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moogingRight, the draft of this big bang fic is nearing its death throes, so here is something to distract me for a minute or two. Not that the SPN fic I have been reading on and off all day hasn't distracted me, but, whatever, shut up with your earth logic.
In an attempt to guilt myself into upping that word count, here are some snippets of fic I am in the middle of writing, or just haven't finished yet. Er. Look how I magnificently procrastinate by talking about how I procrastinate! It's a skill.
Big Bang; Holmes/Watson:
They have a brief and vicious argument about what constitutes a necessity, glaring each other down over the counter at the bar. Holmes seems to think that bringing most of the alcohol on the premises with them would be a topping idea, while Watson, thinking of the weight of the bags and how little they are really going to be able to bear between simply the two of them, tries to pare his selection down.
They settle the matter quickly, neither of them particularly wanting to fight in the noiseless inn. They are the only source of movement. Every so often, the wind, still searching for something lost outside, bangs a shutter against a wall, a tile off a roof, and they both jump and both pretend otherwise.
By the time they have filled two hefty knapsacks and a couple of actual sacks, found by rummaging through the oddly organised basement, it is getting dark outside. Watson realises, staring out through the frosted glass in the main door, that it never really got light.
We'll set off in the morning, then, Holmes says, coming to Watson's side.
All right, Watson replies, and they watch the night creep in over the cobbles of the street outside.
some SPN thing:
Dean barrels them both through the door of the crappy motel room, back curved under Sam's weight boneless and dragging across his shoulders. The plywood door ricochets off the wall and back into Dean; he swears and kicks it away. Sam groans, low and sick and pained, and Dean's fingers are wet and slipping in the blood-slick folds of Sam's shirt as he grips at Sam's left side, trying get them both inside and keep the door open and hold them both upright all at once.
"Dean," Sam gets out, even though his head keeps rolling right back on his neck like some kid's toy crushed from years of storage. "Dean."
"Fucking shut up," Dean says, and then, "Gonna be all right, Sammy, all right now."
It's not like there's much difference between the rooms they end up in on nights like these, minutes off the end of a hunt. Sweating or dripping rain on the questionably stained carpets, grinning from the high of adrenalin or coming down hard; two beds, a lamp, a dresser that they never need, a table for Sam's laptop, a counter, maybe, and a sink. Welcome to America; two beds and a bath. Dean could cross rooms like this blindfolded, roadside motels straining for quirky and just hitting tired, and he does, staggering a little because, fuck, that thing got his leg and Sammy's shoulder but Dean's the one whose eyes are still focusing tonight so he's the one dumping Sam unceremoniously on the bathroom floor without even trying to find a light.
tiny Dollhouse thing:
Topher is having a bad day, so Adelle sleeps in the pod next to his. It would be claustrophobic even without being covered over, but then nowadays everywhere feels too small. There are too many people in what little space they have to share.
Adelle falls asleep listening to Topher muttering to himself, and behind closed eyes, in a weary mind, it sounds just like a lullaby.
Caspian/Dorian Gray idek:
"You don't age," Caspian tells him, tracing the curve of Dorian's jaw with battle-rough fingers.
"No," Dorian agrees.
"Why is that?" Caspian props himself up on one elbow, the white sheet falling off his shoulder. Dorian slips it back over him: it is a cold night. Caspian smiles up at him. "It's not that cold."
"It is to me."
"I was brought up here. It's practically balmy."
Spooks; Adam/Lucas:
Adam reappears the next day, when Lucas is in a meeting with Harry and Ros. He looks up from the sheaf of paper in front of him to see Adam standing just behind Ros. He looks - wistful, Lucas would think, if anyone in this line of work ever softened enough for nostalgia, but as it is, it's probably more like regret, because that's something the spooks are familiar with.
Spooks. Adam's a dead spy. Everything about this situation is ridiculous. Lucas resolutely ignores Adam for as long as he can, which is until Harry leaves the room, and Adam leans in close, whispering at Lucas' jawline, "Just because you won't look me doesn't mean I'm not here."
"Can everyone see you, or is that a special treat for me?" asks Lucas, voice low. He is trying to decide whether he can feel Adam's breath as he laughs, appreciatively amused.
"I don't know," says Adam. "Do you want to be the only one who can see me?"
"I'd like to know what part of my mind crawled out and died on me if you're what it's come up with," mutters Lucas, getting to his feet.
'What if I'm real?" asks Adam, following him out of the room. "What if the paranormal and the supernatural and the afterlife, all that crap people believe in to make them feel better about high-stress jobs or their own, desperate mortality, what if it's real and I'm the proof?"
"Won't do me much good," Lucas says, moving his mouth as little as he can as he walks back to his desk, like he's got an earpiece in and he's trying not to show it. Like he's got a ghost in his head and he's trying not to seem crazier than eight years in a Russian cell would allow, although, granted, Lucas knows he could probably get away with a shit-load of bizarre behaviour and put it down to PTSD, for the blindingly obvious reason that he probably does have PTSD, but this is something he prefers not to dwell on.
"Why's that, then?" Adam presses, and either Lucas' imagination has really been kicked up a notch since he's been back in England or Adam really is some visitor from the Other Side, because he could swear that the files on his desk shiver open in a sudden draft, only the air is still, and warm, and nothing else has moved.
"I've died before, too," says Lucas, "and there sure as hell weren't any pearly gates waiting around for me." His hands tremble, once, unbidden; he folds his fingers together briefly before reaching for a pen, concentrating on the movement and not on his heart re-starting, or being jolted back into his body when he was so sure it had all been over, or, sickeningly, wishing it had.
"Didn't stick though, did it?" says Adam. He sounds very close to Lucas' ear. Lucas doesn't turn to acknowledge him.
"Never does," he says.
"Handy, that," says Adam, and then he has gone, again, and Lucas is left with only a desk of highly classified information in a less than useful heap, and a pen he's clutching hard enough to break for company.
Havemercy; Hal/Royston:
"Yes, Hal," Royston says, with, he feels, the patience of a saint. "Books are good, I've heard. We all love the books. What I'm interested in here is whether you embrace food with as much alacrity as you do the written word. Have you eaten today?"
Hal thinks for a moment. The book slips a little lower down in his hands. "I don't think so," he says, finally. "I mean, I've been busy. It was silly really, I couldn't find a certain book I needed, and it turned out it had been shelved in the wrong place, can you believe it? I think it's amazing that any of those books are in the right place, actually, there's so many of them, can you imagine working there, and, er, why are you looking at me like that?"
Royston finds himself caught between a fond sort of frustration, the persistent nagging worry that Hal should be taking better care of himself, or, indeed, that he himself should be taking better care of Hal, and the disbelief that someone so intelligent could so vastly overlook one of the main human needs for so long. It is at this point that he realises his face may be betraying more of his inner dialogue than he had thought, which cannot be a pleasant sight, as his inner dialogue is currently making a noise which sounds suspiciously close to 'ernglwhfff'. This is neither a word nor a useful sentiment, and is something he hopes not to have cause to think again.
Regeneration/Life on Mars, whut:
Sam leans his forearm against the cold white wall, leans his forehead against his arm, and tries, desperately, not to cry. Eyes closed, in a sort of self-created vacuum with a complete absence of light and a rushing in his ears, he does hear footsteps behind him, but he ignores them. A nurse, he supposes, or one of the doctors, and it's not like anyone working here would bat an eyelid at a man in an army uniform looking out of place and miserable in the corridors. Except - except the pace is too regimented for a doctor and too heavy for a nurse, and whoever it is comes to an abrupt, considering halt close enough to Sam that his left side actually prickles with the nearness of it all, and there is a brief pause.
Then the someone puts their hand on Sam's shoulder, fingers digging in tight and authoritative, and a voice says, "Come on."
"What?" Sam says, rudely, but then he does think he's got reason to be rude. He turns his head to look halfway over his shoulder: he can make out the shape of a man with a strong build, and, possibly more surprisingly, his dull army-coloured uniform, which Sam should really just start recognising as an army uniform and be done with it, if only that didn't mean recognising where he really was along with it.
"Come on," the man says again, and pulls gently on Sam's shoulder, indicating that Sam should follow him, and Sam, because there doesn't seem to be much else for him to do, does.
Merlin; Arthur/Merlin:
"Oh, Merlin," says Gwen, with a judgmentally pitying look on her face.
"What?" he snaps back: he is really getting a bit sick of everyone assuming they know something he doesn't - because they just don't - and, really, this apparent surge in omniscience in Camelot could have come at any other time and been massively less irritating. Any other time when Arthur was still deigning to talk to him, that is, and who knew Merlin would actually miss being told that he was terrible at his job?
Gwen shifts the basket of laundry she's holding onto her other hip, and seems to reconsider what she was about to say. Instead, she says, "You really should talk to him, you know."
"Yeah," Merlin says, trying not to sound bitter, "because that always goes so well."
Criminal Minds; Reid/Morgan:
The plane ride back is a long one: there's some sort of weather problem, apparently, and they have to circle the airport for much longer that Morgan would really like. Everyone seems resigned to this, and nearly everyone is asleep, or dozing. Hotch is still frowning down at paperwork under a dimmed light in the chair at the back, obviously trying not to keep anyone else awake, but he needn't bother - they're all used, now, to sleeping in awkward conditions.
Morgan has his head turned to the window but all he can see is his own reflection against the night outside, and the rest of the cabin distorted around him in the glass. He'll only have to drive home when they eventually land, and he runs better on no sleep than he does on very little. He's on the chairs opposite the sofa, keeping half an eye on Reid. Reid is curled up, sleeping on his side, and Morgan is sort of sprawling out into the aisle between the couch and his chair. He could say this was to make sure Reid wasn't physically isolated, that Morgan himself was worrying so much about Reid that he felt compelled to bridge the space between them, but then again, what Morgan would say is that he's got long legs and there's a lot more room in the aisle than if he tried to fit his whole body into his chair.
Just then, Reid startles awake, bolting almost upright. He's staring around with the disorientation of someone still mostly asleep but the fear in his eyes is real enough; Morgan can see it even in the soft light in the cabin.
Hotch glances over. He catches Morgan's eye, nods for him to go to Reid. Morgan thinks this might be mildly insulting to Reid, to be treated like an infant awaking from a nightmare - and god knows Reid doesn't take kindly to thinking he's being mollycoddled - but Morgan gets up and sits next to him anyway.
"Reid," he says, and Reid swings round to face him, not quite focusing in on him. Morgan says, in the redundancy born of habitually trying not to pry, "You all right?"
Reid's eyes are wide, but he presses his lips together into a thin line and nods, slowly, like he's trying to convince himself, or like he's just waking up. He blinks.
"Yeah," he says. He ducks his head, embarrassed. "Yeah, I'm fine. It was just - "
"Don't apologise," Morgan says, letting his voice dip low and serious. "Everyone has nightmares."
Reid nods again. He wraps his arms around himself, reaching on to opposite elbows. "Hotch looks busy," he says, finally. It is a paper-thin attempt to change the subject, but Morgan humours him.
"When doesn't Hotch look busy?"
"When he's asleep?" Reid ventures.
"Don't be ridiculous," Morgan says, grinning. "Hotch doesn't sleep."
Reid smiles too, in the slightly reluctant way he gets when he's laughing at someone else's expense.
Supernatural; eventual Dean/Castiel:
It's fairly straightforward to get them two rooms for the night. When Dean raises a ridiculous eyebrow at him, and goes, "Dude, what?" because, Sam doesn't even know, his brother's conversational prowess is still the level of a small boy who grew up surrounded by frankly unbelievable levels of machismo and terrible male role models and also porn, Sam just goes, "Look, man, sometimes I just need a bit of time away from you. You know," and then he has to turn away so that Dean can't see him totally crack up, "me-time."
"Me-time," Dean repeats, with his typical levels of sensitivity regarding concepts he himself does not believe in. He slaps Sam on the back, apparently having taken Sam's inability to get through this conversation with laughing in Dean's face as Sam being overcome with emotion or some shit like that. "Whatever. If you wanted to get down with your bad self, you could just have said. I'd have gone out for pizza or something."
"That's not the point," Sam retorts, and lets the disgust creep into his voice, because what is even wrong with Dean, and, also, ew. Great. Now every time he jerks off or something all he's going to be able to hear is Dean going, "Pizzaaaaaa," like he does every time they order in and always thinks he's being funny and original, and then the mood will be killed and Sam is going to be stuck on a road trip through the apocalypse with a serious case of self-induced celibacy. Goddamn.
Dean raises his eyebrows a bit more, and Sam manfully does not thump his stupid knowing face into the wall. Sam was going to be a lawyer and now all he can come up with is that Dean has a stupid face. Jesus. Dean totally deserves to be on the tail end of any and all pranks Sam can come up with.
ENOUGH PROCRASTINATION, SELF.
In an attempt to guilt myself into upping that word count, here are some snippets of fic I am in the middle of writing, or just haven't finished yet. Er. Look how I magnificently procrastinate by talking about how I procrastinate! It's a skill.
Big Bang; Holmes/Watson:
They have a brief and vicious argument about what constitutes a necessity, glaring each other down over the counter at the bar. Holmes seems to think that bringing most of the alcohol on the premises with them would be a topping idea, while Watson, thinking of the weight of the bags and how little they are really going to be able to bear between simply the two of them, tries to pare his selection down.
They settle the matter quickly, neither of them particularly wanting to fight in the noiseless inn. They are the only source of movement. Every so often, the wind, still searching for something lost outside, bangs a shutter against a wall, a tile off a roof, and they both jump and both pretend otherwise.
By the time they have filled two hefty knapsacks and a couple of actual sacks, found by rummaging through the oddly organised basement, it is getting dark outside. Watson realises, staring out through the frosted glass in the main door, that it never really got light.
We'll set off in the morning, then, Holmes says, coming to Watson's side.
All right, Watson replies, and they watch the night creep in over the cobbles of the street outside.
some SPN thing:
Dean barrels them both through the door of the crappy motel room, back curved under Sam's weight boneless and dragging across his shoulders. The plywood door ricochets off the wall and back into Dean; he swears and kicks it away. Sam groans, low and sick and pained, and Dean's fingers are wet and slipping in the blood-slick folds of Sam's shirt as he grips at Sam's left side, trying get them both inside and keep the door open and hold them both upright all at once.
"Dean," Sam gets out, even though his head keeps rolling right back on his neck like some kid's toy crushed from years of storage. "Dean."
"Fucking shut up," Dean says, and then, "Gonna be all right, Sammy, all right now."
It's not like there's much difference between the rooms they end up in on nights like these, minutes off the end of a hunt. Sweating or dripping rain on the questionably stained carpets, grinning from the high of adrenalin or coming down hard; two beds, a lamp, a dresser that they never need, a table for Sam's laptop, a counter, maybe, and a sink. Welcome to America; two beds and a bath. Dean could cross rooms like this blindfolded, roadside motels straining for quirky and just hitting tired, and he does, staggering a little because, fuck, that thing got his leg and Sammy's shoulder but Dean's the one whose eyes are still focusing tonight so he's the one dumping Sam unceremoniously on the bathroom floor without even trying to find a light.
tiny Dollhouse thing:
Topher is having a bad day, so Adelle sleeps in the pod next to his. It would be claustrophobic even without being covered over, but then nowadays everywhere feels too small. There are too many people in what little space they have to share.
Adelle falls asleep listening to Topher muttering to himself, and behind closed eyes, in a weary mind, it sounds just like a lullaby.
Caspian/Dorian Gray idek:
"You don't age," Caspian tells him, tracing the curve of Dorian's jaw with battle-rough fingers.
"No," Dorian agrees.
"Why is that?" Caspian props himself up on one elbow, the white sheet falling off his shoulder. Dorian slips it back over him: it is a cold night. Caspian smiles up at him. "It's not that cold."
"It is to me."
"I was brought up here. It's practically balmy."
Spooks; Adam/Lucas:
Adam reappears the next day, when Lucas is in a meeting with Harry and Ros. He looks up from the sheaf of paper in front of him to see Adam standing just behind Ros. He looks - wistful, Lucas would think, if anyone in this line of work ever softened enough for nostalgia, but as it is, it's probably more like regret, because that's something the spooks are familiar with.
Spooks. Adam's a dead spy. Everything about this situation is ridiculous. Lucas resolutely ignores Adam for as long as he can, which is until Harry leaves the room, and Adam leans in close, whispering at Lucas' jawline, "Just because you won't look me doesn't mean I'm not here."
"Can everyone see you, or is that a special treat for me?" asks Lucas, voice low. He is trying to decide whether he can feel Adam's breath as he laughs, appreciatively amused.
"I don't know," says Adam. "Do you want to be the only one who can see me?"
"I'd like to know what part of my mind crawled out and died on me if you're what it's come up with," mutters Lucas, getting to his feet.
'What if I'm real?" asks Adam, following him out of the room. "What if the paranormal and the supernatural and the afterlife, all that crap people believe in to make them feel better about high-stress jobs or their own, desperate mortality, what if it's real and I'm the proof?"
"Won't do me much good," Lucas says, moving his mouth as little as he can as he walks back to his desk, like he's got an earpiece in and he's trying not to show it. Like he's got a ghost in his head and he's trying not to seem crazier than eight years in a Russian cell would allow, although, granted, Lucas knows he could probably get away with a shit-load of bizarre behaviour and put it down to PTSD, for the blindingly obvious reason that he probably does have PTSD, but this is something he prefers not to dwell on.
"Why's that, then?" Adam presses, and either Lucas' imagination has really been kicked up a notch since he's been back in England or Adam really is some visitor from the Other Side, because he could swear that the files on his desk shiver open in a sudden draft, only the air is still, and warm, and nothing else has moved.
"I've died before, too," says Lucas, "and there sure as hell weren't any pearly gates waiting around for me." His hands tremble, once, unbidden; he folds his fingers together briefly before reaching for a pen, concentrating on the movement and not on his heart re-starting, or being jolted back into his body when he was so sure it had all been over, or, sickeningly, wishing it had.
"Didn't stick though, did it?" says Adam. He sounds very close to Lucas' ear. Lucas doesn't turn to acknowledge him.
"Never does," he says.
"Handy, that," says Adam, and then he has gone, again, and Lucas is left with only a desk of highly classified information in a less than useful heap, and a pen he's clutching hard enough to break for company.
Havemercy; Hal/Royston:
"Yes, Hal," Royston says, with, he feels, the patience of a saint. "Books are good, I've heard. We all love the books. What I'm interested in here is whether you embrace food with as much alacrity as you do the written word. Have you eaten today?"
Hal thinks for a moment. The book slips a little lower down in his hands. "I don't think so," he says, finally. "I mean, I've been busy. It was silly really, I couldn't find a certain book I needed, and it turned out it had been shelved in the wrong place, can you believe it? I think it's amazing that any of those books are in the right place, actually, there's so many of them, can you imagine working there, and, er, why are you looking at me like that?"
Royston finds himself caught between a fond sort of frustration, the persistent nagging worry that Hal should be taking better care of himself, or, indeed, that he himself should be taking better care of Hal, and the disbelief that someone so intelligent could so vastly overlook one of the main human needs for so long. It is at this point that he realises his face may be betraying more of his inner dialogue than he had thought, which cannot be a pleasant sight, as his inner dialogue is currently making a noise which sounds suspiciously close to 'ernglwhfff'. This is neither a word nor a useful sentiment, and is something he hopes not to have cause to think again.
Regeneration/Life on Mars, whut:
Sam leans his forearm against the cold white wall, leans his forehead against his arm, and tries, desperately, not to cry. Eyes closed, in a sort of self-created vacuum with a complete absence of light and a rushing in his ears, he does hear footsteps behind him, but he ignores them. A nurse, he supposes, or one of the doctors, and it's not like anyone working here would bat an eyelid at a man in an army uniform looking out of place and miserable in the corridors. Except - except the pace is too regimented for a doctor and too heavy for a nurse, and whoever it is comes to an abrupt, considering halt close enough to Sam that his left side actually prickles with the nearness of it all, and there is a brief pause.
Then the someone puts their hand on Sam's shoulder, fingers digging in tight and authoritative, and a voice says, "Come on."
"What?" Sam says, rudely, but then he does think he's got reason to be rude. He turns his head to look halfway over his shoulder: he can make out the shape of a man with a strong build, and, possibly more surprisingly, his dull army-coloured uniform, which Sam should really just start recognising as an army uniform and be done with it, if only that didn't mean recognising where he really was along with it.
"Come on," the man says again, and pulls gently on Sam's shoulder, indicating that Sam should follow him, and Sam, because there doesn't seem to be much else for him to do, does.
Merlin; Arthur/Merlin:
"Oh, Merlin," says Gwen, with a judgmentally pitying look on her face.
"What?" he snaps back: he is really getting a bit sick of everyone assuming they know something he doesn't - because they just don't - and, really, this apparent surge in omniscience in Camelot could have come at any other time and been massively less irritating. Any other time when Arthur was still deigning to talk to him, that is, and who knew Merlin would actually miss being told that he was terrible at his job?
Gwen shifts the basket of laundry she's holding onto her other hip, and seems to reconsider what she was about to say. Instead, she says, "You really should talk to him, you know."
"Yeah," Merlin says, trying not to sound bitter, "because that always goes so well."
Criminal Minds; Reid/Morgan:
The plane ride back is a long one: there's some sort of weather problem, apparently, and they have to circle the airport for much longer that Morgan would really like. Everyone seems resigned to this, and nearly everyone is asleep, or dozing. Hotch is still frowning down at paperwork under a dimmed light in the chair at the back, obviously trying not to keep anyone else awake, but he needn't bother - they're all used, now, to sleeping in awkward conditions.
Morgan has his head turned to the window but all he can see is his own reflection against the night outside, and the rest of the cabin distorted around him in the glass. He'll only have to drive home when they eventually land, and he runs better on no sleep than he does on very little. He's on the chairs opposite the sofa, keeping half an eye on Reid. Reid is curled up, sleeping on his side, and Morgan is sort of sprawling out into the aisle between the couch and his chair. He could say this was to make sure Reid wasn't physically isolated, that Morgan himself was worrying so much about Reid that he felt compelled to bridge the space between them, but then again, what Morgan would say is that he's got long legs and there's a lot more room in the aisle than if he tried to fit his whole body into his chair.
Just then, Reid startles awake, bolting almost upright. He's staring around with the disorientation of someone still mostly asleep but the fear in his eyes is real enough; Morgan can see it even in the soft light in the cabin.
Hotch glances over. He catches Morgan's eye, nods for him to go to Reid. Morgan thinks this might be mildly insulting to Reid, to be treated like an infant awaking from a nightmare - and god knows Reid doesn't take kindly to thinking he's being mollycoddled - but Morgan gets up and sits next to him anyway.
"Reid," he says, and Reid swings round to face him, not quite focusing in on him. Morgan says, in the redundancy born of habitually trying not to pry, "You all right?"
Reid's eyes are wide, but he presses his lips together into a thin line and nods, slowly, like he's trying to convince himself, or like he's just waking up. He blinks.
"Yeah," he says. He ducks his head, embarrassed. "Yeah, I'm fine. It was just - "
"Don't apologise," Morgan says, letting his voice dip low and serious. "Everyone has nightmares."
Reid nods again. He wraps his arms around himself, reaching on to opposite elbows. "Hotch looks busy," he says, finally. It is a paper-thin attempt to change the subject, but Morgan humours him.
"When doesn't Hotch look busy?"
"When he's asleep?" Reid ventures.
"Don't be ridiculous," Morgan says, grinning. "Hotch doesn't sleep."
Reid smiles too, in the slightly reluctant way he gets when he's laughing at someone else's expense.
Supernatural; eventual Dean/Castiel:
It's fairly straightforward to get them two rooms for the night. When Dean raises a ridiculous eyebrow at him, and goes, "Dude, what?" because, Sam doesn't even know, his brother's conversational prowess is still the level of a small boy who grew up surrounded by frankly unbelievable levels of machismo and terrible male role models and also porn, Sam just goes, "Look, man, sometimes I just need a bit of time away from you. You know," and then he has to turn away so that Dean can't see him totally crack up, "me-time."
"Me-time," Dean repeats, with his typical levels of sensitivity regarding concepts he himself does not believe in. He slaps Sam on the back, apparently having taken Sam's inability to get through this conversation with laughing in Dean's face as Sam being overcome with emotion or some shit like that. "Whatever. If you wanted to get down with your bad self, you could just have said. I'd have gone out for pizza or something."
"That's not the point," Sam retorts, and lets the disgust creep into his voice, because what is even wrong with Dean, and, also, ew. Great. Now every time he jerks off or something all he's going to be able to hear is Dean going, "Pizzaaaaaa," like he does every time they order in and always thinks he's being funny and original, and then the mood will be killed and Sam is going to be stuck on a road trip through the apocalypse with a serious case of self-induced celibacy. Goddamn.
Dean raises his eyebrows a bit more, and Sam manfully does not thump his stupid knowing face into the wall. Sam was going to be a lawyer and now all he can come up with is that Dean has a stupid face. Jesus. Dean totally deserves to be on the tail end of any and all pranks Sam can come up with.
ENOUGH PROCRASTINATION, SELF.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-06-08 08:46 pm (UTC)I am excited for your BB even though I am not involved in the Sherlock Holmes fandom (and only have a cursory knowledge of the novels, as I have never read them) and you need to finish those SPN things. (AFTER BIG BANG.)
Um, your description of motel rooms is eerily similar to the opening of my Big Bang (OH MY GOD YOU ARE CAUGHT UP, YOU CAN BETA MY FIC AT SOME POINT, YAAAY!). Then again, describing motel rooms is sort of a status quo in SPN fic.
...all he's going to be able to hear is Dean going, "Pizzaaaaaa," like he does every time they order in and always thinks he's being funny and original Bwahaha this is so DEAN. XD
no subject
Date: 2010-06-10 12:45 am (UTC)I am excited to be writing a BB! It is sort of consuming my face at the moment, but that ridiculous Sam-sets-up-Dean-and-Cas-for-the-lulz keeps sneaking bits out also. Hmm hmm hmm.
(I AM CAUGHT UP! I never thought this day would come, there seemed like too much show.)
OH MY GOD, this is an actual genuine problem in my life: Dean/Cas has literally splammed me so much I don't even know what to do about it. Where did this retarded amount of love for this ship come from? What do I do about it other than read ass
butttons of fic? WHY HAVE I GONE SO WRONG etc etc etc. Was there a moment for you in the show when you realised this ship had sent you wrong? There is a legit moment in 99 Problems that I can pinpoint as the second I went HO SHIT I MAY HAVE AN OTP ISSUE ON MY HANDS.Oh god, I shouldn't leave comments this late at night, I am v sorry for the added amount of lunacy. Here, have an exceptionally distracting icon to distract from this word vomit.
no subject
Date: 2010-06-10 04:51 am (UTC)So yeah, I'm weird. It's not like in Havemercy when Royston saw Hal for the first time, what with Hal's adorable distractedness and the book under his arm, when I was all HOLY SHIT UH OH I MAY HAVE A 'SHIP, HERE and then, as you know, ROYSTON WAS BESOTTED AND IT ALL WENT BEYOND MY WILDEST DREAMMMS. Okay, my wildest dreams are probably wilder than that, BUT STILL.
Wow, random, sorry. Point is, becoming a Dean/Cas fan was an 'Oh FINE, I give up! Give me the sacrilege!" kind of thing rather than an OTP crisis. :)
no subject
Date: 2010-06-08 11:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-06-10 12:46 am (UTC)STILL CAPSWORTHY: YOU ARE A GENUINE GENIUS.