It's one for sorrow, two for joy, they say...
daemonprompts: Sticks and stones are hard on bones.
Armed with angry art,
Words can sting like anything.
But silence breaks the heart.
-Phyllis McGinley
It had been a dark night in the Roadhouse before, when tires rattled on gravel outside and John Winchester stepped out of that old black car. Jo was upstairs, heard the car coming up, the slam of the car door, and ignored it. It wasn't her dad's car, or Wyatt would have perked at the sound of the engine, and he was still sitting on the headboard of her bed, preening hawk feathers. It wasn't her dad, so she could afford to ignore it.
Not ten minutes later, the front door shut so loud she could hear it in her room. A car door slammed outside; the car took off, too fast. Her mom's footsteps and the soft click of Orrin's claws came down the hall, and the door swung open. "Jo, honey?"
The Roadhouse is still quiet now, but it's a sick, horrible kind of quiet, and Jo keeps listening in the quiet for the sound of her dad's truck coming down the road outside. Any minute now, she thinks, he's going to waltz in same as always, with a few new bruises and a grin, sweep her into his arms and it'll all be some stupid mistake. She doesn't hear the truck, though - the only sound is her own sniffling and ragged breathing, now that she's convinced her mom she just wants to be left alone.
The quiet feels heavy, more solid than Wyatt shivering rabbit-shaped against her chest. She's curled on her side on the bed, Wyatt in the center of the half-circle her body makes, and she's trying hard to focus on the sound of his breaths, the quick patter of his heartbeat under her hand, but all she can think about is the sound of the silence, sinking sharp claws into her chest. She can feel a scream rising in her chest, anything at all to break the quiet, but she clenches her jaw, swallows it down. Mom's not screaming. Dad wouldn't. So she won't either.
She's not even sure she notices the moment Wyatt changes. One minute, she's curled around him; the next, he's huge and covered in fur and wrapped around her, licking salty tears from her cheeks. She reaches out and twines her fingers through the thick fur at the scruff of his neck, and realizes with a start that he's one of those massive shaggy-furred guard dogs - not just like Tana, but close enough that her hear jolts a little, her stomach twists so hard she thinks she might be sick, and she has to bury her face in his fur.
Jo feels like she should say something right now - it's not real or do you think it hurt or he promised he'd come back - but there's nothing she can say that doesn't sound stupid, childish, just plain pointless. She falls asleep with tear-damp fur clinging to her cheeks, and Wyatt curled around her, and the silence of the Roadhouse curled around the both of them, inescapable.
Word Count: 497
Armed with angry art,
Words can sting like anything.
But silence breaks the heart.
-Phyllis McGinley
It had been a dark night in the Roadhouse before, when tires rattled on gravel outside and John Winchester stepped out of that old black car. Jo was upstairs, heard the car coming up, the slam of the car door, and ignored it. It wasn't her dad's car, or Wyatt would have perked at the sound of the engine, and he was still sitting on the headboard of her bed, preening hawk feathers. It wasn't her dad, so she could afford to ignore it.
Not ten minutes later, the front door shut so loud she could hear it in her room. A car door slammed outside; the car took off, too fast. Her mom's footsteps and the soft click of Orrin's claws came down the hall, and the door swung open. "Jo, honey?"
The Roadhouse is still quiet now, but it's a sick, horrible kind of quiet, and Jo keeps listening in the quiet for the sound of her dad's truck coming down the road outside. Any minute now, she thinks, he's going to waltz in same as always, with a few new bruises and a grin, sweep her into his arms and it'll all be some stupid mistake. She doesn't hear the truck, though - the only sound is her own sniffling and ragged breathing, now that she's convinced her mom she just wants to be left alone.
The quiet feels heavy, more solid than Wyatt shivering rabbit-shaped against her chest. She's curled on her side on the bed, Wyatt in the center of the half-circle her body makes, and she's trying hard to focus on the sound of his breaths, the quick patter of his heartbeat under her hand, but all she can think about is the sound of the silence, sinking sharp claws into her chest. She can feel a scream rising in her chest, anything at all to break the quiet, but she clenches her jaw, swallows it down. Mom's not screaming. Dad wouldn't. So she won't either.
She's not even sure she notices the moment Wyatt changes. One minute, she's curled around him; the next, he's huge and covered in fur and wrapped around her, licking salty tears from her cheeks. She reaches out and twines her fingers through the thick fur at the scruff of his neck, and realizes with a start that he's one of those massive shaggy-furred guard dogs - not just like Tana, but close enough that her hear jolts a little, her stomach twists so hard she thinks she might be sick, and she has to bury her face in his fur.
Jo feels like she should say something right now - it's not real or do you think it hurt or he promised he'd come back - but there's nothing she can say that doesn't sound stupid, childish, just plain pointless. She falls asleep with tear-damp fur clinging to her cheeks, and Wyatt curled around her, and the silence of the Roadhouse curled around the both of them, inescapable.
Word Count: 497