(no subject)
Pam raised the rifle to her shoulder, took aim. Fired. And again. And again.
Out in this particular field there was no one for at least a mile in any direction, she was pretty sure. Nothing but the targets lined up neatly on the stack of cinderblocks, cheap dishes from Goodwill purchased for the purpose of throwing them at walls.
But shooting them was so much better, and required her to focus. Concentrate. Take aim and fire and blow all those sons of bitches away. Breathe. In, out. Breathe. Adjust for wind. Breathe. Adjust. Breathe. Fire.
A couple of dishes were only clipped the first time, but she shattered every one of that row of six plates. Shouldered her rifle by the strap and made sure the safety was on, then went to set up another line. Breathe. She was still angry. Still furious, face hot and feeling like a fool. Because a part of her did admit that it was a pretty suicidal plan. Then again, all plans seemed suicidal these days, didn't they? Slow death or quick death, that was the only question.
Sometimes a rifle wasn't the right weapon for anger. Sometimes what you really needed was a machine gun. Too bad she didn't have one.
She did, however, have a shotgun. Which was great for making really big holes in things, or a cluster of really little holes if you were using rock salt. Demons, ghosts. Ex-boyfriends. Ex-boyfriends' engine blocks.
Trees, in this case. She took a few potshots at a few trees with the shotgun that was still loaded with rocksalt. So much for the tree-hugging pagan image. And by the time she was done she was still pissed off and kind of wanted to cry out of sheer frustration but she'd destroyed about as much as she'd intended to. Indulged herself about as much as her conscience would let her. If she was still going to be angry, she might as well do something constructive with it.
Her bookshelves would be organized better than the Library of fucking Congress. Her counters, banisters, windows, and everything else that could be would polished to a fine mirror shine. Her dishes would be done, goddammit. Beds made, linens aired, dustbunnies cleaned out of the attic by the time she was done.
Maybe she'd actually be in a mood to talk to Dean or, heh, even Castiel by then.
Maybe not.
Out in this particular field there was no one for at least a mile in any direction, she was pretty sure. Nothing but the targets lined up neatly on the stack of cinderblocks, cheap dishes from Goodwill purchased for the purpose of throwing them at walls.
But shooting them was so much better, and required her to focus. Concentrate. Take aim and fire and blow all those sons of bitches away. Breathe. In, out. Breathe. Adjust for wind. Breathe. Adjust. Breathe. Fire.
A couple of dishes were only clipped the first time, but she shattered every one of that row of six plates. Shouldered her rifle by the strap and made sure the safety was on, then went to set up another line. Breathe. She was still angry. Still furious, face hot and feeling like a fool. Because a part of her did admit that it was a pretty suicidal plan. Then again, all plans seemed suicidal these days, didn't they? Slow death or quick death, that was the only question.
Sometimes a rifle wasn't the right weapon for anger. Sometimes what you really needed was a machine gun. Too bad she didn't have one.
She did, however, have a shotgun. Which was great for making really big holes in things, or a cluster of really little holes if you were using rock salt. Demons, ghosts. Ex-boyfriends. Ex-boyfriends' engine blocks.
Trees, in this case. She took a few potshots at a few trees with the shotgun that was still loaded with rocksalt. So much for the tree-hugging pagan image. And by the time she was done she was still pissed off and kind of wanted to cry out of sheer frustration but she'd destroyed about as much as she'd intended to. Indulged herself about as much as her conscience would let her. If she was still going to be angry, she might as well do something constructive with it.
Her bookshelves would be organized better than the Library of fucking Congress. Her counters, banisters, windows, and everything else that could be would polished to a fine mirror shine. Her dishes would be done, goddammit. Beds made, linens aired, dustbunnies cleaned out of the attic by the time she was done.
Maybe she'd actually be in a mood to talk to Dean or, heh, even Castiel by then.
Maybe not.