#spnapo17

Drabble, mostly monologue

I propose to teach you spellcraft.

Sam laughs, No.

So you sidle t’wards him, great hairy ape, lay a warnin finger against his chest.

Hear me, Sam Winchester. Your blood thrums, tainted and sanctified, and you fling it about, play at magic. No idea what you’re capable of and we’ll all be damned if you bugger up.

Shut up.

So much power, just to constrain so much power. So afraid, what will your brother say? Dean doesn’t get a say. Get control or you’ll get consumed.

Get out.

Aye, I’ll go. But y’mark me.

Vanish in a flourish.

You’ll call.

Cross-posted to spnapo No prompt, just a concept I've been kicking around. Also sorry about the title.

Sam, Hallucifer, episode 12x02, torture aftermath, delirium

Chair. Chains. Lucifer: fucked-her-and-you-LIKED-it Shiver. Pain/cold/no? Must’ve been heat. Still stinks burnt meat. poor sam wish-she’d-just-go-on-and-kill-you don’t you Blink. Glare, feet on the stairs: boots, and bow— oh no. can’t torture a guy with nothing left to Shackled smirk. Flies fast past that…

LEAVING MISSOURI are-you-sure COME AGAIN ’s too cheap even for me Flex. Fingers tingle, healing residual. Car smells right: leather, sweat, hushed blood and death. except Blonde head.

WELCOME TO KANSAS Mile marker, consecutive. so-far Sharp thumbnail, horseshoe scar. Count on.

Cross-posted to spnapo Prompt: Missouri

wincest, episode 12x02 coda, prose-poetry

A/N: Yesterday, @caffeinechesters​ challenged me to write an alternate ending for a fic. I chose Fifty-fifty, and this is Part One of that effort.

“What are you asking for?”

“Nothin.”

Bullshit squint.

“I’m offerin.” Stand up. “Brood on it awhile, figure out what you want.” Slip slow; hand falls to the bedspread. “We been a in shitstorm lately and it’s no time to be makin life choices.”

Almost a chuckle. “Aren’t we always in a shitstorm?”

Head for—

“What.” Voice break. “What are you offering.”

Slump. “My life, Sam.” Head shake. “S’like always.”

Bedsprings creak and Sam looms up behind. Fingers brand through zipper teeth. “What about this?” Get tight under his palm. “Why now?”

“Because?” Because, “Because,” because, “why not?” Reassuring pissy huff parts neck hair. Breathe into him. “M’tired, man.” Grunt. “Burnin gas, circlin this thing.” Sandwiched: Sam’s hips, Sam’s hand. Rock heavy against him once, oh, fuck. Hard sidestep. “You don’t, have to do this, dude, not now. I know that skank—”

“Please don’t.”

Nod.

Big palm, sharp-corner belt buckle, “I’m done waiting.” Sam shoves the door shut.

+++To be continued+++

Cross-posted to spnapo Prompt: Forty questions for fic writers

hurt-comfort-ish, post-episode 12x07, “Rock Never Dies”

Crooked knuckles and calluses shovel and gun, Palm Scar and, palm scars, dozens for spells: safe-circles, summonings.

Red doors, buckling not even demon blood full-on brick shithouse, Sam or no, maybe so on blood because, what man ever out-muscled Satan’s mojo?

Cas? Am I still— Forearm touch leaches heat not-quite-brown-out—

Sam.

Flinch against shards that never shatter.

Your Will exceeds my brother’s. How many times must you—

Weightlessness.

Keep your eyes closed.

Freeze-searing wingtips circle and wind knees-down numb.

This is how strong you are.

Subtle bumping footfalls Where are we going? Grace-smile shines right through tight lids.

I don’t know, Sam. You’re carrying me.

Cross-posted to spnapo Prompt: holy holy holy (glorious, slightly NSFW artwork by saintedsam: T, trueform Sastiel)

Vampires say one of theirs killed an angel.

Levis say theirs killed the angel and the vamp.

Wendigoes say, was a man who hunted the angel.

Rougarous say no, vampire hunted the man.

Werewolves say the man merged with the angel.

Shifters say neither one of them survived.

Vetalas swear there were dozens of angels.

Trickster insists, angel’s still alive.

Prompt: The brightest spot in Purgatory Cross-posted to spnapo

Fluorescents pop over rows of molded yellow plastic, mildew under bleach stink. Chunk of change, goblin guts gonna take two cycles. Bicycle cards and boxer shorts, matches for stake.

                                Got any eights?

                                                             Go fish.

Cross-posted to spnapo prompt: laundromat

12x19 spoilers

You always hated weeding. Kneeling. Strong stems, twisted around your fist, uprooted.

Gardening’s dirty business, of course, mass-destruct deadhead dying blooms, pluck back petals and prune shoots.

Thorns: last violent act under the rose.

Cross-posted to spnapo Prompt: Cleveland Botanical Garden

spoken word, poet insert, wincest reference, shenanigans

Laughable cops a squat and pops her poem sack. Seeds and sticks stare back.

O, Chuck, who art—wherever, she prays. Goose me the juice, just five live days to spit this shit, hot fire, get lit: funk rhymes and punchlines, lingo legit.

Yea.

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of tropes, prose, typos, shallow flows; show me the dough to compose dope rows. Swing low; bestow cold gold: bon mots, salt loads, soul bros, and lonesome roads…

My cup runneth dry, Chuck.

So.

Float me a ghost of a season past; gift me a riff on Sammy’s ass. Grant me a rant about bougie booze; boon me the tune of a Lost Shoe Blues. Spot me a hot Wincest oneshot; yaoi satori, a casepoem plot?

Deliver me from jank clichés! Goose me the juice, Chuck. Five live days.

Cross-posted to spnapo Second fill for prayer