between reruns of Beverly Hills 90210 or The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Dean thought Hillary was hotter than any of the 90210 chicks, so it was Will Smith all afternoon. Sam giggled at the corny jokes – ate another grilled cheese and watched Dean fussily iron the next one, making sure he got the corners good and toasted.
*Dean knows how to do everything,* Sam had thought, and at that moment it was true.
Or it was like that time in Arizona. Little town called Morenci, where the hills were stripped back in layers, mined to their bones for copper. Sam was sixteen and he got hurt – got jumped – by a bunch of kids. Immigrants' sons pretending they were a gang, gunning for the skinny white gringo who spent too much time alone.
Broken hand, broken ribs, two shallow knife-cuts across his back that made sleeping impossible. Loose tooth and a broken cheekbone. Sense of stifled shame because Sam knew how to fight, but there had been five of them, and the broken cheekbone had come by way of a stone thrown with deadly accuracy, taking him by complete surprise. The doctor gave him codeine and Sam ended up stealing half the doc's prescription pad and forging three extra refills because that stuff... That stuff made the ugly little mining town and the run-down shotgun house and the obituaries and horror stories pinned all over the walls just...go away.
Sam was liking that a lot until the day Dean figured it out. Found the pills and flushed them and locked them both up in that crappy house with ten gallons of water, three loaves of bread and a big green can of government peanut butter from the commodities line down near the reservation. Sam doesn't remember where Dad was, only that he never found out.
Withdrawal didn't kick in for almost a day and then Sam spent what felt like forever throwing up. Shaking and fevered and dizzy and so mad at Dean he actually attacked him. Dean just knocked him down and rolled him up in a sheet – held him so tight Sam thought he might suffocate.
When he was finally clean of it he was thinner, paler and weak as a kitten. Ashamed of himself and horrified at the marks of his knuckles on Dean's face. Dean just sat down on the floor with him and slung an arm around Sam's shoulders – pulled him in close, smell of sweat and dust and peanut butter. Held him in silence, twilight coming through the windows. All the shadows like blue and purple velvet, the sky through the uncurtained windows like old, sand-etched glass. Dean's arm warm and heavy – solid anchor that Sam willingly roped himself to.
*Dean will always be able to fix me,* Sam thought, never imagining a time when he might be beyond fixing of any kind.
Or maybe, just maybe, it was like that time in Oregon. Two months after Jess and Sam was just...hanging on. Twenty-two going on eighty and barely making it most days. Some days not at all. Dreams that morphed into nightmares and nightmares that followed him into the daylight and he just...couldn't. Couldn't let go, couldn't stop remembering, couldn't stop blaming himself.
So while Dean was hustling a game or three of pool, getting cash for supplies and rooms and diner food, Sam was drinking. Bourbon on the rocks, because wouldn't that piss Dean off? Halfway watching some football game and making snide remarks when the favored team screwed up. Ignoring the muttering and the sideways looks when he got a little loud – got a little obnoxious.
Couldn't ignore the hand on his shoulder, though, or the two guys standing there, murder in their eyes. Sam kinda remembered saying something crude to the bartender, who looked like somebody's mom. Hell, maybe she was their mom, but right then, Sam didn't give a fuck. He said so, too.
They did, though, and a minute or so later Sam was reeling back, dazed, into grasping, pushing hands and he barely managed to duck the fist that would have broken his nose. Didn't duck the one that split his lip or knocked the air out of him, or the knee that drove up into his ribs, sharp stab of pain that brought him to his knees.
Then the looming shadows of the men were breaking up – moving back – and Dean was there. Pushing and shoving and cussing – getting a shoulder under Sam's arm and hoisting him up. Dragging him out into the cold, wet air.
And Sam just lost it. Again. Shoved Dean away and then shoved harder when Dean wouldn't let go. Balled up his fists and just – went for it. He felt his knuckles connect. One, two – almost three but then Dean hit him back. Hit him right where it counted, point of his chin, and Sam was on the ground. Wet soaking into the ass of his jeans, legs splayed out. Head ringing and hands hurting and blood in his mouth.
After a minute Dean crouched down next to him – wrapped his hand around the back of Sam's neck and tilted his face up, turning it this way and that in the sodium-white of the streetlight. Blood on Dean's mouth and a raw looking spot on his cheekbone and Sam....
Couldn't. He didn't even know he was crying until the scalding tears hit the scrapes on his face and stung and then he was doubling over, sobbing so hard it hurt. So hard he was all but gagging, gasping for air and holding his bruised ribs. He felt Dean sit down beside him – felt Dean's arms come around him, tucking him close and holding on tight. Making little shushing noises like Sam was a baby or a hurt animal and Sam twisted his fists in the back of Dean's shirt and shoved his face deeper into the tear-wet heat of Dean's neck and let it happen.
Later – fifteen minutes, maybe – Sam was cried out. Wrung out and aching, jeans clinging wetly to the backs of his thighs and his nose stopped up – his throat raw. Dean pushed his hand back through Sam's hair and got them both up and walking and Sam leaned into him, dizzy. Feeling light – so light. Like a breeze could lift him and waft him away.
*Dean will always...always be there...* Sam thought, and for the first time in a long time, that felt like solid bedrock under his feet instead of a millstone around his neck.
Sam waited, blood in his mouth and a broken bone in his leg like a knife. Cold and dirty and his hands numb from the rope. Watching the others, the ones that had broken and the ones that were breaking. Making himself smaller and smaller; so small he almost wasn't there. Little shadow-shape, slipping down and down – fish diving for the very bottom of the pitch-black sea. Last-ditch effort, last trick he had. Last hope but one of escaping the demon that grinned across at him, long fingers stained with Sam's blood.
Waiting for Dean. Holding out, for Dean. Because Dean... *Dean knows...everything, and he can fix this. Fix me...fix this mess I made. Dean...will always be there...always...* The distant crack crack crack of gunfire was like a benediction and he closed his eyes and took a deep breath and gathered up all the fraying, fading remnants of his strength. *Time to go home.*
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*Dean will always be able to fix me,* Sam thought, never imagining a time when he might be beyond fixing of any kind.
Beautiful. You absolutely capture them both. So perfectly.
Thank you for sharing this.
*smoochsmooch*
*luffs*
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Thank you so much.
*beams at you*
*icon love*
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:)
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I think, in the end, it's what makes them *them*, you know? That faith.
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*speechless*
I had no idea you'd written fic! This is what I get for not keeping up with the fic comms, because man, this was so amazing. Seriously, I read it, and then I just kind of sat and stared for a bit, and then I read it again and I started crying at, like, the first line because it was so cute the first time and hurt so much the second. Augh! *incoherent*
I'd love to quote my favourite lines, but I'd just end up cping the whole damn thing into this comment, because damn, every word seems so carefully chosen, every image is so perfect (seriously, I just looked up at the last para and wanted to quote the line about the gunfire, but then I realised that I wanted to quote all the other lines in that para and then I realised that I wanted to quote the one above too, and then I gave up...). And I love that the ending is so open, that we don't know how Sam is expecting Dean to save him (but oh, I have a horrible feeling), and I adored how you took Sam's thoughts from each previous section and put them all together there. The second section totally punched me in the gut, because I thought "wow, Sam's in serious crisis", but then the crises just got worse and worse and oh Sam.
I really am totally rambly and incoherent. I just feel so... devastated. *sobs and flails*
So like, next time you're going to post in your journal straight away, right? Because I wouldn't want to miss anything else...
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*smoooch*
Thank you so very much! Wow!
*re-reads fb*
Just...yeah. Wow.
I've posted a number of SPN things. The thing is, when i post in my journal i don't do headers. I *hate* headers. I put the general idea in a line or two and skip all that title, pairing, blah blah stuff.
So when i posted my longer story over in supernatural fic, i *did* make a header, but the link came here, to where there was *not* a header. Apparently, this was okay for spnnewsletter sometimes, and sometimes *not*, since the story only got listed about...four times out of ten or whatever. I dunno. It irritated me.
So when i start posting my next spn thing - which is chaptered and also an xover - i guess i'm gonna post in supernaturalfic with header and then post *seperately* here, without. Or possibly break down and do a header, i dunno. I just *hate headers*.
*cough*
Anyway. Supernatural stuff in my memories under 'supernatural' and also 'Thou Born to Match the Gale' and 'Two Roads Diverged'...
*la*
Thanks again! Lovely stuff to wake up to.
:)
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:)
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You've been nominated at
Thanks and congrats! ^__^
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I first fell in love with your writing because you write with such colour and texture and scent. But this... this is so powerfully rich with emotion and the strength of love and trust and need.
You capture the essence of them and lay it so seeming effortlessly before us. Wonderful. Thank you.
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:)
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Dean will always...always be there...* Sam thought, and for the first time in a long time, that felt like solid bedrock under his feet instead of a millstone around his neck.
this made me flail. just beautiful.
so sad.
oh my dear, you? are deadly with the angst.
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Thank you! So much.
Here - have a tissue.
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I just loved the image of Dean ironing sandwiches - it just stuck with me until i wrote it.
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The crappy TV only got five channels so it was a toss-up between reruns of Beverly Hills 90210 or The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Dean thought Hillary was hotter than any of the 90210 chicks, so it was Will Smith all afternoon. Sam giggled at the corny jokes – ate another grilled cheese and watched Dean fussily iron the next one, making sure he got the corners good and toasted.
*Dean knows how to do everything,* Sam had thought, and at that moment it was true.
Okay--the memories, are just--and the details. From the steamed-cheese sandwiched down to Dean thinking Hillary was hotter--where do you come up with this? You've got this feel for every character you write--but never more than with SPN. As fandamntabulous as your Spander is, it's like that was a training ground for your SPN fic. Even when you write gen, it's so damn beautiful, I'm at a loss for words that describe how incredible you and your fic are. The memories you wirte feel all the more real because these are similar memories that I've had (unlike running from a mob in Prague, or Prussia or wherever, as much as I love Spike/Dru memories) yet you've exhalted them. You turn colored glass into gems.
Don't take this the wrong way, but--the reason I can't read your SPN when I'm trying to write the same, is because that'd be like reading Shakespeare, or Ibsen, or Williams--then trying to write a your own play. You're inspired, but so totally awed, you're not entirely sure you can pick up the pen, let alone make pretty with it.
And it's not just a story thing. Every paragraph you write is freaking hand-crafted. Like you spent hours just perfecting it, only it doesn't have the earmarks of a protracted struggle. It all just flows so effortlessly. . . .
::sighs::
I still wanna be you when I grow up. Only with the power of flight.
All though, for all I know. . . .
::looks up at the sky for a glimpse of you::
Um. ANYWAY.
*Dean knows how to do everything,* Sam had thought, and at that moment it was true.
Warmfuzzies, man. In the good way. Makes me wish I'd been closer to siblings, but not really, because there's no way they'd have made me steamed-cheese sandwiches, even if I was dying of starvation.
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Dude. You make me just...smile. I don't know what i'd do if i couldn't write, and having someone tell me *this* - respond this way, get this *out* of it...
Well, it makes my day and week and month, man. It really, really does. I *love* to dig in and construct their pasts - come up with little bits and pieces of memory and history. I have to ruthlessly excise most of it from fics because it gets to be *way* too much.
But thank you thank you thank you.
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Okay, there go the waterworks.
When he was finally clean of it he was thinner, paler and weak as a kitten. Ashamed of himself and horrified at the marks of his knuckles on Dean's face. Dean just sat down on the floor with him and slung an arm around Sam's shoulders – pulled him in close, smell of sweat and dust and peanut butter. Held him in silence, twilight coming through the windows. All the shadows like blue and purple velvet, the sky through the uncurtained windows like old, sand-etched glass. Dean's arm warm and heavy – solid anchor that Sam willingly roped himself to.
That was so beautiful. You make me want a life filled with these moments. Not necessarily the codeine addiction, but the safety and beauty and closeness.
::sighs again::
*Dean will always be able to fix me,* Sam thought, never imagining a time when he might be beyond fixing of any kind.
Dude, that was so ominous and I'm all fragile from the previous bits that I dunno if I wanna read the rest. But you're Tabaqui, and I'll follow you anywhere.
But you may owe me Kleenex before all is said and done.
*Dean will always...always be there...* Sam thought, and for the first time in a long time, that felt like solid bedrock under his feet instead of a millstone around his neck.
Kleenex. Now. You bastid.
Waiting for Dean. Holding out, for Dean. Because Dean... *Dean knows...everything, and he can fix this. Fix me...fix this mess I made. Dean...will always be there...always...* The distant crack crack crack of gunfire was like a benediction and he closed his eyes and took a deep breath and gathered up all the fraying, fading remnants of his strength. *Time to go home.*
You made it all better.
Thank you.
::hugs you hard::
::cries on your shoulder::
I still want some Kllenex, though.
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*offers Kleenex and cookies*
Thank you again, bay-bee.
Of *course* i made it better! I have to. I can't ever leave my boys sad.
*twirls you*
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:)
I think, yeah, Sam'n'Dean are 'home' to each other all the time.
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This is the perfect construction of individual vignettes into a picture that says far more than the words, a total far more than its parts. You've constructed a mosaic here, like the photo-mosaics that are made up of individual photos that create a separate and larger picture. Like that. Yeah. Anyway (see, you inspire that kind of distraction, going for the right image there)...this is brilliant and heartbreaking and *true* and I love it. Thanks for sharing! I hope you don't mind if I "friend" you. Makes it easier to browse.
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Oh, no, no pressure!
:)
*i'm working on the next chapter right now, really truly, should post in a day...*
And thank you so very much! I'm really delighted by your fb, it's just wonderful. The first scene with the clothes-iron sandwiches just sort of appeared in my head and then i couldn't stop! So i'm glad you' enjoyed.
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Dean ironing cheese sandwiches! And Sam thinking Dean knew everything.
Sam using the codeine to send everything away, and Dean fixing him.
Sam blaming himself for Jess – that scene almost broke me.
Oh, and the end? That did break me.
This was fabulous the way you just kept taking everything up a notch, then another till you gutted us. Awesome!
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I think this is probably my very favorite spn story, really.
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*Dean will always...always be there...* Sam thought, and for the first time in a long time, that felt like solid bedrock under his feet instead of a millstone around his neck.
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It's really nice to get comments on older stuff, and know that it holds up after so long.