tagged by @redmyeyes (thank you, writing tags are the best!!) to share a WIP snippet. absolute nightmare for me, but since i'm determined to get through the habit insecurity of holding my shit so close to my chest i can never get anything done, it's a cool one.
so, there's this indulgent thing i wanted to write for an event; something where i'm trying to bring my 8B wincest feels and my love for unreliable (living) spaces together. this particular bit i've written in... May, i think? and haven't touched since, so i'm bewildered reading it now and want to do like 18 things differently, and i'm probably gonna after i have some semblance of a finished draft.
here goes:
This time, he hasn’t stumbled into it. He wasn’t even up. It—took him, there’s no other word for it, right from his bed, from inside the shivering approximation of sleep he goes through these days, and it’s unfair, it’s unfair, he wants to yell, like he’s ten and Dad told them to pack their shit again, not a month since they came here, it’s unfair because this was supposed to be a home, theirs, with Dean.
He hasn’t seen Dean in… however long since that corridor; doesn’t know if they’re supposed to be avoiding each other now, if Dean’s simply succeeding at playing by the rules Sam didn’t notice, once more. He’s curled as small as possible against—a not wall, something, holding his weight, if there is such a thing; his hands have shaped themselves into useless fists, all on their own. He unclenches them, stiff—is it getting colder here? There’s nothing visible beyond white light, perfect and even, and he feels like he’s looking down through glass, empty space all over and around and under his feet, too, nothing solid. He’s not even sure it’s air, from how his lungs contract painfully every once in a while, but darkness doesn’t come; he’d take darkness, now, every real thing it would mean.
He wants real, wants Dean: touching him, skin and blood, rubbing some semblance of heat back into his white-out body, mouth smearing satiny across his collarbone; talking to him, white-lipped promises, awful and true and deserved, consoling him, in that way where he makes it worse, and still Sam’s lungs unfold; holding him—up against a wall, a threat, hard all over, breath a wet patch on the thin fabric over his shoulder; in the circle of his arms, bigger than this everything; tight, tighter; close.
i hope to get it done this year (no irony, a thing that's supposed to be ~16k words in my head and have some approximation of a plot and is currently at ~8k is gonna take at least that long, lol). by then i will also hopefully get over my fear of sharing something out of my super narrow comfort zone and be able to post it ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
this tag dies with me unless @cowboywincest or @nigeltde-fic miraculously feel like doing this at any point in time :')
