Rules: share the first lines of up to ten of your most recent fanfics and tag up to ten people. If you have written fewer than ten, don’t be shy and share anyway.
tagged by @yourmadnesswon <3 <3
The thin, jagged crack of light hovers undulating in the air in a beckoning dance, promising sanctuary on the other side.
Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc
Sam waits, kneeling, for his execution.
He watches Dean pull the scythe back for the fatal strike and closes his eyes, half out of dread, half out of mercy.
Make All of My Nightmares Come True
Kearney, Missouri is miles behind them, and a chasm still fills the space between Dean, behind the wheel, and Sam, pretending to try to sleep on the passenger side. Sam is supposed to be getting some shut-eye so he can take over driving in a few hours, but he’s still wound up and sleep won’t come despite the soft rock Dean put on.
Your own brother trying to kill you will do that.
He’s standing at the threshold, but he can’t quite seem to make himself go any further. The double doors in front of him challenge him, judging, questioning, repudiating his worthiness. It’s difficult to find the will within himself to move forward, but going back is not an option. Not anymore.
Bobby and Sam pull into the drive that leads to the burned-out shell that was once Bobby’s home. The place where Sam and Dean could once turn to when they needed to regroup and lick their wounds. The place that once was the only occasional island of stability Sam knew other than the Impala.
With ice cold hands takin’ hold of me
“I think you’ll want to see this for yourself.”
He doesn’t, as a rule, concern Himself with individuals; they are not in and of themselves important to the whole of the species. They are molecules of water compared to the tide, necessary, providing a medium to shape a pattern, but one more or less has little impact in the grander scheme.
He’s just settled in with a glass of Craig and The Drama of the Gifted Child when the King of Hell is interrupted by the irritating sound of a throat being cleared. He shuts his eyes and pushes aside the urge to disintegrate the offender. There is a delicate balance between instilling the correct level of fear and retaining enough staff to run a functioning court.
In retrospect, Garth should’ve known better. 20-20 hindsight is a harsh mistress.
He should’ve known that the automatic fight-or-flight reaction causes muscles to tense, not relax. He should’ve stepped in front of Dean again, blocked his line of fire. He should’ve made sure that the gun was pointed away from Sam before he threw the punch.
Bright dim bright dim bright dim
We need bait that fits the demo… Chain around neck choking… I don’t think I want it back…
Sam glances across the Impala to the passenger seat to Dean, who has finally conked out, leaving Sam alone with his thoughts in the aftermath of nearly losing him to an Amazon.
“Now isn’t that ironic. And here you thought we were the unstable one.”
No-pressure tags, just including some folks who I know are writers and might enjoy participating. Apologies to anyone I didn't tag because I can't keep different Tumblr/AO3 handles straight; please consider yourself tagged!
@wilsonthemoose @adirotynd @a-wondrous-thing @petrichorsam @quickreaver @themegalosaurus @trials-era-sam @tigerlilynoh
prguitarman
gummygunk
stormborns
areudirty
vaporwave
janainaart
annaxmalina
