Improv Writing Session #2
Hey all! Here's another opportunity to get some words down for the month: spnroundtable's monthly improv writing session.
[If you missed the first, it's a "Tis the Season" multifanwork prompt-and-fill with tons of great ideas -- tab it for later!]Each month, we're providing an show cap for you to utilize as your spn, rpf, or even original fic or meta muses ( Read more... )
[If you missed the first, it's a "Tis the Season" multifanwork prompt-and-fill with tons of great ideas -- tab it for later!]Each month, we're providing an show cap for you to utilize as your spn, rpf, or even original fic or meta muses ( Read more... )
Dean says it quiet out over the water, reeling in his line lazily with no real malice behind the words. Start of November and he's stripped down to a black tee-shirt, sun hot on his shoulders while he fishes off the side of a wooden bridge with a few yokels and his empty-chested little brother in Peoria, Illinois. A salt-and-burn is tagged, booked, and filed with a thousand miles between them and the next case; Dean's basking in unseasonable warmth and can't find himself to be too bothered by very much at all.
Sam lingers behind him somewhere between agitated and bored, if Dean's reading the shuffling of denim and scuff of boots right. He can sense that Sam is leaning back against the hood of the Impala, then standing, then digging into the passenger window for beef jerky, and now hovering over Dean's shoulder, tense, gaze transfixed on some middle distance out over the water.
"I remember doing this for hours," Sam says.
Dean kicks a mild look to him and almost laughs at how severe Sam's face looks: folded, crunched, dragging through memories that make no sense outside the context of emotion.
"Your pole's still in the trunk," Dean says, turning back to study the calm, early morning spell of the lake.
Sam hesitates there a minute longer before moving away from Dean again; he sits on the trunk. Dean can hear him accidentally kick the tackle box.
Dean sighs, shakes his head, and smiles. Almost says, yeah, you never really liked it then, either. Sam knows all there is to know about how to catch dinner or enjoy a quiet moment of blank space and sunlight casting white waves on the underbellies of leaves, but he only ever did it with his brother. This was always Dean's thing.
He catches a ripple somewhere out to his left and fixes to cast there. Decides last second to change out the lure; says to Sam, "Hey, hand me one of them grub lures, the bright yellow ones - yeah, and a smaller split shot. The tiny ones. This one's dragging in all kinds of shit, too heavy. Freakin' leaves."
Sam passes him what he needs, more focused the the screen of his cell phone than on anything Dean's doing. He says, "That professor in Montana's got a lecture on Friday afternoon, we should try to make it by then. Catch him after."
Dean switches out the spinner and mumbles, "I gotta be outta state in ten minutes but I'mma get you, you little fucker."
"Not like we can take him with us, Dean."
"Missing the point, as always, Sammy," he smirks, and flips his line out.
He tugs it back slow, face tipped up to the sun, shifting his shoulders and rolling his neck against the warmth. A breeze dusts his boots with road dirt. He catches eyes with the guy casting off the other end of the bridge and nods amiably.
When he feels that tell-tale tremble of his line he gives a sharp, reflexive tug and then grins. Pole tugging up toward the clouds, he reels it in.
"Well, shit, man, look at that," Sam says, and he's suddenly at Dean's elbow, forearms resting on the split wooden plank in front of them and watching with mild interest as Dean reels in his line and pulls up a rainbow trout that glows red and yellow in the sunlight and kicks like a mule.
"Ain't you gorgeous," Dean says, laughing as he tries to get a grip on the smooth sheen of slate colored scales. He unhooks quickly and carefully, barking, "Dude, let go!" as he stares down at the trout's empty gaping mouth and frees its gills from the lure. Once he's off, Dean drops hims unceremoniously back to the water and watches him swim away.
"Awesome," Sam says beside him. "Thing was huge."
Dean looks at Sam and finds him grinning, squinting to track the glint of white belly in the water below as it ducks under a bed of dirty yellow leaves folding over the surface of the water. He grins right back at his brother, relishes in the tiny thrill of victory, can't decide if it's over the catch or if it's because he feels like he just won back some tiny measure of Sam's mind.
He elbows at Sam and smirks, tilting his head back towards the car. Says, "Let's go, Mandroid, I'm good here."
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"I gotta be outta state in ten minutes but I'mma get you, you little fucker."
oh, Dean- he just makes me laugh.
And Sam probably didn't like fishing, but he'd have to be happy just because Dean scored!-so yeah, there's two things that didn't change.
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Dean switches out the spinner and mumbles, "I gotta be outta state in ten minutes but I'mma get you, you little fucker."
"Not like we can take him with us, Dean."
"Missing the point, as always, Sammy," he smirks, and flips his line out.
My favourite bit:-))
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