Filled: Barrel of Laughs
anonymous
September 27 2009, 22:03:10 UTC
Hope you like… first time I’ve ever done one of these… ;-)
It’s the little things that count.
Little spaces to be exact, little tiny six-by-three pine spaces that crack open to let dirt spill in and choke, smother, and Christ he can still taste the soil, still wakes up sometimes spitting it out, rubbing it out of his eyes.
Motel bathrooms are way too fucking small.
He takes to pissing with the door wide open, consents to leaving it a few inches ajar while he dumps, watches it all the time, lights blazing even in the middle of the night while Sam curses and pulls the pillow over his head and hollers that he should be able to find his ass in the fucking dark after all these years, surely? And, yup, Sammy, you’d be surprised how many things know how to find my ass in the dark, he thinks, with mixed spite and sheer misery.
He knows it’s pathetic, so much so that he’s totally game for slithering his body down into that freak kid’s underground pantry, stealthy, stealthy, thinking how damn spacious it is down there, Jesus, he could fit a pool table just over there (it’s fucking small, too small), 53-inch TV over there (walls closing in), wow, room for a pool in that corner, (roof falling down, Jesus it’s like the garbage masher in Star Wars and boy is he gonna be a whole lot thinner at the end of this hunt), and he can’t even bring himself to crawl into where they stashed the boy and it’s a relief when this spitting shrieking fury flies at him out of nowhere because more than anything it’s proof this place is big enough for two.
He must be slithering down the learning curve because he does his usual at RPS and hyperventilates his way to a pile of steaming entrails and just, splat, really, all that commemorates his new baby brother’s mom, even sucks it up to crawl his way through soil, fucking soil, sprinkling the back of his neck, to find said new baby brother bought the farm before they even met him.
Aversion therapy, that’s what it’s called, and he kids himself it’s working because heck, by the time it came to his baby brother’s grave, his own is a dim and distant memory.
Only, not so much.
His fingertips are bleeding, nails all split, splinters stabbing in under the nails and he’s scratching at the wood, thinking this is going to be just like the Green Mile and it’s going to take fucking years to scratch his way through, and the fucking irony of being jammed into a oak wine barrel and left to die with the smell of liquor making him dizzy but not in a good way, and he’s soaked with sweat, his face sodden with tears and snot because he thinks he might not be getting out of this one, not this time, that his brother is off somewhere shining with his demon bitch and maybe doesn’t give a shit anyway, and he can’t move, he’s crammed in, all folded up small because his limbs are broken and so, so bendy, and he knows he’s muttering Sam-Sam-Sam-Sam…
And all of a sudden the light floods in and he’s being raised (from Perdition?) and he’s a weeping pathetic mess and in the distance he can hear the voice talking him back into himself, crooning nonsense, hand stroking his hair, rubbing his back and he hangs on, never wants to let go even though he knows as sure as he’s damned that his brother is slowly leaving him, bit by bit, day by day.
Re: Filled: Barrel of LaughsxwackyOctober 11 2009, 19:29:44 UTC
...in the distance he can hear the voice talking him back into himself, crooning nonsense, hand stroking his hair, rubbing his back and he hangs on, never wants to let go even though he knows as sure as he’s damned that his brother is slowly leaving him, bit by bit, day by day.
This. Gets me so very very much. Your writings never cease to amaze me. And you totally own Dean, well his voice at least. Great short story!
It’s the little things that count.
Little spaces to be exact, little tiny six-by-three pine spaces that crack open to let dirt spill in and choke, smother, and Christ he can still taste the soil, still wakes up sometimes spitting it out, rubbing it out of his eyes.
Motel bathrooms are way too fucking small.
He takes to pissing with the door wide open, consents to leaving it a few inches ajar while he dumps, watches it all the time, lights blazing even in the middle of the night while Sam curses and pulls the pillow over his head and hollers that he should be able to find his ass in the fucking dark after all these years, surely? And, yup, Sammy, you’d be surprised how many things know how to find my ass in the dark, he thinks, with mixed spite and sheer misery.
He knows it’s pathetic, so much so that he’s totally game for slithering his body down into that freak kid’s underground pantry, stealthy, stealthy, thinking how damn spacious it is down there, Jesus, he could fit a pool table just over there (it’s fucking small, too small), 53-inch TV over there (walls closing in), wow, room for a pool in that corner, (roof falling down, Jesus it’s like the garbage masher in Star Wars and boy is he gonna be a whole lot thinner at the end of this hunt), and he can’t even bring himself to crawl into where they stashed the boy and it’s a relief when this spitting shrieking fury flies at him out of nowhere because more than anything it’s proof this place is big enough for two.
He must be slithering down the learning curve because he does his usual at RPS and hyperventilates his way to a pile of steaming entrails and just, splat, really, all that commemorates his new baby brother’s mom, even sucks it up to crawl his way through soil, fucking soil, sprinkling the back of his neck, to find said new baby brother bought the farm before they even met him.
Aversion therapy, that’s what it’s called, and he kids himself it’s working because heck, by the time it came to his baby brother’s grave, his own is a dim and distant memory.
Only, not so much.
His fingertips are bleeding, nails all split, splinters stabbing in under the nails and he’s scratching at the wood, thinking this is going to be just like the Green Mile and it’s going to take fucking years to scratch his way through, and the fucking irony of being jammed into a oak wine barrel and left to die with the smell of liquor making him dizzy but not in a good way, and he’s soaked with sweat, his face sodden with tears and snot because he thinks he might not be getting out of this one, not this time, that his brother is off somewhere shining with his demon bitch and maybe doesn’t give a shit anyway, and he can’t move, he’s crammed in, all folded up small because his limbs are broken and so, so bendy, and he knows he’s muttering Sam-Sam-Sam-Sam…
And all of a sudden the light floods in and he’s being raised (from Perdition?) and he’s a weeping pathetic mess and in the distance he can hear the voice talking him back into himself, crooning nonsense, hand stroking his hair, rubbing his back and he hangs on, never wants to let go even though he knows as sure as he’s damned that his brother is slowly leaving him, bit by bit, day by day.
But he’s here now.
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I shall return!
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And, yup, Sammy, you’d be surprised how many things know how to find my ass in the dark, he thinks, with mixed spite and sheer misery.
Such a DEAN thing to say!
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I'd already had that thought, my self. =)
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This. Gets me so very very much. Your writings never cease to amaze me. And you totally own Dean, well his voice at least. Great short story!
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