When you see this, post a little weensy excerpt from as many random works-in-progress as you can find lying around. Who knows? Maybe inspiration will burst forth and do something, um, inspiration-y.
This first one is technically finished. The reason I'm posting it in this meme is because I don't like the ending. It's a Supernatural crossover with Neil Gaiman's short story October In The Chair. (Published in Fragile Things.)
The fire pit was black, and cold. Ashes filling the ring turned to grey slush as rain fell and fell, pelting the ground in a steady torrent. Dean settled down in the only chair, the wood smooth, and cool under his hands. A slight breeze rustled tree leaves, causing a few to slip from their branches and dance through the air.
“You shouldn’t be sitting there,” a voice said. Looking up, Dean saw a woman, dark in hair with a smirk gracing her lips. She was smoking a brown cigarillo and with each puff, the scent of cloves reached his nose.
“And why not?” Dean asked, running his fingers along the different grains in the chair. It was old and surprisingly comfortable for something made solely of wood.
“Because it’s not for you,” she said, taking another lazy puff. “And if you keep sitting there, then June may not be able to take her turn.”
“June?” Dean asked, leaning forward.
“You know, June,” she said with a wave of her hand.
“No, I don’t know.” The woman across from him huffed, rolling her eyes.
“If I don’t have my turn, then neither can June, or July, or any of the others,” she said, locking her eyes with his. “Get my drift?”
“Is this one of those save the world, save the cheerleader things?” Dean asked. “Cause personally, you guys really need to work on your delivery.”
The woman rolled her eyes again. “You’re only partially right.” Standing, the woman came to kneel before Dean, hand resting on his knee. “The angels forget, this is our world too, and we like it the way it is. So shoo, outta the chair. My turn is coming up, but if you don’t get back to work, I won’t be able to tell the others my story.”
Moving deftly, she leaned forward and kissed his forehead, and Dean awoke in a hospital bed, Sam leaning over him, large hands resting on either side.
“You ever do anything so stupid again, and I’ll kick your ass.”
“Don’t worry, Sammy. I’m not going anywhere,” Dean said as a laugh broke free causing aching ribs to burn. He could still smell the scent of cloves in the air.
This next one is a cross between Supernatural and The Dresden Files. Yep, blame it on rereading those wonderful books, and the fact that Castiel can not lie to law enforcement officials.
“Freeze!” The voice rang out through the warehouse, sharp, strong, and highly pissed. “Chicago PD! Don’t move.”
Dean cursed under his breath and Sam stilled next to him. The dead body of a demon lay at their feet, and Dean held the bloody knife in his hand.
“Drop your weapon!” Dean set the knife down and raised his hands. Sam followed suite, hands rising into the air. They both turned, shock filling their features as their eyes landed on a tiny woman, maybe five feet in height with a head full of curling blonde hair. Her stance, and the look in her eyes let them know despite her stature, she could probably hand them their asses if she wanted too.
The freakishly tall dude next to her, and was that a wooden staff in his hands?, let them know if they did try ganging up on her, they’d have him to deal with too. Castiel didn’t seem at all concerned though. He was staring at the two, head titled to one side.
“Either of you care to tell me what the hell is going on here?” the police officer said, blue eyes darting from Dean to Sam to Castiel.
“Um,” Dean said. “Well, you see-“
“It was a demon.” Castiel cut in and both Dean and Sam rolled their eyes. “It was trying to release the four Angels from the Euphrates.”
The not-so-jolly giant put a hand on the cop’s shoulder. “I found sulfur and this.” He held up a tarnished brass trumpet. It shone in his hands with an unnatural light.
“The sixth trumpet,” Castiel said, stepping forward. He took it out of the guy’s hand, holding it with reverence. “It was to be used to summon the Angels and release the plagues.”
The cop sighed, putting her gun away. “Did you stop it?”
It was Dean and Sam’s turn to share a confused look.
“We were successful,” Castiel answered. The cop nodded.
“Next time you come hunting something in my city,” the cop said, handing them a business card. “Call first. Now get out of here, I’ve got work to do.”
“Okay,” Dean said, kneeling down to pick up the knife. He and Sam shrugged before grabbing Castiel and leaving the warehouse.