Creative Writing Exercises
Title: Waiting
Author: ryouseiteki
Rating: PG
Word count: Approx 300
Characters/Pairing: Claire
Summary/Prompt: Write a story wherein your character confronts a "narrow" situation, object, person, or place.
The councilors, psychiatrists, her mother; they all tell her she is young and resilient. That it should be easier for her than her mother to leave the past behind her; to be able to grow and change without her father around.
But they don’t understand.
It’s not so much her memories of her daddy that make her feel all too large and loose and empty.
It was for only a moment - a few minutes at most, but she remembers an angel. She aches for his presence; to chase away all of the new cold, dark places within her where he had filled her with heat and light.
She feels like her body is a huge hole, just waiting for his return. She wants it more than anything.
But they don’t understand.
When she wakes up screaming and crying with the echo of wounds to a grace no longer housed within her flesh, they try to sooth her with false platitudes. Nightmares, they assure her.
Lies.
She knows, on those nights, that Castiel is out there, injured and alone.
Sometimes, when it gets to be too much, she rolls quietly out of bed and crawls into the narrow space underneath it. The space is small, dusty, and so dark that she cannot make out her hand when she holds it in front of her face.
But it feels intimate; safe.
They’ll find her there in the morning, and throw her into more therapy sessions. Try to get her to down new drugs.
Because they just don’t understand.
But for now, she is here. She clasps her hands, tight, like her daddy taught her, and prays.
She whispers, “Castiel,” and sometimes… sometimes he whispers back.
“Claire.”
Title: Can't Let Go
Author: ryouseiteki
Rating: PG
Word count: Approx 750
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Summary/Prompt: Touch/Texture
The trenchcoat is soaked with dirty dripping lakewater, tacky black ooze, and old crusted blood when Dean retrieves it from the edge of the reservoir. It’s usually stiff, coarse fabric is heavy and cold; somehow diminished without its owner.
He crumples it accidentally when he fishes it out, creating random folds and creases that are offendingly out of place on the coat that had been just as stable and indestructible as the angel that had worn it. It deserves to be folded reverently, like an American flag at a veteran’s funeral, but Dean finds himself twisting it between his stubbornly clenched fists instead.
By now, he should be familiar with grief, yet the emotion always catches him off guard in its intensity.
He tosses Sam the keys after opening the Impala’s trunk, intending to shove the coat inside to deal with later, but Dean hesitates. It feels like abandonment, somehow. Wrong - to leave the damaged cloth back here; as if he is leaving the angel alone to his war all over again.
Not looking up from the currently-not-so-tan fabric as he closes the trunk with a decisive snap, lest his brother or foster father meet his guilty gaze, Dean shuffles into the backseat, the coat crumpled protectively to his chest. He’s a bit embarrassed - feels like he’s the chick in some old harlequin novel clutching at his pearls or something, but he can’t bring himself to let go just yet.
Neither Sam, nor Bobby mentions it, or the fact that he didn’t insist on driving. So Dean thinks they understand.
He’s exhausted when they get back to Bobby’s. Even Sammy’s wall issue's not enough to pull his attention away from readying for bed.
Still, it’s a little awkward when he finds himself reluctant to put down the trenchcoat, even just to undress.
Dean breathes deep, sets his jaw, and forces himself to walk into the bathroom; hovers over the tub.
The cloth might as well be fused to his skin; he’s so uncomfortable releasing it. He closes his eyes on impulse and relaxes his grip. The fabric slips slowly through his fingers. By the time it lands in the bathtub with a dejected plop, Dean’s face feels hot; twisted up in silent anguish.
He let his angel down; didn’t catch him when he fell.
He hurries out of the bathroom with hunched shoulders, rubbing at the evidence of tears on his cheeks. He leaves the light on in his haste to escape.
Dean changes and goes to the other bathroom to finish his nightly ablutions, avoiding the presence of the coat as if it had the power to judge him and find him wanting.
When he finally lays down to rest, however, he can’t sleep for thinking about it. About the frayed cuffs, the missing button he spotted, the torn girdle, the mud and blood and leviathan filth-
Dean springs up, unable to lay still for any longer thinking about it.
Sam and Bobby probably expect him to salt and burn it - a proper hunter’s send off, but Dean can’t fight the consuming need to fix it. Fix something.
He owes it to Cas.
As Dean rushes to the bathroom, suddenly filled with an almost religious fervor of purpose, he practically dives under the sink the suture kit.
He tip toes to the laundry room and cringes at the sight of the tanks of borax before grabbing what cleaning supplies he can. If he knew more about this stuff, he’d try looking for some delicate wash crap or whatever, but he doubts Bobby would have anything like that anyway. Hunters learn to make due.
As he plugs the tub and turns the taps to begin filling it with water, he places the still sopping coat into his lap, petting it gently, as if it were alive and needs soothing. He mentally catalogues whatever flaws it’s gained in the past week, and thinks that the coat has a long way to go before its good as new.
That's okay though; Dean's nightmares would have probably kept him awake anyway.
Title: Respect
Author: ryouseiteki
Rating: PG
Word count: Approx 460
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Summary/Prompt: Respect? Respect this...
The child pushed one of the boys with all of his small weight, causing him to fall over onto the person that the group of older kids had been beating up. The rest of the group stopped to look at the newcomer.
Younger by several years and tiny compared to them, the boy - short brown hair that curled slightly at the tips and big blue eyes - glared up at them, fearless. His hard, disapproving gaze made the boys feel uneasy, but he was just a kid, right?
The injured boy that the group had been bullying, about the same age as them, groaned as his assailant scrambled to his feet. The leader turned to see what had interrupted him.
Sharp, blue eyes had him swallowing and taking a step back before the bully caught himself; it was just a kid, what was the worst he could do, and in front of all of his friends too.
“Hey kid, we own this here neighborhood, see? What d’you think yer getting at, shovin’ me like that?” the grunt said, trying to use his size to intimidate the blue-eyed boy, whose haid barely came to his chest.
The young boy just glared and said, voice lower than expected for such a slight frame, “Dean is the Righteous Man, and you should show him some respect.”
The bully turned to the softly whimpering boy on the ground scoffed, “Respect? Respect this…” He lifted a foot to stomp down on the prone boy’s unprotected stomach, but a small and surprisingly powerful leg scythed out to connect to his standing ankle.
The leader, losing his balance, flailed out his arms with a startled yelp only to have his wrist captured by delicate fingers in a steel-like grip. The older boy found himself being casually flipped to land harshly on his side; something in his chest gave way with a painful snap.
He screamed himself hoarse as his gang helped him to his feet. The kid watched dispassionately as they half carried the limping bully away, casting paranoid glances over their shoulders at him with dazed expressions.
The little blue-eyed boy nodded slightly to himself before sitting beside the wounded one still crumpled on the ground in a heap over his own smears of blood. The injured boy laughed softly, voice a harsh rasp like sandpaper, with just a hint of liquid in the sound, “Cas. Ruining my street cred man.”
Cas hushed him silently with a calming hand placed soothingly on the elder boy’s freckled nape. “Dean,” he huffed a quiet sigh, “I’ve called Bobby, he’ll be here soon.”
Dean smiled into the unforgiving pavement, hidden. He got the feeling Cas could sense it anyway. “Thanks Cas. Don’t tell Sammy, k?”
The fingers on his neck squeezed gently.
Previous
Author: ryouseiteki
Rating: PG
Word count: Approx 300
Characters/Pairing: Claire
Summary/Prompt: Write a story wherein your character confronts a "narrow" situation, object, person, or place.
The councilors, psychiatrists, her mother; they all tell her she is young and resilient. That it should be easier for her than her mother to leave the past behind her; to be able to grow and change without her father around.
But they don’t understand.
It’s not so much her memories of her daddy that make her feel all too large and loose and empty.
It was for only a moment - a few minutes at most, but she remembers an angel. She aches for his presence; to chase away all of the new cold, dark places within her where he had filled her with heat and light.
She feels like her body is a huge hole, just waiting for his return. She wants it more than anything.
But they don’t understand.
When she wakes up screaming and crying with the echo of wounds to a grace no longer housed within her flesh, they try to sooth her with false platitudes. Nightmares, they assure her.
Lies.
She knows, on those nights, that Castiel is out there, injured and alone.
Sometimes, when it gets to be too much, she rolls quietly out of bed and crawls into the narrow space underneath it. The space is small, dusty, and so dark that she cannot make out her hand when she holds it in front of her face.
But it feels intimate; safe.
They’ll find her there in the morning, and throw her into more therapy sessions. Try to get her to down new drugs.
Because they just don’t understand.
But for now, she is here. She clasps her hands, tight, like her daddy taught her, and prays.
She whispers, “Castiel,” and sometimes… sometimes he whispers back.
“Claire.”
Title: Can't Let Go
Author: ryouseiteki
Rating: PG
Word count: Approx 750
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Summary/Prompt: Touch/Texture
The trenchcoat is soaked with dirty dripping lakewater, tacky black ooze, and old crusted blood when Dean retrieves it from the edge of the reservoir. It’s usually stiff, coarse fabric is heavy and cold; somehow diminished without its owner.
He crumples it accidentally when he fishes it out, creating random folds and creases that are offendingly out of place on the coat that had been just as stable and indestructible as the angel that had worn it. It deserves to be folded reverently, like an American flag at a veteran’s funeral, but Dean finds himself twisting it between his stubbornly clenched fists instead.
By now, he should be familiar with grief, yet the emotion always catches him off guard in its intensity.
He tosses Sam the keys after opening the Impala’s trunk, intending to shove the coat inside to deal with later, but Dean hesitates. It feels like abandonment, somehow. Wrong - to leave the damaged cloth back here; as if he is leaving the angel alone to his war all over again.
Not looking up from the currently-not-so-tan fabric as he closes the trunk with a decisive snap, lest his brother or foster father meet his guilty gaze, Dean shuffles into the backseat, the coat crumpled protectively to his chest. He’s a bit embarrassed - feels like he’s the chick in some old harlequin novel clutching at his pearls or something, but he can’t bring himself to let go just yet.
Neither Sam, nor Bobby mentions it, or the fact that he didn’t insist on driving. So Dean thinks they understand.
He’s exhausted when they get back to Bobby’s. Even Sammy’s wall issue's not enough to pull his attention away from readying for bed.
Still, it’s a little awkward when he finds himself reluctant to put down the trenchcoat, even just to undress.
Dean breathes deep, sets his jaw, and forces himself to walk into the bathroom; hovers over the tub.
The cloth might as well be fused to his skin; he’s so uncomfortable releasing it. He closes his eyes on impulse and relaxes his grip. The fabric slips slowly through his fingers. By the time it lands in the bathtub with a dejected plop, Dean’s face feels hot; twisted up in silent anguish.
He let his angel down; didn’t catch him when he fell.
He hurries out of the bathroom with hunched shoulders, rubbing at the evidence of tears on his cheeks. He leaves the light on in his haste to escape.
Dean changes and goes to the other bathroom to finish his nightly ablutions, avoiding the presence of the coat as if it had the power to judge him and find him wanting.
When he finally lays down to rest, however, he can’t sleep for thinking about it. About the frayed cuffs, the missing button he spotted, the torn girdle, the mud and blood and leviathan filth-
Dean springs up, unable to lay still for any longer thinking about it.
Sam and Bobby probably expect him to salt and burn it - a proper hunter’s send off, but Dean can’t fight the consuming need to fix it. Fix something.
He owes it to Cas.
As Dean rushes to the bathroom, suddenly filled with an almost religious fervor of purpose, he practically dives under the sink the suture kit.
He tip toes to the laundry room and cringes at the sight of the tanks of borax before grabbing what cleaning supplies he can. If he knew more about this stuff, he’d try looking for some delicate wash crap or whatever, but he doubts Bobby would have anything like that anyway. Hunters learn to make due.
As he plugs the tub and turns the taps to begin filling it with water, he places the still sopping coat into his lap, petting it gently, as if it were alive and needs soothing. He mentally catalogues whatever flaws it’s gained in the past week, and thinks that the coat has a long way to go before its good as new.
That's okay though; Dean's nightmares would have probably kept him awake anyway.
Title: Respect
Author: ryouseiteki
Rating: PG
Word count: Approx 460
Characters/Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Summary/Prompt: Respect? Respect this...
The child pushed one of the boys with all of his small weight, causing him to fall over onto the person that the group of older kids had been beating up. The rest of the group stopped to look at the newcomer.
Younger by several years and tiny compared to them, the boy - short brown hair that curled slightly at the tips and big blue eyes - glared up at them, fearless. His hard, disapproving gaze made the boys feel uneasy, but he was just a kid, right?
The injured boy that the group had been bullying, about the same age as them, groaned as his assailant scrambled to his feet. The leader turned to see what had interrupted him.
Sharp, blue eyes had him swallowing and taking a step back before the bully caught himself; it was just a kid, what was the worst he could do, and in front of all of his friends too.
“Hey kid, we own this here neighborhood, see? What d’you think yer getting at, shovin’ me like that?” the grunt said, trying to use his size to intimidate the blue-eyed boy, whose haid barely came to his chest.
The young boy just glared and said, voice lower than expected for such a slight frame, “Dean is the Righteous Man, and you should show him some respect.”
The bully turned to the softly whimpering boy on the ground scoffed, “Respect? Respect this…” He lifted a foot to stomp down on the prone boy’s unprotected stomach, but a small and surprisingly powerful leg scythed out to connect to his standing ankle.
The leader, losing his balance, flailed out his arms with a startled yelp only to have his wrist captured by delicate fingers in a steel-like grip. The older boy found himself being casually flipped to land harshly on his side; something in his chest gave way with a painful snap.
He screamed himself hoarse as his gang helped him to his feet. The kid watched dispassionately as they half carried the limping bully away, casting paranoid glances over their shoulders at him with dazed expressions.
The little blue-eyed boy nodded slightly to himself before sitting beside the wounded one still crumpled on the ground in a heap over his own smears of blood. The injured boy laughed softly, voice a harsh rasp like sandpaper, with just a hint of liquid in the sound, “Cas. Ruining my street cred man.”
Cas hushed him silently with a calming hand placed soothingly on the elder boy’s freckled nape. “Dean,” he huffed a quiet sigh, “I’ve called Bobby, he’ll be here soon.”
Dean smiled into the unforgiving pavement, hidden. He got the feeling Cas could sense it anyway. “Thanks Cas. Don’t tell Sammy, k?”
The fingers on his neck squeezed gently.
Previous