can't hide behind social graces
originally i was gonna have a flashback to the catalytic scene in 'famous ghosts of texas,' but then i made it a dream sequence instead, because i like dream sequences, goddamn it. really obvious symbology for the win! anyway, this is abbreviated because i got annoyed with it way quick.
*
"You got drunk and tried to kiss me, Dean."
Three days ago, Dean got drunk.
Four states behind them now, there was a dive bar plagued by termites. There were gashes gnawed in the tables, unsteady wooden chairs. There was a neon PBR sign washing blue light over the pool table. Dean was rich, three hundred dollars folded thick in his pocket and more coming. Dean was playing cocky, strutting, posing subtly with the cue.
Dean was drunk.
Sam was at the bar, long legs bent under a stool. He was leaning forward, talking to the bartender with her punky platinum blond hair and silver piercing winking in her navel. Sam had been talking to her for almost an hour.
Dean made a tricky bank shot, the nine ball icing down the rail and thunking home. The smirk on his face deepened. He looked to see if Sam had been watching, but Sam wasn't paying any attention to him. Sam had that specific pretty-girl smile on his face, that soft thing happening around his mouth.
Dean turned back, a sneer on his face. The guy whose ass he was kicking called him a fucking asshole, but Dean was already finished with him. He said shortly, "Eight ball, side pocket, motherfucker," and sank it without looking.
Dean took his money from off the end of the table, went over to take the stool next to his brother. His balance shuddered, set him swaying. Sam glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Dean grinned big.
"Hiya Sammy."
Sam tipped his chin. "Hello Dean," he said, and he meant get lost. Dean was not too drunk to miss that, but he was too drunk to care.
"Let's go, man, I made a shitload of money. We can go now."
Sam nodded. His face was in profile, watching the bartender move around at the far end of the bar. "Feel free."
"So, come on." Dean punched Sam in the arm, a slow feeling in his stomach like being buried, like quicksand. He peeled a twenty off the wad of money in his pocket, left it on the bar. "You gotta drive, I'm all fucked up."
But Sam said no. He nodded at the bartender and gave Dean that look that said Dean was being intentionally thick-headed. Sam said, "I'll meet up with you later, all right?"
Dean didn't like that idea at all. He
*
Over the past four months, three men in this generic Midwestern town had killed themselves with shotguns. The antiques shop was the only point of coincidence Sam had been able to dig up about them, substantial purchases made by each prior to his death but the amounts spent weren't the same; it wasn't just one cursed object, clearly.
Dean was having trouble getting fully engaged. He'd never liked this part of the job, the quiet interviews and soft steps through hallways where they weren't supposed to be. It was probably all the crappy television he'd grown up on, but Dean was really altogether more comfortable with sudden noises like gunfire.
Bored to tears, he let Sam take lead. Sam captured the took a day and a half to win hearts and minds instead of just telling a more urgent lie.
The antiques store was the only connection between the three men who'd killed themselves with shotguns
she walks these hills in a long black veil. she kills widows visiting the graves of their husbands. they burn her bones but it doesn't work because her husband's best friend was hanged for a crime he didn't commit and buried with a lock of her hair in his pocketwatch.
I have been afflicted with a terrible Love.
*
"You got drunk and tried to kiss me, Dean."
Three days ago, Dean got drunk.
Four states behind them now, there was a dive bar plagued by termites. There were gashes gnawed in the tables, unsteady wooden chairs. There was a neon PBR sign washing blue light over the pool table. Dean was rich, three hundred dollars folded thick in his pocket and more coming. Dean was playing cocky, strutting, posing subtly with the cue.
Dean was drunk.
Sam was at the bar, long legs bent under a stool. He was leaning forward, talking to the bartender with her punky platinum blond hair and silver piercing winking in her navel. Sam had been talking to her for almost an hour.
Dean made a tricky bank shot, the nine ball icing down the rail and thunking home. The smirk on his face deepened. He looked to see if Sam had been watching, but Sam wasn't paying any attention to him. Sam had that specific pretty-girl smile on his face, that soft thing happening around his mouth.
Dean turned back, a sneer on his face. The guy whose ass he was kicking called him a fucking asshole, but Dean was already finished with him. He said shortly, "Eight ball, side pocket, motherfucker," and sank it without looking.
Dean took his money from off the end of the table, went over to take the stool next to his brother. His balance shuddered, set him swaying. Sam glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Dean grinned big.
"Hiya Sammy."
Sam tipped his chin. "Hello Dean," he said, and he meant get lost. Dean was not too drunk to miss that, but he was too drunk to care.
"Let's go, man, I made a shitload of money. We can go now."
Sam nodded. His face was in profile, watching the bartender move around at the far end of the bar. "Feel free."
"So, come on." Dean punched Sam in the arm, a slow feeling in his stomach like being buried, like quicksand. He peeled a twenty off the wad of money in his pocket, left it on the bar. "You gotta drive, I'm all fucked up."
But Sam said no. He nodded at the bartender and gave Dean that look that said Dean was being intentionally thick-headed. Sam said, "I'll meet up with you later, all right?"
Dean didn't like that idea at all. He
*
Over the past four months, three men in this generic Midwestern town had killed themselves with shotguns. The antiques shop was the only point of coincidence Sam had been able to dig up about them, substantial purchases made by each prior to his death but the amounts spent weren't the same; it wasn't just one cursed object, clearly.
Dean was having trouble getting fully engaged. He'd never liked this part of the job, the quiet interviews and soft steps through hallways where they weren't supposed to be. It was probably all the crappy television he'd grown up on, but Dean was really altogether more comfortable with sudden noises like gunfire.
Bored to tears, he let Sam take lead. Sam captured the took a day and a half to win hearts and minds instead of just telling a more urgent lie.
The antiques store was the only connection between the three men who'd killed themselves with shotguns
she walks these hills in a long black veil. she kills widows visiting the graves of their husbands. they burn her bones but it doesn't work because her husband's best friend was hanged for a crime he didn't commit and buried with a lock of her hair in his pocketwatch.
I have been afflicted with a terrible Love.