fic: spn: ashes and sulfur
Title: Ashes and Sulfur
Author: Rory
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Mentions of John/Mary
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 385
Warning(s): None
Summary: He takes a swig, his eyes burning as he forces them to stay open, staring at the wall. His masterpiece.
Disclaimer: Obviously I do not own Supernatural.
A/N: First post in response for my un_love_you challenge. In response to the prompt this is my desperation in action. Poor John. The table can be found here. This takes place around the time of the pilot or right before.
The walls are covered with notes.
His cell phone is gone. Discarded. Thrown away somewhere on interstate eighty-one after the thirty-seventh missed call from Dean. He can't find it in himself to feel guilty, and if he bothered to think about it, he'd probably find some form of relief buried deep in the recesses of his mind. No one to answer for. Nobody to explain himself to. Instead he sits on the sinking mattress, in the pay-by-the-hour motel he'd stopped at, staring at his life's work. Everything he had been working towards -- brought together and laid out in front of him, whispering tales of blood and lies; of deceit and cruelty. Of shame. For how he raised his boys, how he thrust a baby and a gun into the arms of his oldest and demanded he be a marine. For the way he yelled those haunting, echoing words (than stay gone) still reverberating inside his head whenever he decided to try to sleep. Deep, cutting, bleeding shame that screams abuses at him in the voice of his sweet angel with the jargon of his former drill sergeant. Staring at the crude rendition of too yellow eyes, he can almost remember the scent of burning flesh stinging at his senses. Prickling him. Daring him to run forward. To wrap his arms -- those same arms that had carried their son to bed hours before -- around an already charred corpse.
His fingers loosely wrap around the bottle of whiskey that stands by his feet, tall and proud, it's presence the one constant over the years. He takes a swig, his eyes burning as he forces them to stay open, staring at the wall. His masterpiece. This achingly beautiful mural of broken lives and distorted memories, the lies bleeding into each other like puckered stitches that dig into jagged skin. He wants to scream; to let somebody know he's cracked it, this code that has haunted him for two long, tiresome decades, only there's nothing but an abyss outside and the victory seems hollow in all the ways it's still incomplete.
He takes another drink from the bottle. It tastes of ashes and sulfur. He coughs.
His voice still too raw from the tears he hasn't cried, John lets out a single, low-pitched, wrecked moan, "Mary."
Author: Rory
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Mentions of John/Mary
Spoilers: None
Word Count: 385
Warning(s): None
Summary: He takes a swig, his eyes burning as he forces them to stay open, staring at the wall. His masterpiece.
Disclaimer: Obviously I do not own Supernatural.
A/N: First post in response for my un_love_you challenge. In response to the prompt this is my desperation in action. Poor John. The table can be found here. This takes place around the time of the pilot or right before.
The walls are covered with notes.
His cell phone is gone. Discarded. Thrown away somewhere on interstate eighty-one after the thirty-seventh missed call from Dean. He can't find it in himself to feel guilty, and if he bothered to think about it, he'd probably find some form of relief buried deep in the recesses of his mind. No one to answer for. Nobody to explain himself to. Instead he sits on the sinking mattress, in the pay-by-the-hour motel he'd stopped at, staring at his life's work. Everything he had been working towards -- brought together and laid out in front of him, whispering tales of blood and lies; of deceit and cruelty. Of shame. For how he raised his boys, how he thrust a baby and a gun into the arms of his oldest and demanded he be a marine. For the way he yelled those haunting, echoing words (than stay gone) still reverberating inside his head whenever he decided to try to sleep. Deep, cutting, bleeding shame that screams abuses at him in the voice of his sweet angel with the jargon of his former drill sergeant. Staring at the crude rendition of too yellow eyes, he can almost remember the scent of burning flesh stinging at his senses. Prickling him. Daring him to run forward. To wrap his arms -- those same arms that had carried their son to bed hours before -- around an already charred corpse.
His fingers loosely wrap around the bottle of whiskey that stands by his feet, tall and proud, it's presence the one constant over the years. He takes a swig, his eyes burning as he forces them to stay open, staring at the wall. His masterpiece. This achingly beautiful mural of broken lives and distorted memories, the lies bleeding into each other like puckered stitches that dig into jagged skin. He wants to scream; to let somebody know he's cracked it, this code that has haunted him for two long, tiresome decades, only there's nothing but an abyss outside and the victory seems hollow in all the ways it's still incomplete.
He takes another drink from the bottle. It tastes of ashes and sulfur. He coughs.
His voice still too raw from the tears he hasn't cried, John lets out a single, low-pitched, wrecked moan, "Mary."