June 14th, 2018

writing

Birds and words




I'm going to be conducting a small experiment over the next month or so--sharing a couple paragraphs each week of whatever fic is currently in the works, in an attempt to maintain some kind of forward moment. RL is being really distracting right now, but I'm hoping at a little big of ongoing feedback online will help me stay motivated to keep writing.

So here's a small piece from another glimpse of Sam and Dean growing up in the bunker:
Dean, on the other hand, is currently following John's orders and slowly leading Sam out to where the lake's deep enough for them to start paddling experimentally, their underwear reflecting bright against the dark water. John hadn't seen any point in buying them swim trunks, but once they're properly submerged it's not like anyone will be able to tell the difference.

Over the shrieks of the other kids, John can just make out Sam's complaints to Dean about how cold the water is, his voice shrill enough to carry across to where John's just finished laying out their camping gear, back underneath the treeline. "And the bottom feels all slimy!"

"Well, if you get deep enough to swim, you won't have to touch the bottom," Dean says, ever the ten-year-old voice of reason. Sam doesn't look much impressed, but he follows his brother in a little further, until they're up to their shoulders and there's a sudden yelp of shock from Sam, followed by a wild flurry of splashing--though Dean's obviously still solidly planted, so there's no actual danger.