Kalliel (kalliel) wrote,
Kalliel
kalliel

End-of-Year Bonfire/Writing Trash

As last night's post demonstrated, whoops, I do not feel up to being articulate right now. But I wanted to add to the new year's festivities.

Here are some words and fragments I want to throw to the trash pile to start 2016 cleaner. :)

1. I don't remember what I wanted to do with this, but I think these are a few pre-series scenes meant to be juxtaposed against S10. The summary listed at the top of the doc was Dean Winchester, +/- 20 years.

I think my original intention here was to have Dean in a bar in Pacific Beach getting sloshed with a bunch of college girls, only to discover that most people don't actually drink to get blackout drink, and the college kids he's with are all in a group, looking out for each other--and he doesn't have that. No idea how this related specifically to S10 but I can imagine plenty of ways it might. tw: underage drinking / nascent alcoholism

She doesn't show at 8, and after 45 minutes Dean's sure she won't be.  Last time he trusts a college girl.

Dean's been here since 7, painfully punctual the way he is, has been taught to be.  (He wasn't taught to leave his 12-year old brother in the car alone at night, but he parked across the street, by an Italian place, and it's San Diego--nearly summer.  The streets are still a murky sunset-bright.  And it's not like Sam isn't used to it.  He doesn't mind.)

At the hour, Dean orders his first drink.  Whiskey, neat.  He's heard his father want it a thousand times before.

At 9:15, he takes a sip.  It doesn't taste one way or the other, and there's not as much heat to the burn as he'd been expecting.  But then, Dean knows more than most about fire.

he'd thought it'd be more like the movies, where kids sputtered comically and men breathed husky sighs of relief.  Dean does neither.  He wonders if it's been watered down.  Maybe he looks young.  

You only need to be 18 to work a bar in California.  Dean's familiar enough with the scene to spin a tale of gainful, riotous employment, and armed with his new ID (gifted by the girl who did not show at 8), it's a surer leap from 18 to 21 than it is from 16.

Dean Winchester is 16, and he doesn't drink.  (Beer doesn't count.)  But Paul Rodgers's about to drink plenty.

--

Dean Winchester doesn't drink.

"Moriarty," he says, introducing himself to the girl squished beside him. He doesn't really register anything about her beyond "Asian" but it's Thursday, he'll have to do better than that if he wants her to take him home tonight, every girl is Asian. "Dean Moriarty."  And she giggles, not the girl but the girl's friend she's the girl who made him the ID, isn't she.  Population one million and San Diego's still the smallest town in the damn world; Dean's had better luck in freaking Nebraska--last time he's hitting up a college girl for a fake ID, and really he shouldn't be dealing with anyone vaguely north of shady anyway, fuck.

But the girl doesn't say anything, just accepts another shot from the guy on her right (drunk giggle), and Asian girl smiles at him, says something that might've been Chloe.  (Chloe -- Asian, nice ass, B cups, faded club stamps like frayed teeth under the ultraviolet, club stamps and... call numbers?)




2. "Bed of Roses" -- This was the first draft of a fic I'm now on the third draft of, which I tossed because it got too depressing, too fast. Thanks a bunch for that, Sam! Also, I got way too distracted by the one-off character in this fic, which wasn't the point. Sam/Dean, Sam/Jess, S10

They're working a case about roses--a fact Sam can't let go of, if only because Dean hasn't stopped humming Bon Jovi since they hit town, because that song is literally the only thing Dean knows about roses.  

Except not really "if only," because roses are lame, and this Sam's known since his first date with Jess, when he tried to hand her one.

The memory hits him like a pang, for one brief moment all-encompassing and frankly, unwarranted.  Then it's gone, shuffled back amongst every other death and pain and lost shoe Sam's ever felt.  Ten years and it still happens like that sometimes, preternatural anguish rubbing up against what Sam wants for lunch and how much he's hoping his brother makes it to tomorrow and whether they locked the Bunker on the way out and whatever else he's thinking about right now.

- Sam doesn't know if Jess actually had a thing against roses, or if she just felt bad about receiving gifts.  

- There was a sandwich place down the road that seemed decent, maybe.  

- He's not sure about Dean.

- They did lock the door.

"Dude, if you don't stop with that song already, I'm gonna kill you."

"You can go ahead and try," Dean says, somewhere between actual resignation and (infuriatingly) artificial brashness.  

They've gone from standing on the doorstep of some old lady's tidy Victorian to sitting at that decent-looking sandwich place, the intermediary steps of which Sam can only assume involved an actual interview with an actual old lady; he hadn't been paying attention.  As far as lunch went, either he and Dean were on the same wavelength or there just weren't any other options.  Food Sam doesn't remember ordering materializes before him.  

And Dean's still humming.   

"A whole case about roses," Sam says.

"A whole case about roses," Dean agrees.

"A whole case about roses, right now."

"What, is next Tuesday better for you?"

"Well, what did the lady say?"

"Weren't you listening?"

It turns out Dean hadn't been listening either.  So maybe roses weren't such a bad idea, if one simple interview was already more heat than they could handle.

"Fuck," says Dean.

"Maybe she won't remember us.  She seemed pretty old."

"Yeah, the old bird had it together enough to pull out one of Bobby's thirteen billion numbers and call us, all because of some stupid missing rosebush, but after all that she's not going to remember what, the whole hour she just spent talking to us? Totally valid hypothesis, Sam."

Sam shrugs.  "People get hung up on things."


--

  
They pay another visit to Mrs. Lan.  This time her son is there, and he blanches when he registers her confusion at their (re)appearance.  

"Ma, just tell your friends what happened to the rose," he says.

But they've already been here, she insists quietly, and follows up with something angrier in Chinese.

"She says I never have any idea what's going on, and not to treat her like an infant," her son translates absently.  "I'm sorry, her memory's--I don't, I don't really know.  Ma, just tell them about the rose."

And he makes her tell them about the rose.  And they hear about the rose, in painfully specific, scrutinized detail, as her son forces her to convey and re-convey every sight and concern and train of thought, as though he's checking for lapses or fabrications.  Mrs. Lan's son keeps shooting them chastised, apologetic looks, like he's sorry they have to depend on someone so old and confused for their very important and official investigation.

Somehow, out of everything Sam's done, sitting there quietly and letting him believe that lie felt like one of the worst.  Especially since as Mrs. Lan (re)tells her harrowing tale about her roses, Sam realizes he actually does remember most of it, anyway.

"I'm sorry," Sam can't help but offer her, when two full hours later Mrs. Lan sees them to the door (again).

Mrs. Lan rolls her eyes.  "Please.  My son thinks 'Bobby Singer' is President of the National Garden Association.  Besides, he'll forget about all this when it's his sister's turn to stay with me, be happy-go-lucky all over again.  He's the one who should be worried about dementia."


--


"That was humiliating," Sam says, when they're checked into their motel but for some reason haven't quite pulled out the laptop.  He feigns a migraine in the hopes that Dean will take point on that one.

"That's because it's a whole case about roses."

"Not for us," Sam clarifies, though he'd felt plenty humiliated, too.  He wonders if he and Dean really looked that pathetic, and that's why Mrs. Lan had let them off the hook.  Fuck.

Sam kneads at his eye sockets, and thinks he might actually be getting a migraine.  Maybe he shouldn't have tempted fate.

Dean has the lights turned out and the curtains drawn, which means Sam's act hadn't gone unnoticed, but he won't stop shuffling around, audibly restless.  

Goodbye, words. May 2016 beckon new ones. <3

If there's any verbiage of your own you'd like to add to the bonfire, I'm all ears~
Tags: fandom: spn, writing
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