the beginning of chapter 3 [an overview of the accident that landed Dean in his current predicament]:

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Tricky thing, memory. Slippery-sharp, jell-o with razorblades in it. The moments before the crash have seeped back into his damaged neurons across the crawling span of thirteen years. Lucky thirteen. 

He lies in bed early Sunday morning, drenched in panic sweat. The accident lives in him, bodily, dormant, like malaria. Every so often, the fever burns brand new. 

The semi-truck cab came out of nowhere. Dad, at the wheel, hadn’t seen it. Sam, in the front passenger seat, hadn’t either. An infernal alignment of circumstances: as the Impala cruised toward a soon-to-be green light, a string of fully burdened 18-wheelers hid the unloaded truck accelerating into the red in the righthand lane. 

Dean thinks he might’ve seen it. Flashes, in the gaps between vehicles. The physics don’t work out, but that doesn’t stop his guilty conscience. Nobody is sure what the driver was trying to do. Shithead told the insurance people he believed there was a dedicated turning lane, which was an outright lie. More than likely, he was distracted. Whatever the reason, the end result is the same. 

It’s true, what they say about time slowing, pre-collision. The atmosphere went out of the car, replaced by a numb, mute expanse of suspended motion. There, the universe forked. 

To anyone watching, it happened instantaneously. Dean had enough time to think, almost leisurely, Oh. He’s going to hit us.

He remembers Sam turning to look.

i’ve reblogged this before to say the same thing but i think it bears repeating that crucially, if you do execute an idea and feel like you got a less than stellar result……. you can do it again. remix. mashup. v 2.0. take another run at it.

the majority of writing is the process, anyway

how about an excerpt from chapter 1 nobody asked for

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Furnace-hot, Cas moves in next to him. “Do you want me to take over so you can sit? Forgive me, but… I can see you’re in pain.”

Which sends Dean’s hackles up instantly. Old habit. Bitchy one, too. Miles long resentment of people telling him what he is and isn’t capable of, based on their assessment of how he has to live his own trashfire life. “I’m good,” he bites out, clipped.

“I… Fuck.” Cas rounds down on himself, somehow both pathetic and adorable. “That was the wrong thing to say to you.”

“No. No, it’s just…” Fermented bitterness bubbling up, the toxic slime of having to defend his competence to abled-bodied looky-loos harbouring a bunch of stupid assumptions. “It’s a sore spot. I’m sorry. You mean well, but… I got this.” He offers up a placating, close-lipped smile.

Cas sighs. Nods. Doesn’t straighten out. “Let me explain. I know you’re capable. Clearly,” he says, looking around the whole room, as if Dean’s spotless kitchen is indicative of anything other than an OCD streak. “But, I’m a massage therapist, and I work primarily with people who are in pain. I know it when I see it, and sometimes I… overstep.”

Massage therapist? Dean gawks, again. What kind of wet dream is this guy? That has to be awkward as hell for his clients. Mr. Huge n’ Handsome with his gigantic mitts all over the tenderest body meats? Jesus H. Christ. “You feel people up for a living, huh?” Dean teases.

Turns out they can both say stupid things. 

Cas reaches for his beer and gives him a cold (massive) shoulder. “Not that kind of massage.“ There’s resignation in it. Like every loser asshole he’s ever told about his work has made the same godawful joke.

“You’ve… You’ve heard that one before.” Dean, defeated, notices a splotch of oil he missed when he last sponged the stovetop. 

“At least you haven’t said anything about a happy ending.” Blue eyes cut sidelong at him. “Yet.”

no really if you’re gay and you like pop………..