7s Meme (aka: how I procrastinate)
Stolen from all sorts of places.
1. Go to page 7 (or 77) of your current WIP.
2. Go to line 7
3. Copy down the next 7 lines - sentences or paragraphs - and post them as they’re written.
Presented without comment (or beta):
The naked thing and the bathing are bigger issues, though, and ones that they’re going to have to find a way to do something about. Left to his own devices, Castiel is prone to random bouts of stripping, tugging at the cuffs and collars of shirts that already drown him as if they could possibly be too tight. When they’re lucky, Cas just decides to peel himself out of the clothes again. When they’re not... well, Sam’s going to miss a couple of those tees that melted into the ether.
Sam assumes that Castiel has to have done some of this basic personal maintenance on his own before, taking into account the pretty low level of overall hygiene he observed in Cas’ family and the proportionally decent condition of his body, but Sam’s also starting to suspect that Castiel is a lot better at the ignoring-by-way-of-comatose-non-responsiveness than they’ve been giving him credit for.
The sponge baths aren’t so bad, a little awkward, but between all of their various injuries over the years - not to mention, you know, other things - it’s hardly the first time him or Dean have had to play nurse for family. And no, Sam’s not sure when he started thinking of Castiel as one of them, but after a month of carefully watching and waiting on the guy to go berserk and ending up with something more akin to a very lazy kitten, it’s hard to think of him as just part of a case anymore.
He’s not alone in it either, sees the softness in the way Dean looks at Castiel, all of that care-taking that Sam won’t put up with anymore flowing out of him like spring water. Even Bobby has stopped obsessively marking symbols around the door of the little room they set Cas up in at the back of the house. Dangerous magical entity or not, there’s something about Castiel that’s just damn cuddly.
Dean flops back on the tile, a couple of fingers absently clinging to the black enamel handle of the shears but not really pulling anymore. “Screw it. I’ll use the nail clippers.”
He rolls to his knees, then feet, the same fluid motion Dad’s drilled into them a hundred thousand times. His hand falls on Cas’ other shoulder like a reflex, paler mirror to Sam’s. Castiel turns his head, still hasn’t quite worked up to eye contact but he’ll get as close as glancing at their noses now. His breathing is unsteady, but it doesn’t seem like he’s working up to another spasm.
“You’ve gotta let us, Cas,” he attempts again, hunkering down so he’s more on level with Castiel’s eyeline. He feels like the creepy guy with the white van in every afterschool special ever, but it’s true when he says, “Dad won’t let you come with us looking like this. It’d attract too much attention. You wanna come with us, don’t you?”
1. Go to page 7 (or 77) of your current WIP.
2. Go to line 7
3. Copy down the next 7 lines - sentences or paragraphs - and post them as they’re written.
Presented without comment (or beta):
The naked thing and the bathing are bigger issues, though, and ones that they’re going to have to find a way to do something about. Left to his own devices, Castiel is prone to random bouts of stripping, tugging at the cuffs and collars of shirts that already drown him as if they could possibly be too tight. When they’re lucky, Cas just decides to peel himself out of the clothes again. When they’re not... well, Sam’s going to miss a couple of those tees that melted into the ether.
Sam assumes that Castiel has to have done some of this basic personal maintenance on his own before, taking into account the pretty low level of overall hygiene he observed in Cas’ family and the proportionally decent condition of his body, but Sam’s also starting to suspect that Castiel is a lot better at the ignoring-by-way-of-comatose-non-responsiveness than they’ve been giving him credit for.
The sponge baths aren’t so bad, a little awkward, but between all of their various injuries over the years - not to mention, you know, other things - it’s hardly the first time him or Dean have had to play nurse for family. And no, Sam’s not sure when he started thinking of Castiel as one of them, but after a month of carefully watching and waiting on the guy to go berserk and ending up with something more akin to a very lazy kitten, it’s hard to think of him as just part of a case anymore.
He’s not alone in it either, sees the softness in the way Dean looks at Castiel, all of that care-taking that Sam won’t put up with anymore flowing out of him like spring water. Even Bobby has stopped obsessively marking symbols around the door of the little room they set Cas up in at the back of the house. Dangerous magical entity or not, there’s something about Castiel that’s just damn cuddly.
Dean flops back on the tile, a couple of fingers absently clinging to the black enamel handle of the shears but not really pulling anymore. “Screw it. I’ll use the nail clippers.”
He rolls to his knees, then feet, the same fluid motion Dad’s drilled into them a hundred thousand times. His hand falls on Cas’ other shoulder like a reflex, paler mirror to Sam’s. Castiel turns his head, still hasn’t quite worked up to eye contact but he’ll get as close as glancing at their noses now. His breathing is unsteady, but it doesn’t seem like he’s working up to another spasm.
“You’ve gotta let us, Cas,” he attempts again, hunkering down so he’s more on level with Castiel’s eyeline. He feels like the creepy guy with the white van in every afterschool special ever, but it’s true when he says, “Dad won’t let you come with us looking like this. It’d attract too much attention. You wanna come with us, don’t you?”