Writing From the Inside

For My Next Trick by nutkin.

Slash.

Just about the saddest coming of age story ever. Sam is seaching for normal, not just searching but desperately so. Every avenue, every coffee mug, every small town and he wants it. He’s so wanting it, and yet he knows what getting it will mean. Leaving Dean behind. Makes me want to cry. Hard.

Sad.

“They pull out of Gillespie on a Thursday, one week before the students of GHS are released for Christmas vacation. Sam cleans out his locker carelessly, dumping crumpled bits of paper and chewed-up pens into a cardboard box that finds its way to the trash before he even leaves the premises; he cleans out his bedroom methodically, slowly, tempted to tuck some bits of it into his duffel bag to remember Molly’s carefully organized life. He doesn’t; that’s not the kind of person he is. He just runs his fingers over the spines of her books, admires the line of spelling bee trophies, and climbs into the passenger seat of the car.

When he was a kid, there was this air of temporary to everything they did. It was like they were all waiting for the end to come in sight. Maybe next year, they’d have found the thing – maybe next year they could buy a little house, get back in school regular. Maybe next year the mission would be over with, Mom would be vindicated, and everything could go back to normal.

Now they don’t even pretend; Dad plants a pile of documents down on a flimsy motel room table, explaining that the Lee Nelson estate is haunted once a year, and a grizzly death is guaranteed for anyone to spends the night. There’s not even the pretense of it being something more, of having a connection to what they’re actually looking for, what they beat the pavement in search of every day.

Dean perks up when they’re on the road, like the places between power lines are the places he feels the most at home. He doesn’t even dose himself with No-Doz like their dad does; he just powers through, endless hours parked behind the steering wheel.

They stop for makeshift breakfasts at convenience stores – donuts and orange juice from a can. Soon they will have weaned themselves completely from the normalcy of a morning with newspapers and beverages that wake you up, ease you into your day. Soon they will drink Mountain Dew – Surge, where Dean can find it – and chew on potato chips, M&Ms, laugh at how they don’t have to eat cereal and bagels like everyone else. For now they’re close enough to the memories of Caleb’s sun-dappled kitchen that it’s not much of a stretch, and Sam gets a single-serving carton of milk.”

Hunger of Old Mouths by plutogirl10.

Slash.

Starts off slow. Sam and Dean go south, and run into a guy who wants to rule the world or something. I got to wondering if it was slash at all, or if I had misread the link. Then Dean goes and does something stupid, and loving, and exchanges his sould for Sam’s. The only way Sam can get him out of this is by possessing him, literally and figuratively. There’s blood ritual and semen sacrifice and it’s so beautifully done…slow paced and careful and lyrical and humming with love. It all works out right in the end, or as well as it can for a Winchester. Sheesh. Stuff like this can make you want to stop writing forever, cause, why bother when there’s this out there?

““You said my name,” Sam whispers rough in Dean’s ear, desperate for him to know. “Do you know that, Dean? Last night, you said my name.”

Whatever Sam thinks he should be feeling, it’s all replaced with total reverence when Dean makes the gentlest sound imaginable and bucks, shuddering apart in Sam’s arms, control finally gone. Sam feels every tremble imprint itself into his skin, they’re pressed so close together, and it carries him along with it, leaves him dazed. It takes him some time to register the sticky warmth clinging to his stomach and over his hand.”

Lesson Learnt

Bennu to Benben, Again

Slash.

Slash and then some. Reading this I realize how easy it is to become jaded by this type of fiction and how some writers can take you past that and make it wonderful. There is hotness and there is hotness. These two stories don’t have a plot, really, but I think that’s the point. Or beyond it, the sleepy, in bed interlude is just perfect as it is. Should this go on my Guilty Pleasure list because there’s no plot? Probably. But here it is on the Right Up There list, simply because it was so effective at what it does. Sam and Dean in bed, doing you know what. Doing it in such a giving way, without any girlyness, but with love. Oh man. All sex should be this good.

“Sam leans back to brace an arm behind him on the mattress. Eyes fixed on Dean’s face, he reaches for Dean’s dick – definitely not half asleep anymore – and before he can make sense of it, Dean feels moist warmth settle over him, hovering just there, like a promise of something that Sam will never go back on.”

and

“And in today’s class, Dean learns how to ask for what he wants.

It shouldn’t be as hard as it is. Sam won’t say no, has never said it, and will never say it; Dean knows that as well as he knows this isn’t a game. That’s not the point. He’s breathing harder, and this time it’s not all from arousal. Sam senses his discomfort, of course he does, but he doesn’t move and doesn’t say anything. The thing is, Dean knows he doesn’t have to ask. Knows Sam would let him off the hook if he pushed it.”

So giving, this story. Both of them. Joy.   

Into the Woods by plutogirl10.

Slash.

I didn’t know Dean could call Sam “baby” and have it be so hot. It’s not a word I think about that way, and yet, it works. This fic is an interlude in the woods that happens after the boys do a training session, where naughty things happen in such a hot way, I’m searching for a cold shower even now. Part of the fun is because Dean doesn’t want to, and Sam does.

Part of the fun is also watching Dean give in, as he usually does, and the lengths to which he will go to give Sam exactly what he wants, and how he wants it, because no one knows better what Sam wants than Dean. Twisted? Yes, definately. I’m almost mortified by how worked up this story got me. Where’s that dark haired stranger when I need him? Whew. Is it hot in here, or is it just me. Anyway, the story was fun and, yeah, hot, and well done.

“Sam’s tongue moves over his mouth, laps across the swell of his lip before licking his way inside, cold tip of his nose pressing into Dean’s cheek, and everything is warm and delicious as Dean feels his insides melt. The boy knows how to kiss, and Dean’s not sure if he should be proud, seeing as Sam learnt from him.” 

And this whole bit, included here for your reading pleasure. I believe the correct term for the reaction I had was, “Guh.”

“‘Please,’ Sam whimpers, fingers scrabbling at Dean’s collar as he lifts a leg to straddle Dean’s knee, pressing himself onto Dean’s thigh and pumping desperately. ‘Please, Dean, please -’

‘Okay,’ Dean breathes, wondering if he ever had a chance. ‘Slow, Sam. You hear me?’

And Sam nods frantically, but he’s already pulling Dean’s hand up to his mouth, lips closing around Dean’s middle finger and suckling, thick velvet slide of his tongue, teeth chewing on the digit. Warm, wet, silken mouth pulsing around him, and Dean has to bite his cheek to stop himself from making an embarrassing noise. He tugs his hand away, a thin glimmer of saliva stretching from Sam’s lips, and he quickly replaces his finger with his mouth, hungry, starved.

He pulls Sam closer, hitching his thigh up between Sam’s legs and lets his hand trail into the curve of Sam’s back, slips down further to push gently between soft flesh. His finger eases down, and Dean feels his dick jump at the touch of fine hairs and smooth-taut skin before he finds soft heat and presses in, into the tight grip of Sam’s young body.

‘Dean-’ Sam whimpers, biting his lip and muscles clenching around Dean’s finger.

‘Don’t, baby,’ Dean murmurs and touches Sam’s mouth with his free hand, thumbing at his bottom lip and easing it out from between white teeth. ‘You have to relax for me, okay?’”

Summer Blackout by nutkin.

Slash.

This writer has the characters down, and the situations she puts them in are realistic and slow without being draggy or boring. When I read this fic, I got swept up in the little backwoods town where the boys find themselves, virtually fatherless, for a hot, Arkansas summer. And, being boys, being brothers, they’ve got their ways when Dad is not around. They drink his stash, they watch illicit porn, they spend food money on video games. And then they, you know, fool around. Here the realisim enters to the point where I can SEE it in front of my face.

Here are some quotes to tempt you:

“Most importantly, there’s nothing creepy about the place. Everything seems a bit trapped in time, but there’s no evil here. No foreboding buildings, no local lore of any kind. The most notable story in town is that Church of the Good Shepherd was once part of the congregation of Church of Nazareth, and had broken off in 1974. People are still scandalized.”

“Sam’s birthday is observed perfunctorily – a cake from the supermarket. Balloons Dean picks up on the same trip for the cake, because blowing them up in rapid succession until they’re totally lightheaded is something of a tradition. It’s also something of a tradition that the person one year closer to death gets to pick what’s for dinner. This usually means making the choice between Cracker Barrel or Applebee’s, but since they’re actually in a house this year, Sam smirks and says he wants hamburgers.” (The part that makes me laugh is the “person who is one year closer to death” part!)

“When John comes in, Dean’s still wearing his apron. They’re both nearly soaked through, and Dean’s got Sam flung over one shoulder, howling with laughter. He’s shaking him upside down, and the contents of Sam’s pockets have already fallen to the floor – quarters rolling off under the refrigerator and crumpled pieces of paper under Dean’s feet.

“And what in the hell is going on here?” he asks, folding his arms and taking in the soapy, damp mess.

“Cooking,” Sam says thickly, from somewhere around Dean’s knees.”

“Sam’s expression teeters between a grin and that same look of focus, the look he gets when he’s studying for something. Figuring something out. It’s so Sam, so little-brother-Sam that Dean wants to tell him about the alternate reality thing, make him stop – but then Sam’s sliding down and looking up at him with those large, dark eyes, tugging his cock from his boxers and still fisting it. For whatever reason, he can’t quite believe that Sam’s going to do it, but then his tongue is against the head of Dean’s prick, and he has never felt anything, anything that good. His lips drag along the tip, so Dean can feel the velveteen smoothness of the skin just inside them, and then he’s opening wider and just sliding him in.”

The whole of this story is so nicely done, I wanted it to continue.

Yeah. It’s that time of year. I believe in clean slates, start-overs, and sharp new pads of paper to make lists on. I used to like the start of the school year, or the new semester, for just the same reason. Begin at the beginning, begin as you mean to go on, and who knows what cool things could happen?

 Lots and lots, to my way of thinking.

The hard part is when the world is open before you, and it’s like looking down on the Grand Canyon from the South Rim. Which way do you go? What do you do first? Which path should you take. Acutally, there are no shoulds here, but there are options, just acres of them. It feels a lot like watching “The Unbearable Lightness of Being” when the couple (as I recall) returns to their little apartment on the other side of the Iron Curtain, where their options are limited, and the world doesn’t feel quite so open ended and scary.

Because it’s scary you know, to have all that available to you and suddenly, the choices you knew you would take the moment you had the chance suddenly up and dissapear in a puff of smoke. It’s much easier, when you’re stuck in an office job, to say, I’ll do thus and such…when I have time. That office job gives you something to push against, something to be defiant to.

So, in response to that, New Year’s Resolutions offer a kind of do-over, a kind of limitation to what the world can offer. I’ve got the usual, as I’m sure everyone does, stuff like, stick to the budget, exercise more, eat more broccoli, have the rasberries and sugar and cream without quite so much sugar and cream, but it’s tough. Tough when you are your own boss for a bit longer, to stick to a schedule nobody sets for you but you.

I’ve got me a schedule, and I’ve got goals. I didn’t participate in the November Writing Month project, but then I never do. Not when every month is writing month, which in my case, it is. Do I….have a word count as a goal? Or a time limit? Do I walk every day for 30 minutes, regardless? One peice of fruit or two? What’s worked in the past?

My sister says, “You gotta want it. That’s it.” There’s no getting worked up to do it, no schedule, no list that is ever going to replace just wanting it. But what about that puff of smoke that everything you thought you want vanished into?

See? Going round and round in circles. So my answer here is, “Act as if.” Or, my other favorite quote from “My Dream of You,” by Nuala O’Faolain, which is the story of a travel writer who finds her dream life: Waiting in a beautiful little stone cottage in Ireland for her lover to visit her. The lover is married, of course, and somehow, the dream that the character wanted, and which has come true, is not enough. She talks to a friend, and he tells her, “Do the active thing.” In other words, don’t spend your life waiting for some married guy to visit you just so you can have the perfect screw. Go LIVE your life. So she does. It’s a very satisfying resolution to her problems. I like to think of it whenever I’m stuck. Do the active thing.

So here, the active thing is writing, and walking, and going to those line dances I always say I want to go to. I even have the shoes. Do the active thing, act as if, and everything else will follow.