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.fan at work: 3 snippets, art outtake of ridiculous cuteness (if I do say so myself)
Man, having ideas and no time/energy sucks ass. Here are three things I would be working on if I had the time and energy to do so, and a piece of art that I was originally doing with another purpose in mind but ended up being... this.
Time and materials
Futurefic that can't decide what the hell it wants to do. Right now it's a huge ball of mindless angst.
"Hey, hey, we're here."
Even though Dean was doing his best to whisper, his voice sounded way too loud in the deserted parking lot. The lights that picked out the motel's name, and the light from the lobby, only made the darkness more complete, and the silence out in the woods pressed in closer. With a quick glance at the lobby and its single, bored receptionist, Dean tried again.
"C'mon," he hissed, "wake up," but that didn't work either.
The Impala's dome light washed out Castiel's face to bloodlessness, and painted yellow shadows under his eyes. When he closed his palm around the unresponsive flesh under the blanket, only the slow warmth of Castiel's body told him life hid anywhere in that battered form. And under the blanket… Dean didn't want to think about that, only ran a finger down the side of Castiel's neck to check his pulse, the entirely human thump-thump of it that he couldn't bring himself to find reassuring.
"Guess I'll just check us in, then," he told Castiel's silent self, and went to do that.
SPN/Generation Kill fusion
In which Dean's family tradition is joining the Marines. Castiel is a translator attached to 1st Recon and, officially, Dean's responsibility. That's what Fick says, anyway.
Castiel doesn't eat, at least as far as Dean can tell. He comes to the mess tent a few times but picks at the food – not that Dean can blame him – and offers most of it to the other guys, although Dean gets first refusal on dessert. When he makes unobtrusive noises about it, Dude, you gotta eat – which he does only because he's got enough to worry about and doesn't need a malnourished translator to add to the mix – Castiel only gazes at him tranquilly and assures Dean that he's eaten enough.
Then there's the time when Castiel's wandering the camp and Dean sees him approaching a blind corner, the one a fully-loaded Rudy's barrelling toward. The turn is blind, and Dean has one of those car-wreck moments, knowing the inevitability of what's going to happen, with his voice locked up tight like it's fate and he can't stop it.
Rudy, all two hundred-plus pounds of muscle and a hundred pounds of pack, bounces off Castiel like he's run into the side of a tank.
Medieval AU thingy that will probably have a Latin title, because of how it's medieval
I've had this scene in my head for eons now. Slowly the rest of the story's starting to work itself out, but it's still driving me nuts.
The church closes around him, cold and silent, and the still air of the sanctuary tastes like stone. Slowly the echoes fade, the only sound his heart knocking against the wall of his chest, and a soft hushing sound, maybe the last of the storm wind shifting the altar cloths.
Dean takes one step further into the sanctuary, another. The sacristan doesn’t materialize, probably – if he has any sense – too terrified to stir from his small room. In any case, even though he knows the local tenants and the reeve come here, Dean can’t think of this place as anything other than abandoned.
He hasn’t set foot in this church since long before he’d left, but nothing’s changed since those days when he would stand by his mother’s side and drowse through Mass: the banks of candles and the dull glitter of their light in the candelabras, the smooth curve of the font’s marble basin. Shadows edge the carvings that twine, serpentine, around the columns, the folded and solemn robes of the family’s holy patrons: St. John, Mary Magdalene, St. George, St. Michael, and a nameless angel, its name erased by time or the careless artisans who came by.
Set high up in the walls, the windows feed the feeble moonlight through, and the thin, clawed shadows of fingers of the trees scratch uselessly at the stone. Dean drags his gaze from the heights down to the great paving stones, and the generations of Winchesters that lie underneath them.
As he walks, he studies the statues. St. John with his book, Mary Magdalene penitent. St. George crushes the serpent under his foot, and so does Michael, the dragon’s wing crumpling beneath him.
And in the final niche, the unnamed angel has stepped down from its pedestal, and is watching Dean from above the shelf of its wings.
.art: Roof! (an artfic outtake)
This is an outtake from another "Time and materials" project. It will probably not appear in the actual piece because what I want to do is completely different from this, but Cas kind of sneaked in there, sneaky trenchcoated angel. I have an inordinate fondness for Cas hanging out on the roof in fic, and I have kind of been wanting to see it in art for a while.
The premise, such as it is, is that after the war Dean and Sam are looking for a place to crash and maybe (just maybe) put down roots. Castiel goes house hunting for them, and Dean is kind of bemusedly dismayed at the place Cas has picked.
Trust Cas to find the
crappiest, most run-down
house in the state. Still,
it meets Cas's two
requirements:
tall
sturdy roof.
I've also been meaning to do something in color, for once. Har.
Time and materials
Futurefic that can't decide what the hell it wants to do. Right now it's a huge ball of mindless angst.
"Hey, hey, we're here."
Even though Dean was doing his best to whisper, his voice sounded way too loud in the deserted parking lot. The lights that picked out the motel's name, and the light from the lobby, only made the darkness more complete, and the silence out in the woods pressed in closer. With a quick glance at the lobby and its single, bored receptionist, Dean tried again.
"C'mon," he hissed, "wake up," but that didn't work either.
The Impala's dome light washed out Castiel's face to bloodlessness, and painted yellow shadows under his eyes. When he closed his palm around the unresponsive flesh under the blanket, only the slow warmth of Castiel's body told him life hid anywhere in that battered form. And under the blanket… Dean didn't want to think about that, only ran a finger down the side of Castiel's neck to check his pulse, the entirely human thump-thump of it that he couldn't bring himself to find reassuring.
"Guess I'll just check us in, then," he told Castiel's silent self, and went to do that.
SPN/Generation Kill fusion
In which Dean's family tradition is joining the Marines. Castiel is a translator attached to 1st Recon and, officially, Dean's responsibility. That's what Fick says, anyway.
Castiel doesn't eat, at least as far as Dean can tell. He comes to the mess tent a few times but picks at the food – not that Dean can blame him – and offers most of it to the other guys, although Dean gets first refusal on dessert. When he makes unobtrusive noises about it, Dude, you gotta eat – which he does only because he's got enough to worry about and doesn't need a malnourished translator to add to the mix – Castiel only gazes at him tranquilly and assures Dean that he's eaten enough.
Then there's the time when Castiel's wandering the camp and Dean sees him approaching a blind corner, the one a fully-loaded Rudy's barrelling toward. The turn is blind, and Dean has one of those car-wreck moments, knowing the inevitability of what's going to happen, with his voice locked up tight like it's fate and he can't stop it.
Rudy, all two hundred-plus pounds of muscle and a hundred pounds of pack, bounces off Castiel like he's run into the side of a tank.
Medieval AU thingy that will probably have a Latin title, because of how it's medieval
I've had this scene in my head for eons now. Slowly the rest of the story's starting to work itself out, but it's still driving me nuts.
The church closes around him, cold and silent, and the still air of the sanctuary tastes like stone. Slowly the echoes fade, the only sound his heart knocking against the wall of his chest, and a soft hushing sound, maybe the last of the storm wind shifting the altar cloths.
Dean takes one step further into the sanctuary, another. The sacristan doesn’t materialize, probably – if he has any sense – too terrified to stir from his small room. In any case, even though he knows the local tenants and the reeve come here, Dean can’t think of this place as anything other than abandoned.
He hasn’t set foot in this church since long before he’d left, but nothing’s changed since those days when he would stand by his mother’s side and drowse through Mass: the banks of candles and the dull glitter of their light in the candelabras, the smooth curve of the font’s marble basin. Shadows edge the carvings that twine, serpentine, around the columns, the folded and solemn robes of the family’s holy patrons: St. John, Mary Magdalene, St. George, St. Michael, and a nameless angel, its name erased by time or the careless artisans who came by.
Set high up in the walls, the windows feed the feeble moonlight through, and the thin, clawed shadows of fingers of the trees scratch uselessly at the stone. Dean drags his gaze from the heights down to the great paving stones, and the generations of Winchesters that lie underneath them.
As he walks, he studies the statues. St. John with his book, Mary Magdalene penitent. St. George crushes the serpent under his foot, and so does Michael, the dragon’s wing crumpling beneath him.
And in the final niche, the unnamed angel has stepped down from its pedestal, and is watching Dean from above the shelf of its wings.
.art: Roof! (an artfic outtake)
This is an outtake from another "Time and materials" project. It will probably not appear in the actual piece because what I want to do is completely different from this, but Cas kind of sneaked in there, sneaky trenchcoated angel. I have an inordinate fondness for Cas hanging out on the roof in fic, and I have kind of been wanting to see it in art for a while.
The premise, such as it is, is that after the war Dean and Sam are looking for a place to crash and maybe (just maybe) put down roots. Castiel goes house hunting for them, and Dean is kind of bemusedly dismayed at the place Cas has picked.
Trust Cas to find the
crappiest, most run-down
house in the state. Still,
it meets Cas's two
requirements:
tall
sturdy roof.
I've also been meaning to do something in color, for once. Har.
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