Supernatural Fic: whiskey spit
whiskey spit
Her fingertips still smell like over glass. Seven bottles left on the bar, third, four jobs wrapping up. Never the same place twice, the last boss had her story in his head and she was a runaway, half-truth - but this is far enough. Jo and her favors.
supernatural. jo. sam.
somewhere between all hell breaks loose and the magnificent seven. 948 words, pg13.
The east coast slides into thin roads off the highway, backlogged and dark with lights scattered over wheat-thin signs.
A dull hum press under her eyes. A little lost, Johanna and it’s Daddy covering her ears again. The speaking dead - Ma tried to tell her once, the road tends to get a little longer that way. Pulling into a lot, the truck spreads over the yellow lining. Stairs. It’s the third motel within a few days, work here and there. Girls and their purse, latex for mouths all for whirl of good fun.
The lot lines yellow as her gaze drops, a cool glow slipping over rain. She checks her watch then. Twice. Hits the radio, tired of reading the highway. A job’s a job. But her fingers slip over the dash, for her phone, nails click and Ma’s probably leavin’ a message. Just to make sure.
A favor. Late. He said an hour.
There’s a small book edging the seat. Over a hole. Bunts of ashes almost cost her the goddamn truck. Everybody knows the story. Damn gates of hell open and she’s got too much work to do. Not complaining, but still, expectation isn’t a surprise.
Her fingertips still smell like over glass. Seven bottles left on the bar, third, four jobs wrapping up. Never the same place twice, the last boss had her story in his head and she was a runaway, half-truth - but this is far enough.
There’s glue on the mirror, specks of something rather. She leans back, drops her phone, and reaches for a pack, then knife. Thumb over history, three separate letters and initials, everything that’s sorta been pushed to the side. Maybe, that’s why she really left. Daddy ain’t close, but breathing down her neck.
She bites a nail. Sam walks into view.
In the corner of the mirror, rope still burns at her wrist as the mouth on her throat. She shivers, her eyes closing. A piece of loose skin hangs loose if she goes and feels kinda nostalgic. She keeps pullin’ from time to time. Her hand sits over her throat with a mouth of nails. Swallow. Calm. Jo looks to the glass and he’s waiting on the sidewalk. Her fingers sigh over the handle, curling and tipping it back. The door moans, a kick open. The heel of her boot cakes with cracked mud.
Precautions. Her knifes traps to the side of her jeans, another two in the back. Sam fists. A small shot glance and she steps out empty-handed. Dark eyes. A slip of a mouth. She covers a twist amusement, reaching for the book as it sways low from her fingers.
He ducks, “Had some trouble.”
Her shoulders roll. Johanna again - can you imagine how fucking funny it would’ve been if they named her grace? Always on her knees, she hums. Daddy’s fingers down her throat. Soft. For the comfort. Never a kisser - that was always Mama.
“Fine,” drops at his feet and on your guard, Daddy again. Sam steps forward and there’s still dirt on his jacket. With smears, there’s no Dean and a thick sigh.
“Your mom -”
Don’t matter, but that’s a look. Burning the roadhouse down, she steals it, you know, a game of blame. Ain’t really sure what this whole book’s about, didn’t read; Ma wanted a favor done. This is how her reasons cycle.
So it begins and ends, which is what she has. Each levels of trust thrown away, split directions and the slur of her mouth is nearly a sneer. But the big girl likes to swing with cracked nails. Sam’s still wary and lookin’ right at the book.
Her mouth turns again. “Well?”
Ma seems to think nothin’ more of it. Sending him out here, but Daddy sticks thick. And careful, baby is almost clear. Her palms slick over her arms and elbows, boney, the road’s wound itself around her neck and always just passing through. She fumbles back but the hang of it comes much quicker. There are days when it’s always too much. But with dirt for knees, Jo’s reasoned enough and she knows that she doesn’t need much more than this.
No questions, but Sam’s still waiting and there’s a lace of what she saw, before, and in that bar. Her lips dry against the back of her hand. She wipes her nose. She could take the book back. The light off to the side’s starting to fade.
Sam reaches forward. She dares him.
He sighs, dropping back. “He can’t know, Jo.”
The surprise sways to evident and there’s coil of something rather, her voice almost surfacing with a cruel well. But Daddy always said somethin’ about biding time or maybe it was Ma, the woman always had a cruel streak when she wanted.
So her mouth starts to turn again, a step back.
“What reason do I have to tell him?”
Her hands are hands tucked behind her, still on guard but she caves over an edge. There are things, her finger spin for the itch and the learning curve’s sharper. Just a little time, just a little time. But she gets to the truck, facing a palm against her door. She watches the glass as he kneels, his fingers picking at the book. The nobody’s fault cracks long after days, along with Ma and a little advice. Possesion is still a dirt word and there’s a number in the car. Old poker friends owe her a second time.
“You look good, Jo.”
But the door’s already close, her radio spitting as her keys turn. She doesn’t take the mirror, but a little slip burns her cheeks.
In theory, she could tell him.
There might be a few missing pages.
-
Her fingertips still smell like over glass. Seven bottles left on the bar, third, four jobs wrapping up. Never the same place twice, the last boss had her story in his head and she was a runaway, half-truth - but this is far enough. Jo and her favors.
supernatural. jo. sam.
somewhere between all hell breaks loose and the magnificent seven. 948 words, pg13.
The east coast slides into thin roads off the highway, backlogged and dark with lights scattered over wheat-thin signs.
A dull hum press under her eyes. A little lost, Johanna and it’s Daddy covering her ears again. The speaking dead - Ma tried to tell her once, the road tends to get a little longer that way. Pulling into a lot, the truck spreads over the yellow lining. Stairs. It’s the third motel within a few days, work here and there. Girls and their purse, latex for mouths all for whirl of good fun.
The lot lines yellow as her gaze drops, a cool glow slipping over rain. She checks her watch then. Twice. Hits the radio, tired of reading the highway. A job’s a job. But her fingers slip over the dash, for her phone, nails click and Ma’s probably leavin’ a message. Just to make sure.
A favor. Late. He said an hour.
There’s a small book edging the seat. Over a hole. Bunts of ashes almost cost her the goddamn truck. Everybody knows the story. Damn gates of hell open and she’s got too much work to do. Not complaining, but still, expectation isn’t a surprise.
Her fingertips still smell like over glass. Seven bottles left on the bar, third, four jobs wrapping up. Never the same place twice, the last boss had her story in his head and she was a runaway, half-truth - but this is far enough.
There’s glue on the mirror, specks of something rather. She leans back, drops her phone, and reaches for a pack, then knife. Thumb over history, three separate letters and initials, everything that’s sorta been pushed to the side. Maybe, that’s why she really left. Daddy ain’t close, but breathing down her neck.
She bites a nail. Sam walks into view.
In the corner of the mirror, rope still burns at her wrist as the mouth on her throat. She shivers, her eyes closing. A piece of loose skin hangs loose if she goes and feels kinda nostalgic. She keeps pullin’ from time to time. Her hand sits over her throat with a mouth of nails. Swallow. Calm. Jo looks to the glass and he’s waiting on the sidewalk. Her fingers sigh over the handle, curling and tipping it back. The door moans, a kick open. The heel of her boot cakes with cracked mud.
Precautions. Her knifes traps to the side of her jeans, another two in the back. Sam fists. A small shot glance and she steps out empty-handed. Dark eyes. A slip of a mouth. She covers a twist amusement, reaching for the book as it sways low from her fingers.
He ducks, “Had some trouble.”
Her shoulders roll. Johanna again - can you imagine how fucking funny it would’ve been if they named her grace? Always on her knees, she hums. Daddy’s fingers down her throat. Soft. For the comfort. Never a kisser - that was always Mama.
“Fine,” drops at his feet and on your guard, Daddy again. Sam steps forward and there’s still dirt on his jacket. With smears, there’s no Dean and a thick sigh.
“Your mom -”
Don’t matter, but that’s a look. Burning the roadhouse down, she steals it, you know, a game of blame. Ain’t really sure what this whole book’s about, didn’t read; Ma wanted a favor done. This is how her reasons cycle.
So it begins and ends, which is what she has. Each levels of trust thrown away, split directions and the slur of her mouth is nearly a sneer. But the big girl likes to swing with cracked nails. Sam’s still wary and lookin’ right at the book.
Her mouth turns again. “Well?”
Ma seems to think nothin’ more of it. Sending him out here, but Daddy sticks thick. And careful, baby is almost clear. Her palms slick over her arms and elbows, boney, the road’s wound itself around her neck and always just passing through. She fumbles back but the hang of it comes much quicker. There are days when it’s always too much. But with dirt for knees, Jo’s reasoned enough and she knows that she doesn’t need much more than this.
No questions, but Sam’s still waiting and there’s a lace of what she saw, before, and in that bar. Her lips dry against the back of her hand. She wipes her nose. She could take the book back. The light off to the side’s starting to fade.
Sam reaches forward. She dares him.
He sighs, dropping back. “He can’t know, Jo.”
The surprise sways to evident and there’s coil of something rather, her voice almost surfacing with a cruel well. But Daddy always said somethin’ about biding time or maybe it was Ma, the woman always had a cruel streak when she wanted.
So her mouth starts to turn again, a step back.
“What reason do I have to tell him?”
Her hands are hands tucked behind her, still on guard but she caves over an edge. There are things, her finger spin for the itch and the learning curve’s sharper. Just a little time, just a little time. But she gets to the truck, facing a palm against her door. She watches the glass as he kneels, his fingers picking at the book. The nobody’s fault cracks long after days, along with Ma and a little advice. Possesion is still a dirt word and there’s a number in the car. Old poker friends owe her a second time.
“You look good, Jo.”
But the door’s already close, her radio spitting as her keys turn. She doesn’t take the mirror, but a little slip burns her cheeks.
In theory, she could tell him.
There might be a few missing pages.
-