|phantomas (phantomas) wrote,|
@ 2007-11-01 02:14 am UTC
|Entry tags:||double drabble, drabble, fiction, mininanowrimo, myfiction, writing|
All slash (but not explicit) but the last one.
total word count: 1200
(there's a second batch incoming, this is a first round)
Many thanks to disanddat for her beta, all mistakes are mine.
lorelei633 asked for: Frank Callahan from NYPD Blue
Jail is…tolerable. After a while. He gets used to shuffling alongside the walls. To looking down and aside quickly. To slouching his shoulders, look smaller, as much as he can. There's a very fine line, to walk and balance upon, between having 'victim' stamped on your forehead, between offering yourself as the easiest prey around, and being invisible, unnoticeable, unworthy of attention.
Frank knows that line well. Old habits die hard, and he learnt early, painfully.
It's the nights that he can't stand. The look of his hands, the blood on them.
The love he could have had, and killed.
"Will you fucking stop, you fuck!" The fist that hits the bottom of the bunk bed promises more than just a wake up call. Frank sniffs, presses his nose hard against his shoulder. Tries to breathe in slowly to calm himself down. Another beating is brewing in his cell-mate's voice, or worst. Frank has taken already all that he can take without breaking. Breaking is not allowed. That'll bring worse than a harsh fucking down on him. "Here, now." He knows the command, what it means. Frank closes his eyes once he's on his knees. Better this than his nightmares.
candygramme asked for: Supernatural, John/Sam
"You doing this to punish me." John closes the door behind him.
Sam zips his backpack, doesn't turn around. They've done yelling at each other. He's done. He only got whispers left, now, maybe not even those. "Dad…"
John's hands rest on Sam's shoulders. He's moved without a sound. They're good at that, both of them. Never a sound that Dean could hear, unless they were screaming at each other.
"Sammy…" a whisper on Sam's skin more than a word. Lips pressed at the nape of his neck. Sam turns around, as tall as his father now, and he can feel it, in his bones, the shock of it, still. The roughness of the beard isn't new. The pained flavor of the kiss isn't either. Sam gets hard, right away. He always does.
"Stay." Words, pleas, licked on Sam's tongue, the roof of his mouth, pressed on his lips. Hands groping everywhere and heart furiously beating. "I'll leave you be. I swear. If you stay."
Sam pushes John away. "I need more than this. More than you."
John would be proud of him, if he could see Sam's lie for what it is. But Sam learnt to lie from John.
mytimehaspassed asked for: OZ crossed with SPN (Keller/Dean, and/or John)
It's impossible to keep his fists from clenching when Dean sits in the chair on the other side of the glass dividing them. His boy has dark shadows under his eyes, his lips held in a tight line. John can see the flicker of Dean's jaw's muscle, tensing up, releasing, tensing up again. John knows his boy.
The plastic phone disappears in John's big fingers. "You holding up in there, son?" More than a question. Nothing is ever that simple with John.
Dean's nostrils widen for a moment. He passes a hand on his face. John knows that gesture too.
"A few days more. Everything's working out." John's words are slow, a pause blurring the spaces in between, filled with information they can't pronounce openly.
Dean nods. He's too young, John thinks, knows that he'll always think it of him, no matter Dean's age, he'll always see him as the child curled up against his chest, always feel the tiny hand in his own. Always want to protect him. Always claim him for his own.
"Give me his name." That is an order. He needs Dean to focus on the job while he's inside. Nothing else. No one else.
Dean's pupils widen slightly. His left hand lifts, fingertip tracing an invisible name on the dirty glass, greasy with all the hands that have touched it before Dean's.
John puts the phone down. Dean is still sitting and looking at John as he leaves the visiting room.
John has his contacts, and his own brand of leverage. Blackmail, threats, whatever works. This job is important, and that's why Dean is inside. Bait and hunter at the same time. John wasn't suitable, or he'd've gone in instead.
Dean is important.
John waits at the side of the door, when the other man is pushed in without a warning. It takes a few moments for the man to find his balance again, handcuffed as he is, look around the small cell, see John in the half darkness.
A blinding smile curls the lips of the man. A light like a blade in his eyes.
"You Keller?" John wants to be sure.
"Who wants to know?"
Oh, the guy's good. John can see it right away, the quick assessing glances, the adjusting in his stance, shoulders rolling, and a poker face, if John Winchester has ever seen one. And he has. He can understand why Dean, why this man, Keller. He's tall. Devilish attitude. A dangerous toy to play with, and Dean has been living dangerously since a very early age.
John smiles, steps forward. Keller keeps his place. John has to appreciate that. One more reason to put him down hard. It's tough, and not as fast as John would have liked. Keller is strong, quick, fights dirty. John is glad he's brought a taser with him. He has more important stuff to do, a few graves to desecrate still before the moon is full. And this isn't about entertainment. This is about boundaries. Those Keller has trespassed with Dean, those John has to teach this guy Keller not to trespass again.
Once John's done, Keller is lying face down, trying to curl his legs up against his chest. John shushes him. Leaving his belt undone, he kneels again, places the taser carefully against the tender skin between Keller's balls and his come-stained ass. "Say it again."
Keller chuckles, a splutter of blood tainting his teeth, the cold floor under his cheek. John smiles. This guy would give a demon their run. The taser crackles again, and again. Keller pants voicelessly, harsh ugly sounds from his throat.
"Dean's off limits." Keller says it clearly and loudly enough for John to be satisfied. Boundaries well-established, possession claimed. Now they can focus on the job. Now Dean won't be distracted. Now it's only ghosts and demons and spirits left to deal with.
"I'll make sure to know where your body'll be buried. I'll make sure you'll stay buried." John knocks on the door, a signal for the shank outside to let him out. Money has already passed hands, now everyone just wants it all done and over with.
"My son's no one's bitch but mine."
disanddat asked for Dead and Breakfast's The Sheriff: JDM :D.
This is the drabble that came out…AU, in that The Sheriff doesn't die at the end of the film, and also, clearly, I'm still assessing the character.I promise to do better next time, that is, tomorrow.
Nothing ever fuckin' happens in this fuckin' town.
That was the thought the Sheriff had entertained earlier that morning. Fuck but it'd been a hell of a day. The graves were all dug and filled, heads carefully separated from the bodies. No risk of a repeat of that day's events.
Adjusting his hat on his head, the Sheriff rested his shovel on his shoulder and headed home. His bed, a night-time movie then an early start tomorrow morning.
There were still lots of heads to cut off, corpses to bury. And no one else left to do it.