SPN ficlet and accompanying rant-let
Nov. 30th, 2006 07:44 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xaarauntitled. John, pre-series, originally posted as a response to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
onelittlesleep's post here.
John loves running through the summer. He feels the hot wind gather sweat at the nape of his neck, feels its harsh burn across his cheeks. Sam and Dean are a mile or so behind him, probably, couldn’t get their lazy asses out of bed this morning and couldn’t wait for them to catch up, needed to be out. They’ll run the five miles on their own, without his supervision--he knows that much. Been without a hunt going on three weeks now, and the boys need the exercise like he needs breathing, need to stretch their legs along the dirt, hearts pounding with the mechanical perfection of it.
No school, and Sam’s settled in a little better. His hair is still too long, his eyes too deep, but his smiles curve wide, without their usual edge. He’s been finding them leads almost as often as Dean, been practicing until his blade twists true every time. Moves like he’s cutting air, Sam, and sometimes John watches him through the wavering heat and wonders what he’ll be like come December, come ice and the bite of winter.
His feet catch the earth and for a moment, John imagines running forever, north and across the Arctic, toes skimming the water, the pack ice, until he crests the pole and starts down the other side.
It’s not until John hears the sound of careless footfalls behind him that he realizes he’s relaxed almost to a jog. The boys gain on him, their bickering voices coming closer as they follow the snaking trail. He’s given them specific instructions--follow the blue markers for the trail that loops back around to their cabin, and for Christ’s sake Dean try not to trip into the poison ivy again--so he breaks off, climbs up the yellow trail, the one that leads to the ridge.
The day warms as he climbs until he’s loose and overheated, his shirt heavy against his wet skin. At the lookout point, he gives up on the shirt altogether, just drops it by the mile marker with a mental note to retrieve it later.
By the time he returns to the cabin, muscles burning, Sam and Dean have already completed the course and showered. They’re hunched together over the laptop, snickering, and when Dean snaps his fingers for Sam’s attention and makes a pelvic motion John works on scrubbing instantly from memory, John steps back out, takes a seat on the front steps.
His heart slows until it’s beating every second or two again, constant, tiny reminders that he is alive. John inhales the song of the cicadas and thinks this is home.
Oh, for crying out loud, it seems like all I can do is write and write and write, stories and poems and fic and in my notebook and on the backs of receipts at work and on my hands and through the cloud of my exhaled breath.
It's this constant outpouring, and I'm not sure it's okay, not sure I trust myself to stop without running into a wall. Like I'm headed downhill without brakes and wow it's cool to have this much wind in my hair but what happens when I get to the bottom?
Also: it's precluding everything else I have to do. Like editing my paper or reading or eating or sleeping or showering and yeah.
onelittlesleep's post here.John loves running through the summer. He feels the hot wind gather sweat at the nape of his neck, feels its harsh burn across his cheeks. Sam and Dean are a mile or so behind him, probably, couldn’t get their lazy asses out of bed this morning and couldn’t wait for them to catch up, needed to be out. They’ll run the five miles on their own, without his supervision--he knows that much. Been without a hunt going on three weeks now, and the boys need the exercise like he needs breathing, need to stretch their legs along the dirt, hearts pounding with the mechanical perfection of it.
No school, and Sam’s settled in a little better. His hair is still too long, his eyes too deep, but his smiles curve wide, without their usual edge. He’s been finding them leads almost as often as Dean, been practicing until his blade twists true every time. Moves like he’s cutting air, Sam, and sometimes John watches him through the wavering heat and wonders what he’ll be like come December, come ice and the bite of winter.
His feet catch the earth and for a moment, John imagines running forever, north and across the Arctic, toes skimming the water, the pack ice, until he crests the pole and starts down the other side.
It’s not until John hears the sound of careless footfalls behind him that he realizes he’s relaxed almost to a jog. The boys gain on him, their bickering voices coming closer as they follow the snaking trail. He’s given them specific instructions--follow the blue markers for the trail that loops back around to their cabin, and for Christ’s sake Dean try not to trip into the poison ivy again--so he breaks off, climbs up the yellow trail, the one that leads to the ridge.
The day warms as he climbs until he’s loose and overheated, his shirt heavy against his wet skin. At the lookout point, he gives up on the shirt altogether, just drops it by the mile marker with a mental note to retrieve it later.
By the time he returns to the cabin, muscles burning, Sam and Dean have already completed the course and showered. They’re hunched together over the laptop, snickering, and when Dean snaps his fingers for Sam’s attention and makes a pelvic motion John works on scrubbing instantly from memory, John steps back out, takes a seat on the front steps.
His heart slows until it’s beating every second or two again, constant, tiny reminders that he is alive. John inhales the song of the cicadas and thinks this is home.
Oh, for crying out loud, it seems like all I can do is write and write and write, stories and poems and fic and in my notebook and on the backs of receipts at work and on my hands and through the cloud of my exhaled breath.
It's this constant outpouring, and I'm not sure it's okay, not sure I trust myself to stop without running into a wall. Like I'm headed downhill without brakes and wow it's cool to have this much wind in my hair but what happens when I get to the bottom?
Also: it's precluding everything else I have to do. Like editing my paper or reading or eating or sleeping or showering and yeah.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-01 02:29 am (UTC)and, i say go with the flow, honey. just let your muse run wild! i don't know how often this happens to you, but i'd just go with it. who needs to shower? ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-02 06:19 pm (UTC)Showering is totally overrated.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-03 02:58 am (UTC)i hope your muse is still running rampant! ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-01 04:45 am (UTC)And I know how fanfic can take over your life. Try not to let it take over the important stuff you *need* to do, as much as it wants to.
I think I'm going to friend you, because, yay, fic.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-02 06:20 pm (UTC)Thing is, it's not even so much fic. I mean, the fic is part of it, but the vast majority of what I'm writing at any given time actually has nothing to do with fandom. It's just this amazing productiveness.
Welcome aboard! :)