This is a fun idea. And a nice way of discovering your writing. Here's the passage I'd like to hear more about (whatever comes to your mind, preferably something to do with the books and Sam and Dean's relationship):
It sort of amazed Sam the Men of Letters bothered to put complex dust prevention spells on the place, to create acoustics specific to different book sections, but didn't bother to catalogue most of the books. Particularly with all those junior Men of Letters in training, cheap educated labor force, eager to prove themselves. Sam could imagine spending his summer vacation cataloging, peaceful stacks of books, the whole world muffled in soft carpeting, and all that interesting knowledge and beauty at his fingertips. He would have done that for sure, just for credit the false hope of a chance at a TA position.
Sam shook cobwebs out of his hair, breathing the scent of old paper. It was very close to the scent of the Conroe library he'd spent weeks doing research in when he was twelve, and they were living in Cut and Shoot, Texas. It wasn't urgent research, just a little work to help out Bobby. It had been a kindness to dad, away for weeks hunting near the northern border. A kindness to Sam maybe, made up to keep him occupied while Dean was at work.
He'd spent most of his time curled up between the shelves, not sitting by the neon-lit tables. No one talked to him for hours, for most of the day. Not a lot of people drawn to the ancient languages shelf over summer vacation. It was good. In the evenings Dean would come pick him up, damp and smelling of machine oil, flashing his grin at Sam alone, and they'd walk the five miles back to the motel together, along the highway, as the huge open sky started to contrast against the stars.
The scent was the same, comforting and thick. Almost juicy. Brought back the feeling of thick, unbleached pages under his fingers, the cool scent of metal shelves high above the rich earthy books scents all around. The feel of Dean's roughening hands, black dug into the patterns on his skin, showing off the intricate swirly lines.
no subject
It sort of amazed Sam the Men of Letters bothered to put complex dust prevention spells on the place, to create acoustics specific to different book sections, but didn't bother to catalogue most of the books. Particularly with all those junior Men of Letters in training, cheap educated labor force, eager to prove themselves. Sam could imagine spending his summer vacation cataloging, peaceful stacks of books, the whole world muffled in soft carpeting, and all that interesting knowledge and beauty at his fingertips. He would have done that for sure, just for credit the false hope of a chance at a TA position.
Sam shook cobwebs out of his hair, breathing the scent of old paper. It was very close to the scent of the Conroe library he'd spent weeks doing research in when he was twelve, and they were living in Cut and Shoot, Texas. It wasn't urgent research, just a little work to help out Bobby. It had been a kindness to dad, away for weeks hunting near the northern border. A kindness to Sam maybe, made up to keep him occupied while Dean was at work.
He'd spent most of his time curled up between the shelves, not sitting by the neon-lit tables. No one talked to him for hours, for most of the day. Not a lot of people drawn to the ancient languages shelf over summer vacation. It was good. In the evenings Dean would come pick him up, damp and smelling of machine oil, flashing his grin at Sam alone, and they'd walk the five miles back to the motel together, along the highway, as the huge open sky started to contrast against the stars.
The scent was the same, comforting and thick. Almost juicy. Brought back the feeling of thick, unbleached pages under his fingers, the cool scent of metal shelves high above the rich earthy books scents all around. The feel of Dean's roughening hands, black dug into the patterns on his skin, showing off the intricate swirly lines.
It's from "A Cup of Tea Large Enough".