That WIP meme--and a contest
Feb. 28th, 2010 11:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ariadnes_stringI still have a couple of hours of rl work to do, so of course I’m procrastinating.
I’ve been seeing a WIP meme a lot on my flist:
Post a sentence (or two or a paragraph) from as many of your WIPs as you want, with no explanation attached
So I took a look through my files, and what do you think I found? Four crossovers and one AU. Because apparently I am a one-trick pony. And I think everyone should meet the Winchesters. No really. Everyone.
Here are excerpts from each, in descending order of how likely it is that they’ll ever be finished.
Guess the fandoms involved in all four x’s, I’ll write you a xover ficlet of your choice (or a single-fandom fic) (if, y'know, you want a fic...)
1.. (excerpt)
Sam peered through the windshield, trying to get a glimpse of the thing. “Yup,” he said, “it’s definitely got three heads: lion; uh, goat, I think; and yeah, dragon.” He sounded pretty calm about it, professional even. “Never heard of one with wings before,” he went on, “but I think it’s a chimera.”
“I don’t care if it’s Kiley-fucking-Minogue,” Dean ground out, not quite so calm, “I wanna know why it’s dive-bombing the fucking car.”
“Dean,” Sam scolded, “language. They’re just kids.” A blast of fire from the chimera lit up the night sky in front of us, and Dean flipped Sam off.
“Uh,” I said, from the back seat, ‘cause I figured they deserved to know, “I think it’s probably after us.”
Dean glared at me through the rear-view mirror. “You?” he spluttered, “you?” Then he turned his fury on Sam, mimicking his brother’s earnest voice, “They’re just kids, Dean. We can’t leave them out in the rain, Dean—“
Sam ignored him with the air of someone who was used to ignoring stuff. Hooking an elbow over the back seat, he turned towards us, clearly trying hard to look reassuring. “Don’t worry,” he said, “we’re not going to let anything happen to you.”
I tried not to roll my eyes. Like they were going to protect us.
2. (excerpt)
They fucked first.
Because that was the way it always was with them—couldn’t keep their hands off each other. That was the whole problem in the first place, ask anybody.
Even now, with worry for Sam ricocheting around his brain like a stray bullet, the rest of his body was purely focused on getting a hand up Irene’s skirts, tugging underneath garters and stockings to the smooth, sweet flesh of her thigh.
3 (first line)
When Arthur left the cave, alive again after so many centuries, the first thing he saw was an angel.
….
“What have you wrought, angel?” the king called to the figure waiting for them on the green sward beyond the cave’s mouth, “You know I have no truck with your kind.” He used the voice that had, on many occasions, sent foreign emissaries stumbling to their knees. The angel didn’t flinch.
He didn’t look much like the angels Arthur was used to. No flowing robes or shining tresses. He was in the body of a slight man with dark spiky hair, wearing some kind of light brown coat and dark trousers. He looked tired and worried, but entirely unintimidated by the figures from legend now standing a hand’s breadth away from him.
“It is the end of days,” the angel said, in a voice like the gravel beds of drought-parched streams, “The spell has ended and your country has need of you. But first, you must come to the aid of some old friends.”
Arthur was pleased to find his reflexes unslowed by his long sleep. He caught the angel’s fingers long before they reached his face.
“Not so fast,” he said, “all my friends are either long dead or here with me now.”
4. (excerpt)
The Ballhaus Resi was the kind of club where they were in had telephones on every table, telephones you could use to call directly to other tables if you saw someone you liked. Sully loved the place, loved going in with Sam; the mini-drama of their entrance always set the phone at their table ringing like crazy. Sam considered it lucky that Sully was selfish enough never to want to share a girl between them, no matter how many offered, but that didn’t mean he didn’t delight in stringing them on over the phone. So there Sam was, halfway to being truly drunk, paying desultory attention to Sully’s tale of a Texas bar fight, when Dean walked into the Resi.
Dean looked sleek and poised, and completely at home in the Berlin nightclub. He didn’t come off as military; Sam would hardly have pegged him as an American if his rocking, slightly bow-legged gait hadn’t given it away. He was dressed in civilian clothes, a dark suit under a well-cut gray overcoat, all hanging in perfect folds from broad shoulders. His hair was slicked back close to his skull, and looked darker than usual. The dim light carved out the contours of his face, bringing the strong lines of cheekbones and nose into relief. He looked polished, glowing. This must be how strangers see him, Sam thought, suddenly twigging to the reason why Army Intelligence almost always used Dean for covert operations rather than long term infiltrations, why Dean had made sure that target in Dresden couldn’t see his face. Once you saw a face like that, you wouldn’t soon forget it. A liability for a spy—except when it was an advantage.
5. (excerpt)
A thought floated up into consciousness—something he would have thought of earlier, if he hadn’t been so fucked up.
“S-s-sam,” he gritted out, his voice sounding strained and weak, even to him, “we’re only an h-hour or so away from B-b-boston, right?”
“Yeah,” Sam replied, warily.
“I know someone there—in Cambridge—who I think could help us out here.”
“You do, do you?” Sam sounded like he was humoring a delirious person, which he probably thought he was.
“Works in one of the Harvard labs, he can fix us with the right meds, easy…”
“You,” now Sam sounded incredulous, “You know someone who works in a Harvard lab? From when? Your days at the National Academy of Science.”
“No, fuckwad” Dean was too wrecked to trade barbs, or even to massage the truth for Sam’s benefit, “from Vegas, worked a few hustles with him while you were off being Joe College.”
Sam’s eyebrows went up, “This is getting better and better.”
“What? He needed the money—I needed someone who could look innocent.”
“And now this innocent-looking con artist has now penetrated the ivy-covered walls of academe?”
“Nah. He’s a trained chemist. His father got sprung from the loony bin recently, and he went to help look after him.”
“You know what? You’re delirious.” Sam’s expression was still skeptical, but now he was getting the interested look he sometimes got when he heard that other families might be more fucked up than theirs.
I’ve been seeing a WIP meme a lot on my flist:
Post a sentence (or two or a paragraph) from as many of your WIPs as you want, with no explanation attached
So I took a look through my files, and what do you think I found? Four crossovers and one AU. Because apparently I am a one-trick pony. And I think everyone should meet the Winchesters. No really. Everyone.
Here are excerpts from each, in descending order of how likely it is that they’ll ever be finished.
Guess the fandoms involved in all four x’s, I’ll write you a xover ficlet of your choice (or a single-fandom fic) (if, y'know, you want a fic...)
1.. (excerpt)
Sam peered through the windshield, trying to get a glimpse of the thing. “Yup,” he said, “it’s definitely got three heads: lion; uh, goat, I think; and yeah, dragon.” He sounded pretty calm about it, professional even. “Never heard of one with wings before,” he went on, “but I think it’s a chimera.”
“I don’t care if it’s Kiley-fucking-Minogue,” Dean ground out, not quite so calm, “I wanna know why it’s dive-bombing the fucking car.”
“Dean,” Sam scolded, “language. They’re just kids.” A blast of fire from the chimera lit up the night sky in front of us, and Dean flipped Sam off.
“Uh,” I said, from the back seat, ‘cause I figured they deserved to know, “I think it’s probably after us.”
Dean glared at me through the rear-view mirror. “You?” he spluttered, “you?” Then he turned his fury on Sam, mimicking his brother’s earnest voice, “They’re just kids, Dean. We can’t leave them out in the rain, Dean—“
Sam ignored him with the air of someone who was used to ignoring stuff. Hooking an elbow over the back seat, he turned towards us, clearly trying hard to look reassuring. “Don’t worry,” he said, “we’re not going to let anything happen to you.”
I tried not to roll my eyes. Like they were going to protect us.
2. (excerpt)
They fucked first.
Because that was the way it always was with them—couldn’t keep their hands off each other. That was the whole problem in the first place, ask anybody.
Even now, with worry for Sam ricocheting around his brain like a stray bullet, the rest of his body was purely focused on getting a hand up Irene’s skirts, tugging underneath garters and stockings to the smooth, sweet flesh of her thigh.
3 (first line)
When Arthur left the cave, alive again after so many centuries, the first thing he saw was an angel.
….
“What have you wrought, angel?” the king called to the figure waiting for them on the green sward beyond the cave’s mouth, “You know I have no truck with your kind.” He used the voice that had, on many occasions, sent foreign emissaries stumbling to their knees. The angel didn’t flinch.
He didn’t look much like the angels Arthur was used to. No flowing robes or shining tresses. He was in the body of a slight man with dark spiky hair, wearing some kind of light brown coat and dark trousers. He looked tired and worried, but entirely unintimidated by the figures from legend now standing a hand’s breadth away from him.
“It is the end of days,” the angel said, in a voice like the gravel beds of drought-parched streams, “The spell has ended and your country has need of you. But first, you must come to the aid of some old friends.”
Arthur was pleased to find his reflexes unslowed by his long sleep. He caught the angel’s fingers long before they reached his face.
“Not so fast,” he said, “all my friends are either long dead or here with me now.”
4. (excerpt)
The Ballhaus Resi was the kind of club where they were in had telephones on every table, telephones you could use to call directly to other tables if you saw someone you liked. Sully loved the place, loved going in with Sam; the mini-drama of their entrance always set the phone at their table ringing like crazy. Sam considered it lucky that Sully was selfish enough never to want to share a girl between them, no matter how many offered, but that didn’t mean he didn’t delight in stringing them on over the phone. So there Sam was, halfway to being truly drunk, paying desultory attention to Sully’s tale of a Texas bar fight, when Dean walked into the Resi.
Dean looked sleek and poised, and completely at home in the Berlin nightclub. He didn’t come off as military; Sam would hardly have pegged him as an American if his rocking, slightly bow-legged gait hadn’t given it away. He was dressed in civilian clothes, a dark suit under a well-cut gray overcoat, all hanging in perfect folds from broad shoulders. His hair was slicked back close to his skull, and looked darker than usual. The dim light carved out the contours of his face, bringing the strong lines of cheekbones and nose into relief. He looked polished, glowing. This must be how strangers see him, Sam thought, suddenly twigging to the reason why Army Intelligence almost always used Dean for covert operations rather than long term infiltrations, why Dean had made sure that target in Dresden couldn’t see his face. Once you saw a face like that, you wouldn’t soon forget it. A liability for a spy—except when it was an advantage.
5. (excerpt)
A thought floated up into consciousness—something he would have thought of earlier, if he hadn’t been so fucked up.
“S-s-sam,” he gritted out, his voice sounding strained and weak, even to him, “we’re only an h-hour or so away from B-b-boston, right?”
“Yeah,” Sam replied, warily.
“I know someone there—in Cambridge—who I think could help us out here.”
“You do, do you?” Sam sounded like he was humoring a delirious person, which he probably thought he was.
“Works in one of the Harvard labs, he can fix us with the right meds, easy…”
“You,” now Sam sounded incredulous, “You know someone who works in a Harvard lab? From when? Your days at the National Academy of Science.”
“No, fuckwad” Dean was too wrecked to trade barbs, or even to massage the truth for Sam’s benefit, “from Vegas, worked a few hustles with him while you were off being Joe College.”
Sam’s eyebrows went up, “This is getting better and better.”
“What? He needed the money—I needed someone who could look innocent.”
“And now this innocent-looking con artist has now penetrated the ivy-covered walls of academe?”
“Nah. He’s a trained chemist. His father got sprung from the loony bin recently, and he went to help look after him.”
“You know what? You’re delirious.” Sam’s expression was still skeptical, but now he was getting the interested look he sometimes got when he heard that other families might be more fucked up than theirs.
