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crack_van2009-08-17 10:47 pm
liptonrm.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2009-08-17 10:47 pm
Entry tags:
Fistful of Rain by Rusalka (PG)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Gen
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
marinarusalka
Author Website: Marina’s Homepage
Why this must be read: It is one of the finest examples of a 'Five Things' fic that I've ever read; Dean Winchester and some of the ways things could have turned out.
The chanting grew louder. Dean glanced backwards over his shoulder and saw the black candles on the altar flicker, though there was no breeze in the room. Mom and Sam had their hands linked above the altar. Between them, the tall silver goblet of blood -- Sam's this time around, because the spell required blood from the primary caster -- seemed to glow with a faint reddish sheen that was too steady to be cast by candle flames. Mom's face was hidden by her hair, but Sam's was clearly visible: eyes shut, brow furrowed in concentration, skin flushed and gleaming with sweat as if he was feverish.
Dean tightened his grip on the rifle and swallowed down the sour taste of fear in his mouth. Sam had no business casting a spell this powerful. He was only fourteen, he'd never tried anything more demanding than wards and scryings before. But he'd been arguing for weeks that he was ready, and Mary had finally agreed, shooting down Dean's objections with a cool glare.
"Do your job, Dean," she'd said; "don't tell me and Sam how to do ours."
Job. Right. Dean had no illusions about the extent of his contribution to the family business. A strong arm, a steady aim, and the occasional pint of blood when a spell allowed for it. Mom and Sam did all the real work. Mary Winchester was probably the most powerful witch in North America. Sam was well on his way to catching up. Dean was the muscle.
Fistful of Rain
Pairing: Gen
Author on LJ:
marinarusalkaAuthor Website: Marina’s Homepage
Why this must be read: It is one of the finest examples of a 'Five Things' fic that I've ever read; Dean Winchester and some of the ways things could have turned out.
The chanting grew louder. Dean glanced backwards over his shoulder and saw the black candles on the altar flicker, though there was no breeze in the room. Mom and Sam had their hands linked above the altar. Between them, the tall silver goblet of blood -- Sam's this time around, because the spell required blood from the primary caster -- seemed to glow with a faint reddish sheen that was too steady to be cast by candle flames. Mom's face was hidden by her hair, but Sam's was clearly visible: eyes shut, brow furrowed in concentration, skin flushed and gleaming with sweat as if he was feverish.
Dean tightened his grip on the rifle and swallowed down the sour taste of fear in his mouth. Sam had no business casting a spell this powerful. He was only fourteen, he'd never tried anything more demanding than wards and scryings before. But he'd been arguing for weeks that he was ready, and Mary had finally agreed, shooting down Dean's objections with a cool glare.
"Do your job, Dean," she'd said; "don't tell me and Sam how to do ours."
Job. Right. Dean had no illusions about the extent of his contribution to the family business. A strong arm, a steady aim, and the occasional pint of blood when a spell allowed for it. Mom and Sam did all the real work. Mary Winchester was probably the most powerful witch in North America. Sam was well on his way to catching up. Dean was the muscle.
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