Terrible Symmetry, Or Why This Week Can Totally Kiss My Ass
Because I have learned nothing about the dangers of stopping at the store before work, I snagged some more coffee and club soda for my office, as well as some random stuff to see me through the next few days.
Back in the car and on the road, I had Tito & Tarantula describing the strange face of love to me from the CD player while I mentally drafted a scene for "Jumpin' Jack Flash," the first of the two companion stories for "Night Moves."
("You know what I am?" asked Dean. He braced the butt of the Remington 870 against his left hip, Sam noted, probably more out of respect for Sam's safety than because he had to work right-handed with any sort of weapons.
"Yes." Sam had been composing a new list ever since Dean had put those little pink barrettes in his hair while Sam had been asleep in the car, then had sent Sam in to that Flying J truckstop to buy Slim Jims and shaving cream before Sam had been completely awake. Asshole. Dean didn't wait for Sam to answer, though.
"I'm a porn star," Dean said happily. Sam glanced at his brother. Dean's freckles and eyelashes glinted cinnamon and amber in the ambient light, making his eyes seem all the more green. Dean was moving his shoulders in a deeply lame little carseat dance as he ejected the shells loaded with the silver flechettes from the upside-down shotgun. "Totally."
"Oh, shut up," Sam said, trying not to smile. He slowed the Impala to a rolling stop at an empty intersection before accelerating again. In his peripheral vision, Sam could see ripples of color in dark orange, milk chocolate, and red plum shimmering over Dean. "You're a jerk. A sparkly, stinking jerk. And roll down the window. Those clothes reek."
Okay. So, maybe not the coolest retort, but Sam suspected any quality efforts would just be wasted on Dean in his current annoying post-coital good mood. He glanced at Dean again. Catching Sam's look, Dean smiled at Sam and pointed to himself.
Porn star, Dean mouthed, the corners of his eyes crinkling. To Sam's amused horror, Dean punctuated that by grimacing what was probably supposed to be some sort of sex face at him.
It was seriously time to consider switching loyalties and throwing in with the Jack, Sam decided. Or at least asking the Jack to do him a favor and just fucking disembowel him.
Grinning despite himself, Sam lifted a hand from the steering wheel and flipped off Dean, who had resumed his wiggly little dance of Guess Who Just Got Laid while he began to load the shells packed with the white phosphorous payload.
"Porn star," Dean said again. He chambered the first round, racking it with gleeful enthusiasm. Sam looked over to see Dean's eyes glint with unholy but all too familiar big brother brightness after Dean checked the safety again and settled the shotgun across his lap. Dean was still smiling when he flipped on the dome light. The pale light illuminated the Jack-glitter on the car seat to dandelion yellow while the colors of cherries and espresso beans sparkled on Dean. "And I'm apparently not the only one. Dude, is that lipstick or a hickey on your neck?"
Fortunately, Sam managed not to drive off the road when he simultaneously tried to jerk up his shoulder and clap a hand over his neck.
"Hickey," said Dean, turning off the little light. "Awesome.")
Yeah. So, with that whole scene going through my head, I gradually became aware of a steady hissing sound in my car. Still driving, I checked the A/C, turned off the stereo, cracked and rolled up the windows. The hissing continued, unabated.
Honestly? I'm not on top of my game enough as a writer today (hello, this fucking week) to properly describe the entirely lame sequence of events that followed when I finally realized that the hissing sound was, in fact, due to a tiny puncture in one of the plastic two liter bottles of club soda. Eternally a dipshit, I assumed the seal had just been cracked and pulled the bottle into my lap. The puncture wasn't registering and I couldn't quite process how I was managing to squirt myself and the entire interior of the car as I wrestled one-handed with the bottle in morning traffic.
This turned into a sequence of such monumental slapstick proportions that I finally had to work my way to the side of the road. My white t-shirt? Totally soaked and fully transparent enough to reveal that I'd had to use a lacy pale pink bra since my preferred sports bras are all in the laundry. My jeans, my hair, my driver's side window, my rearview mirror -- drenched to the point of dripping.
Fortunately, I use a mug with a lid on it for my car coffee. Thank the fucking heavens for that because, otherwise, can you even imagine how much my day might have sucked?
I can cut the rest of the dipshittedness to admit that, yeah, I laughed myself stupid and shotgunned some of the club soda out of the side of the bottle (because fuck it, you know?) before I rolled in to work.
Tammie was just stepping out for a cigarette break when she saw me unfurl from my car. She eyed me, not saying a word.
"I can't imagine that there's a single thing I can say that would lead to a conversation either of us wants to have," I said, wringing out my shirt. She nodded then glanced at her cigarettes.
"It's smoke or kill today," Tammie replied, squinting a little as she took a long drag then released it. "And it's nine o'clock, and I've only got two cigarettes left."
"Awesome," I said, and meant it. I wiped my wet sunglasses uselessly with my wet shirt hem and put them back on, impressed that I had actually managed to make the visibility much worse. "Is my bra as see-through as my shirt?"
"Yep," said Tammie after another puff. "Do those jeans have an ass in 'em?"
"Last I checked. I'm not counting anything out today, though. This has just been that kind of fucking week, you know?"
She nodded vaguely, then said again, "Smoke or kill."
"Hell, yeah," I said, shouldering my bag as I opened the exterior lab door. ("Holy shit!" Don immediately said.) I smiled at Tammie. "And the good news is, I don't smoke."
In conclusion?
Dear Week: Fuck you, too. Right in the ass. With a pitchfork. Sideways.
Back in the car and on the road, I had Tito & Tarantula describing the strange face of love to me from the CD player while I mentally drafted a scene for "Jumpin' Jack Flash," the first of the two companion stories for "Night Moves."
("You know what I am?" asked Dean. He braced the butt of the Remington 870 against his left hip, Sam noted, probably more out of respect for Sam's safety than because he had to work right-handed with any sort of weapons.
"Yes." Sam had been composing a new list ever since Dean had put those little pink barrettes in his hair while Sam had been asleep in the car, then had sent Sam in to that Flying J truckstop to buy Slim Jims and shaving cream before Sam had been completely awake. Asshole. Dean didn't wait for Sam to answer, though.
"I'm a porn star," Dean said happily. Sam glanced at his brother. Dean's freckles and eyelashes glinted cinnamon and amber in the ambient light, making his eyes seem all the more green. Dean was moving his shoulders in a deeply lame little carseat dance as he ejected the shells loaded with the silver flechettes from the upside-down shotgun. "Totally."
"Oh, shut up," Sam said, trying not to smile. He slowed the Impala to a rolling stop at an empty intersection before accelerating again. In his peripheral vision, Sam could see ripples of color in dark orange, milk chocolate, and red plum shimmering over Dean. "You're a jerk. A sparkly, stinking jerk. And roll down the window. Those clothes reek."
Okay. So, maybe not the coolest retort, but Sam suspected any quality efforts would just be wasted on Dean in his current annoying post-coital good mood. He glanced at Dean again. Catching Sam's look, Dean smiled at Sam and pointed to himself.
Porn star, Dean mouthed, the corners of his eyes crinkling. To Sam's amused horror, Dean punctuated that by grimacing what was probably supposed to be some sort of sex face at him.
It was seriously time to consider switching loyalties and throwing in with the Jack, Sam decided. Or at least asking the Jack to do him a favor and just fucking disembowel him.
Grinning despite himself, Sam lifted a hand from the steering wheel and flipped off Dean, who had resumed his wiggly little dance of Guess Who Just Got Laid while he began to load the shells packed with the white phosphorous payload.
"Porn star," Dean said again. He chambered the first round, racking it with gleeful enthusiasm. Sam looked over to see Dean's eyes glint with unholy but all too familiar big brother brightness after Dean checked the safety again and settled the shotgun across his lap. Dean was still smiling when he flipped on the dome light. The pale light illuminated the Jack-glitter on the car seat to dandelion yellow while the colors of cherries and espresso beans sparkled on Dean. "And I'm apparently not the only one. Dude, is that lipstick or a hickey on your neck?"
Fortunately, Sam managed not to drive off the road when he simultaneously tried to jerk up his shoulder and clap a hand over his neck.
"Hickey," said Dean, turning off the little light. "Awesome.")
Yeah. So, with that whole scene going through my head, I gradually became aware of a steady hissing sound in my car. Still driving, I checked the A/C, turned off the stereo, cracked and rolled up the windows. The hissing continued, unabated.
Honestly? I'm not on top of my game enough as a writer today (hello, this fucking week) to properly describe the entirely lame sequence of events that followed when I finally realized that the hissing sound was, in fact, due to a tiny puncture in one of the plastic two liter bottles of club soda. Eternally a dipshit, I assumed the seal had just been cracked and pulled the bottle into my lap. The puncture wasn't registering and I couldn't quite process how I was managing to squirt myself and the entire interior of the car as I wrestled one-handed with the bottle in morning traffic.
This turned into a sequence of such monumental slapstick proportions that I finally had to work my way to the side of the road. My white t-shirt? Totally soaked and fully transparent enough to reveal that I'd had to use a lacy pale pink bra since my preferred sports bras are all in the laundry. My jeans, my hair, my driver's side window, my rearview mirror -- drenched to the point of dripping.
Fortunately, I use a mug with a lid on it for my car coffee. Thank the fucking heavens for that because, otherwise, can you even imagine how much my day might have sucked?
I can cut the rest of the dipshittedness to admit that, yeah, I laughed myself stupid and shotgunned some of the club soda out of the side of the bottle (because fuck it, you know?) before I rolled in to work.
Tammie was just stepping out for a cigarette break when she saw me unfurl from my car. She eyed me, not saying a word.
"I can't imagine that there's a single thing I can say that would lead to a conversation either of us wants to have," I said, wringing out my shirt. She nodded then glanced at her cigarettes.
"It's smoke or kill today," Tammie replied, squinting a little as she took a long drag then released it. "And it's nine o'clock, and I've only got two cigarettes left."
"Awesome," I said, and meant it. I wiped my wet sunglasses uselessly with my wet shirt hem and put them back on, impressed that I had actually managed to make the visibility much worse. "Is my bra as see-through as my shirt?"
"Yep," said Tammie after another puff. "Do those jeans have an ass in 'em?"
"Last I checked. I'm not counting anything out today, though. This has just been that kind of fucking week, you know?"
She nodded vaguely, then said again, "Smoke or kill."
"Hell, yeah," I said, shouldering my bag as I opened the exterior lab door. ("Holy shit!" Don immediately said.) I smiled at Tammie. "And the good news is, I don't smoke."
In conclusion?
Dear Week: Fuck you, too. Right in the ass. With a pitchfork. Sideways.