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Werehog Snippet 1The sun beating down on the desert city of Shamar was no unusual thing, but the large white monster crouching on the rooftop of the marketplace was not.
Despite his bright white fur, the beast had yet to be spotted, as none of the citizens below had yet to look high enough to detect him. Amber eyes watched the people come and go, seemingly unaffected by the heat that so tormented him. They laughed and they chatted, running to and fro on their errands as they went about their days, as if the terrors of just last year had never been. A dry tongue ran across cracked lips as the creature watched a young girl splash gleefully with her friends in one of the shallow pools of water that bordered the city streets. Oh, water…what he wouldn't give for just one taste of the cool, clear liquid…
The monster shifted back from the rooftop, backed up a little, and got a running start to leap to the next roof, running around the marketplace where he wouldn't be spotted. There had to be a f
may as well buy another packcollapse, and breathe into the carpet:
sunday mornings are not
for falling apart, but damn
the amphorics, this
is not an atmosphere.
you fell in love like you always
wish you didn't, made all their
smiles replaceable, interchangeable,
fell asleep with shadows and kept
drinking, just letting yourself sleep
with blue pills
and tried not to scream.
(keep this image in your head:
fire and nectarines, a sudden jerk
of realization, inspiration
breaking your neck and leaving you forever
breaking bones is not so different
from breaking hearts - it's all about
the leverage, the angle, the mode
(and at least it wasn't personal;
it can color in your own guilt
for starting lines and never ending
The Panic Room (A Supernatural One-Shot)“Dean…? Dean?”
The name felt like lead on Sam’s tongue, so thick and heavy that he wasn’t sure if the syllable had actually made it past his lips.
The only reason he was aware of something cutting into his neck was the trail of red that was marking a small pathway against the stark fabric of his shirt. The dark suit and tie that usually accompanied the white-collared look were missing, but he couldn’t remember why.
His brother’s name seemed to drop soundlessly into the dark space before him. Everything felt heavy. Dull. Maybe he was dreaming.
But dreams shouldn’t smell of dust and abandonment. They shouldn’t be framed by cobwebs and wallpaper so aged that their floral design has faded into funeral bouquets. They shouldn’t have flickering candlelight and robed figures looking down on you.
No, dreams shouldn’t be like that.
But Winchesters don’t have dreams. They have nightmares. Sam smile
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