fannishliss | Entries tagged with #000000

Thanks very much to the lovely folks at spn-bigpretzel for this drabble challenge. I wrote 17 drabbles in all (my goal was 14). :D

~Jody loves her house~

Even after everything, Jody has never considered selling the house. She remembers the first walk-through so clearly, when she and Sean fell in love with the place. She remembers choking and laughing through streaming tears when the flue didn’t work the first time they tried to use the fireplace. She remembers the precious love they made later, the roar of flames perfectly stoked. She remembers painting Owen’s room robin’s egg blue, love and hope devolving to heartbreak. She’s so glad now, the house is full of life again, girls becoming powerful women in the home she’ll fight to keep.

~wards~

Bobby Singer taught Jody all he knew about warding a home. She never knew such things existed, or rather, she regarded it as pleasant folklore or harmless superstition. Now she would never consider closing the year without tacking holly over every windowsill, or passing a cross-quarter day without smudging. She invited Father Christopher every year to bless the house, painted salt onto every sill, inscribed dozens of holy names round and round the house, Enochian and hoodoo inked onto every lintel, cold iron and silver blades ready to hand in every room. Bobby’s legacy means the world to Jody.

~Jody loves her job~

Jody Mills loves being Sheriff. Fighting monsters is something she does on her own time, but her everyday job entails bringing law and order to Minnehaha County. She checks in on the folks in rehab, the kids in juvenile detention, learns their names and their stories, and works hard to help them stay on the straight and narrow once they get out. Bobby Singer may have been a drunk, but he was so much more. So aren’t they all. Jody knows now just how many horror stories are true, and she’s ready with a listening ear and a warm gun.

~the firing range~

The women head out to the firing range for rest and relaxation, honing their skills side by side. Earmuffs in place, they fire round after round, accurate, deadly. It’s not competition between them, just a rare sisterhood in hitting the target, switching from pistol to rifle to shotgun, hand, eye, and body all working in harmony, talent, hard work and determination making them who they are. Back at the house, Jody and Donna lay out the weapons, supervising as the girls break down, clean, oil, and reassemble. The women are in it together, expert at every weapon in their arsenal.

~the world~

Castiel stood for thousands of years, a Watcher, a task no human could endure. But Castiel was made that way, glorying in all of his Father’s Creation, glorying in his blessed task of watching. Waves, clouds, wind in leaves, every minuscule grain of sand was miraculous to Castiel, showing forth God’s glory into Castiel’s many worshipful eyes. Castiel was reassigned, remade as a warrior of the Lord, but he never forgot how to see the wonder in every aspect of all his Father had made, all the Lord had proclaimed was good in the waters, on earth, beneath the heavens.

~places of worship~

Castiel loves alcoves. In a phone booth, rare as they are these days, one may stand, receiver held to one’s ear, watching the world hurry past. Castiel loves the darkest rear seat in a dive bar, benches in parks and at bus stops, corners where almsgivers drop their spare change into the begging cup. Castiel has been the one in need, many times now; he knows what it is to be seen or unseen, to be loved or uncared for. Castiel loves the opportunity for benison, for succor, for redemption. Castiel loves a quiet chapel, whenever, wherever it may appear.

~playgrounds~

Castiel loves a swing set. There’s a reason Angels build gateways to Heaven on playgrounds (not just that the sandbox makes a convenient staging ground for the transmigration mandala). The rocking cradle meditation of a swing set awakens children’s innocent insight: they remember the power of flight inscribed on the deepest part of the human soul. Children throw all the strength of their whole bodies into that urge to soar, to transcend the limitations of physical laws. Every child knows, deep down: it is possible to swing that hard, to go all the way up. Castiel’s been, and can confirm.

~a room of his own~

That robe hanging on the back of the door, maybe used to be some dead guy’s robe, but it’s Dean’s robe now. Those are his boots by the door, his clothes in the closet, his secret undies in the bureau. His beat-up paperbacks, porno mags, blankets, weapons, memory foam, Those are his empties, waiting for recycling. Everything in this room belongs to Dean, not just the creased and faded snaps of Mom and Dad and Sammy on the wall. That’s his stereo, his LPs (not John’s, not Mary’s). He’s not putting anybody out. It’s been a long time coming.

~Dean’s cassettes~

Dean never plays his cassettes anymore. Some he bought or copied, but most are mixes John and Mary made for each other. It kills Dean when the tape snaps or stretches out or spools into loops and wears away for the last time, the old LP pops lost forever, his parents’ overdubs memorex no more. Sam finally convinced Dean to digitize the tapes, and it seems so bizarre that the whole box of tapes, so monumental, so treasured, fits on his phone. When Mary came back, Dean showed her the tapes, let her pick whatever mix she wanted to hear.

~running shoes~

Sam gets up and ties on his shoes, no matter how tired he is, no matter how much effort it takes or how pitiful running feels compared to the problems he and Dean face. Sam and Dean have coffers of gold, now, lying in gleaming piles down in the Bunker’s deepest vaults. Sam never thought he’d be rich, but like every kid, he dreamed: beaches, parties, beautiful girls. It’s the little things, though: fresh food in the bunker kitchen, new running shoes when he needs them, beer and ammo and magazines for Dean. Sam thanks his forebears for small favors.

~diner salad~

If Sam never eats another Slim Jim in his life it will be too soon. Cheetos, Doritos, Combos, pork rinds, pretzels, even popcorn, Sam is sick of it all. Even M&Ms and Snickers have lost their appeal. After years on the road, Sam wants nothing more than the crunch of something that once had roots in the ground. That’s all he asks. Even some cut up iceberg lettuce strewn with shredded ham and American cheese. Even styrofoam tomatoes or bitter cucumbers. Anything Sam can loosely define as a vegetable satisfies so much more than any bag of processed crap.

~Ruby’s knife~

Ruby never lied, not really. She served her god as best she could, tried to do right as she saw it. She believed Sam was the chosen one, her kind’s messiah. Sam can’t blame her for any of that. He is grateful, though, for the knife — the Kurdish knife, one of a kind, that kills demons. It killed Ruby. So, in Sam’s head, it maybe comes close to even: the gift of a knife, the ending of a demon life. Whenever he wields it, he’s back there, with her warm lips, her blood, and the twisted love in her eyes.

~Sam’s best spellbook~

You might say, Sam Winchester can kill you with his brain. Inside Sam’s head are spellbooks, lexicons, bestiaries, grimoires, tomes of Latin, Enochian, Akkadian, Hebraic, Solomon’s keys, witches’ alphabets, hoodoo jingles. He always loved ancient languages, but now, his understanding of a rare branch of Canaanite could mean life or death. Sam loves computers, good libraries, but he’s hardwired his own brain with all the knowledge he needs most. Even when Lucifer got in his noggin, shouting and wearing him down, Sam lived on. One of the most powerful spellbooks ever compiled is a living compendium inside Sam Winchester’s brain.

~Enochian~

Sam paints the flowing sigils of Enochian, the flat, incantatory syllables of the Angelic programming language ringing along in his mind. Sometimes Sam wonders why Angels are so basic. Why make such powerful immortal beings so simple and unsophisticated? Then he thinks of Castiel, who never stops struggling to understand more about humans and about his father’s Creation. Does every Angel wonder? Or is Castiel just buggy? Why did God make humans and Angels so easy to frag? Slapping a bloody hand against the banishing sigil, Sam’s just grateful right now it works. Maybe that was Chuck’s plan all along.

~the conference table~

Usually, he’s working too hard, poring over books he’s already sifted through a dozen times over, trying to save the world again, and yet again. Sometimes, though, they win, and Sam can relax, basking in the gleam of green-shaded lamps, soothed by the the air filters’ hushing lullabye, and the gleaming golden wood of the conference table seems almost to sing… how many of Sam’s own ancestors worked here, cross-referencing some of the same books Sam just reshelved? Sam sips his scotch, acknowledging his own place in the lineage, the something more he never thought he’d actually find.

I spent a week fighting the flu and now I'm mostly better.

Here is a drabble about something Sam loves. I'll be adding more drabbles to this page I hope!

~ meditation rug ~

After the fire, Sam had no clue how long Dean’s hunting trip was gonna take. The Moores went through her things and Sam stored what was left, what was singed, what was his. (John left lockers everywhere.)

Now, Sam’s gotten some of that life back. Art books, philosophy journals, crooked mugs with Jess’s initials scratched into the bottom, the meditation rug she embroidered with the sigils Sam compulsively marked around every door he’d ever slept behind. The rug smells a little like soot, but it’s soft against the bunker’s floor. Sam breathes deep and even, heart full of quiet gratitude.

~~~
I think we're supposed to keep adding drabbles to the same page, because spam! but anyway I had time for a second one:

( cut! this one's rated Adult :D )

Here is a Leverage fic I created for

summerstorm.dreamwidth.org . It stars Tara and Parker with a little bit of spark between the two of them, and is endgame OT3, Parker/Hardison/Eliot, but is rated PG.

=====

“You look great tonight,” Tara said to Parker, looking her right in the eyes.

Parker resisted the urge to look herself up and down. She was wearing black tights, of course, her favorite pair of low heeled black boots because of their excellent tread and water repellent qualities, and a black top. Okay, the top was maybe one that Sophie had picked out for her saying something like “feminine blah blah blah shoulders blah a little cleavage you know works wonders, Parker.”

Parker squinted suspiciously at Tara. “Thank you?” She tried not to upspeak but it was so confusing to have a grifter who was kind of on the team, kind of not on the team, and who was definitely not Sophie even though Sophie had promised Parker that she, Sophie, was not actually dead (usually people who were buried were dead but not, Parker had to admit, always), and that she, Tara, was a good friend of Sophie’s and that she, Parker, could trust her (Tara).

Tara continued to smile warmly with a bit too little blinking, and Parker continued to squint.

( Read more... )