I left work early (got home at 7), but still managed not to get any trick-or-treaters last night, even though I totally bought the good stuff - Snickers and Milky Ways. Man, I feel a "Fight the Future" coming up, and even though I see the danger clearly, I don't know if I'll be able to resist. Curses!
So, I'm doing NaNo this year, and I'm posting the first snippet here. This story will eventually be NC-17 and involve both het and slash (but not Wincest).
Also, for purposes of the next snippet, can anyone tell me when exactly Dean made the deal in AHBL II? I mean, month and day, if possible?
Sam doesn't exactly wake up, but he kind of regains focus, and just a couple of minutes before Dean slides back into consciousness for the first time in three days. Sam had planned it all precisely, but he hadn't counted on Dean's protests, on having to silence Dean and subdue him, and there'd been a lingering, horrifying doubt somewhere in the back of his mind that Dean was faking, was laying low just until he could roll from his possum-belly to his back the moment Sam's attention was caught by something else, and take to his feet to wander off to the crossroads to honor his deal. But Dean apparently really hadn't been expecting Sam to do more than say a few pretty words, and he'd gone down, obligingly, like a ton of bricks when Sam hit him with everything he could muster.
Dean's eyes flutter open slowly, and after one sweeping look all around at the panorama of the desert landscape and a quick check of the time and date on the cell phone pulled from his pocket, Dean fixes his gaze on a spot somewhere in the vicinity of Sam's left shoulder. "Toss me the keys," Dean says, leaving off the "and don't touch me," but Sam hears it anyway and obliges him by launching them in a silver arc. Dean's fingers tighten briefly around them, knuckles white, and he hauls himself to his feet, cracks his necks from side to side, and walks stiffly to the car, boots obliterating the soft lines in the sand from where Sam had dragged his limp body out there.
The sight of Dean stomping determinedly along cracks the tight bands of iron that have bound Sam down for a year, ever since Dean made his deal like the only consequence of importance was getting Sam's eyes to open. He lets out a whoop, a roar of savage triumph, and trails his brother back to the car, watching with a frighteningly intense pride Dean's fiercely upright form. He did that, saved his brother from death and hell, and now nothing can take him away.
It's a little anti-climactic that Dean's destination of choice is a dollar store. Not surprising, though, not when he really thinks about it. Dollar stores seem to spring up wherever Dean needs one, cheap fixes, places to find toiletries and snacks, little things he can MacGuyver into weapons or amusements. He trails Dean through the store, watching as Dean scoops up a tiny bottle of mouthwash, a box of Cheez-Its, and a king-size Reese's peanut butter cup sleeve; all standard choices for breaking a three-day fast, all guaranteed to turn Dean's tongue green and then orange. He's not expecting Dean to detour into the stationery aisle and stand quizzically in front of the journals and packets of loose-leaf refills, all wide-ruled and not college-ruled. "Dean?" he starts to ask, concerned that Dean's zoning out in front of pens and paper instead of tearing open the food and bringing the empty packets up to the counter with an apologetic, orange smile and a couple of dollar bills in his hand. Dean ignores him, or maybe doesn't even hear him, and starts forward when he finally finds what he's been looking for. Quick as a flash, it goes under his arm, and then Dean's heading for the counter, already unscrewing the ribbed plastic top off the little bottle of mouthwash, slamming it back and gargling while the dark-eyed girl behind the counter laughs and fishes out a plastic bag for his purchases. Dean holds up a finger, runs outside to spit, and comes back, pulling the last item from under his arm; the girl's already scooped up and thrown out the bottle and cap, has bagged the snacks. Finally Sam can see what Dean was looking for, the thickness of a one-subject notebook, black pebbly cover and no ornamentation, just numbers and letters picked out in gold; it's a five-year planner.
It's a little weird, frankly, for Dean not to share, not to put the snacks somewhere they could both reach them, but Sam's stomach is rebelling anyway, too used to being tied up in knots to crave anything solid. Water, maybe, alcohol definitely, but nothing else is going to go down and stay down. Dean's hunched over the Impala's closed trunk, one hand on Dad's journal and a pen in the other; he's chewing absent-mindedly at his lower lip while he jots things down in the planner. After each entry he makes, he takes a second to snag some food, popping peanut butter cups into his mouth whole and tossing and catching little sharp crackers with ease.
Sam feels like his brain has come unstuck when he finally figures out what Dean is up to. Every entry that Dad made in his journal that came with a timeline - "every seven years," "only appears on blue moon nights," "April of leap years" - is being entered into the new planner, filling little white squares with neat rows of black ink, making them look like patchwork whenever Dean flips pages forwards or backwards. This is different than the vague plans Dean's been throwing out all year, the false bravado of "after the Grand Canyon, and after the hellhounds, Sammy, you could go anywhere - California, an Ivy, whatever, just finish school. You're not a dropout." This is Dean believing that he has a future, that Sam has restored the years he desperately traded away. Sam's blood sings at the thought of the hunt, days and weeks of being in the car beside his brother, and he only wishes that Dean had found a ten-year planner instead.
946 / 50,000