Dean Winchester [5]blackclaudeMarch 18 2009, 03:36:31 UTC
Samples
Third-person sample; Dean thumped the bottom of the canister, shaking out the last grains of salt onto the gasoline-soaked bones. There wasn’t much left, but it would be enough to send the angry spirit back to who knows where. Dean glanced at his brother across the open grave; Sam was glaring into the hole and cradling his dislocated-relocated shoulder. Dean had done his best to pop it back into place, but it hadn’t gone easily. He wondered if they’d have to get it checked out by a doctor, just to be safe. But not in that town. No, the way they’d left that family’s house, they’d have to go at least four towns over. Maybe even over the state line.
“It’s all yours,” Dean said, offering his book of matches to Sam. It was only fair; the one who had the biggest grudge against the spirit got to do the torching. And while Dean had gotten plenty scratched up in the fight, he couldn’t compete with getting thrown off a balcony.
Sam took his good hand away for a second, and then clamped it back to his shoulder with a wince. “Go ahead,” he said, pain and annoyance clear in his voice.
Dean smiled to himself and scraped the match head against the box. He watched the little flame for a second, the only light in the graveyard, and flicked it into the hole. A wall of heat hit him in the face and the bright flames that leapt up hurt his eyes.
“So long,” he muttered to the crackling bones. “Go be a pain in the ass somewhere else.”
Third-person sample;
Dean thumped the bottom of the canister, shaking out the last grains of salt onto the gasoline-soaked bones. There wasn’t much left, but it would be enough to send the angry spirit back to who knows where. Dean glanced at his brother across the open grave; Sam was glaring into the hole and cradling his dislocated-relocated shoulder. Dean had done his best to pop it back into place, but it hadn’t gone easily. He wondered if they’d have to get it checked out by a doctor, just to be safe. But not in that town. No, the way they’d left that family’s house, they’d have to go at least four towns over. Maybe even over the state line.
“It’s all yours,” Dean said, offering his book of matches to Sam. It was only fair; the one who had the biggest grudge against the spirit got to do the torching. And while Dean had gotten plenty scratched up in the fight, he couldn’t compete with getting thrown off a balcony.
Sam took his good hand away for a second, and then clamped it back to his shoulder with a wince. “Go ahead,” he said, pain and annoyance clear in his voice.
Dean smiled to himself and scraped the match head against the box. He watched the little flame for a second, the only light in the graveyard, and flicked it into the hole. A wall of heat hit him in the face and the bright flames that leapt up hurt his eyes.
“So long,” he muttered to the crackling bones. “Go be a pain in the ass somewhere else.”
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