Post the first sentence (or three) or a random large chunk from every WIP you're currently working on, even if it's very short. Then invite people to ask questions about your WIPs. With any luck, you'll get talking about writing, and the motivation to take that WIP one step closer to completion will appear as if by magic!
1. Sam/Dean: A Penny for the Old Guy
Sam leaned up against the diner counter, ordered two cups of coffee and some apple pie to go.
He could see his brother through the window. Dean was asleep, slumped crooked in the passenger seat with his mouth open and his breath leaving little patches of fog on the glass, appearing and disappearing with each inhale and exhale.
Dean would hurt like a bitch in the morning, stiff backed and neck aching, and would shrug it off just to prove a point.
Two boys sat across each other at a booth by the window, obviously brothers, teenagers who were too young to be out this late, but Sam had no room to judge. The older one shoved a twenty-dollar bill beneath his plate and said a few words to the younger one, who responded with a tilt of his head and an expression Sam couldn’t quite read.
Sam smiled. It was brother-speak. Its own sort of language, Sam knew it when he saw it, even if he didn’t speak this particular dialect.
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2. J2 cop!fic, working title Metro, and this story is a bit of an albatross. I've been working on it for years and might never finish it.
“You see there are two kinds of cops,” Mike began sagely, not paying enough attention to the road for Jensen’s taste. “There’s the kind that want to do the right thing, and there’s the kind that want the power to do any—“
The tinny voice of dispatch came over the radio, cutting him off abruptly. “911 call to the fourteen hundred block of Wyoming. Possible 11-42. All officers in the area respond. I repeat 911 call to…”
“Well, Jensen, welcome to the life of a Metro cop here in our nation’s capital,” Mike said expansively. “Would you like to do the honors?” he continued, with a nod to the console of the police car.
Jensen toggled the switch, bringing the old red and blues atop the patrol car to life, and picked up the radio, signaling dispatch that they were on their way.
Lights flashing and sirens blaring, the patrol car responded with a quick lurch of tires spinning on wet pavement when Mike hit the gas. “Quick quiz for you, Jenny.” Mike said, and Jensen knew for certain that Mike’s new nickname for him was going to fly like a ton of bricks with the rest of the folks at the station. “Let’s see if all of that training at the academy has paid off. What’s an 11-42?”
“Possible homicide.” Jensen said, trying to put his best foot forward and not reveal the utter terror that was so suddenly clawing at his gut.
“Bingo, baby. God, it’s only your second night on the job,” Mike said with a shake of his head. “Hell of a way to pop your cherry.”
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3. Sam/Dean: Fallout (angsty as hell)
Steam rises from the faucet turned full-on hot, clouding the mirror. Water whirlpools in the rusty truck stop sink.
Sam cups his hands beneath the water, lets it pool until his palms become an angry color. He douses himself, yesterday’s shaving knick a pinprick of pain on the underside of his jaw, then wipes his face dry with rough paper towels that smell like cardboard.
The mirror is cracked diagonal, corner-to-corner. Sam’s face is misaligned, left and right sides not quite matched up, one eye a fraction of an inch higher than it ought to be and there’s a split in his mouth. Dead center. He rests his forearms on the sides of the sink and breathes in deep, holding a lungful of steam-heavy air. Lets it out nice and slow.
Two days ago, Sam fucked his brother.
One hour ago, Dean came back, with a gruff command to get in the damn car; there’s a ghost breaking necks just over the state line. Sam found himself frozen, shocked still and struck stupid, unable to move from the motel bed, fear and want and above all relief pounding through him so heavy and thick that it made his eyes water. His body’s sympathetic reaction. He hadn’t cried. No, not really.
He thinks he ought to look different now, but he doesn’t. The same straight set to his mouth that Dean calls stubborn and Sam calls determined. Same squared off shape to his shoulders. Same hazel eyes, and where the hell he got those, he’ll never know and there’s nobody left alive who can tell him. Maybe they look a little more spooked nowadays, but no one can blame him.
They say that mirrors always tell the truth. This one is broken, though. So maybe it can lie.
♠ ♠ ♠
4. J2 Untitled Crush timestamp:
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Mike says. His eyebrows creep upward as he leans against Jensen’s kitchen counter, propping a pointy polished wingtip on the stool. His red velvet smoking jacket is giving Jensen a headache just being in the same room with it. Mike’s apparently going for some knock-off impression of Rhett Butler. The kid can get away with a lot, granted, but this is a bit of a stretch. “Here I thought that monogamy was a stretch for you, and now you’re buying the guy flowers.”
“Flower. One. One flower,” Jensen corrects him, frowning down at the plastic-shrouded boutonniere. “It’s what you’re supposed to do, right?”
♠ ♠ ♠
5. J2 Untitled Yesterdays timestamp:
Jensen let out a war whoop, a high-pitched, ridiculous thing, as he poked his head through the window of the tree house. He disappeared and emerged a second later from the trap door, scampered down the rope ladder and jumped off before he was even half way to the ground.
Jared’s heart tripped up at the sight of him, grinning and happy, crashing through the underbrush and smacking branches out of his way. He launched himself at Jared, barely balancing on the balls of his feet, and wrapped his arms snug around Jared’s neck. Jensen kissed him, slow and lingering, and Jared felt a thrill that took strong root in his spine and zipped clear through to the tips of his fingers. “Damn,” Jensen said, smiling against Jared’s mouth, “It’s good to see you.”
Burying his nose in Jensen’s neck, Jared mumbled, “It’s only been a week.” He tried for nonchalance and shot wide of the mark. Jared breathed in deep. Jensen smelled like paint thinner and sweat. Jared didn’t mind it.
“Yeah, a really long week.”
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6. J2 Prohibition!fic:
Jared lights a candle, watches as the sputtering flame fully catches hold and balances it on the skinny window ledge, the soft, warm glow reflecting off of the rippled glass. He walks into the room at the opposite end of the narrow apartment above the store, dodging the sparse furniture from memory and repeats the ritual, his shadow jumping into flickering life on the wall.
“Open for business,” he whispers.
The steep staircase creaks under his feet as he descends, careful to set the lock and tuck the key safely into the small pocket in his vest.
Light from outside glints off of the rows and rows of jars and bottles lined up neatly on shelves behind the counter. Potions and compounds. He ducks behind the counter, runs his fingertips along the smooth, curved glass surfaces, their labels unreadable in the dim light. He picks one from the shelf and works the cork free, holding it beneath his nose. It’s the good stuff, grade A and government sanctioned, clear and golden, the color of a liquid sunrise. Not at all like the swill they sell down below. Jared takes a small sip, straight from the bottle.
“Hands off the inventory.”
Jared startles at the sound of the disembodied voice, sputters on his second sip and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. Chris emerges from the shadows, ducking beneath the soda counter in the back and pushing his hat up and away from his forehead.
Flashing a grin, Jared says, “C’mon. It’s medicine.” He tips the bottle in Chris’s direction. “I have it on good authority.”
♠ ♠ ♠
And then there's spn_j2_bigbang. Word count: 0. Ideas: also 0. Horror? Sci-fi? Dragons? Something else entirely? I'm all ears, folks.