SPN Fanfic: Catch a Tiger
Title: Catch a Tiger
Rating: R?
Pairing: None
Word Count: ~3,000
Spoilers: Pre-series, so none? Takes place the summer after "A Very Supernatural Christmas."
Warnings: Creepy OPOV. Also attempted non-con, but not very graphic.
Disclaimer: Please don’t sue me.
Author's Note: Thanks for editing, Mom! No, I'm not telling you my LJ name.
Summary: The boys in room 37 had been alone for four days.
(AO3)
The boys in room 37 had been alone for four days. Billy had been watching Sunday evening when the old black car rumbled off into the dusky twilight, had listened with half an ear for it to return while he nursed a bottle of Dark Eyes and watched a Reds game through 11 innings. He never heard its return and it had been missing from the lot the next morning. He tried to keep his thoughts from straying to the motel room three doors down (so close), the boys left behind (so pretty). After his last bit of trouble he swore to himself he’d be good, he’d look but not touch, and he’d kept that promise for five years. But every day he stood in the shadowy doorway of his room watching them play in the scrubby patch of trees next to the motel. His breath would catch and his heart would speed up when their playing turned to scrapping and rolling around in the dirt, barely pulled punches, growling and yelling like wild things, and his resolve would falter. His eyes would flicker from one to the other and his thoughts would turn from if to when and from when to which, and he’d whisper “Eenie meenie miney moe” to himself as he watched them play.
On the fifth day the black beast pulled into the lot around noon and Billy released a breath he felt like he’d been holding for days. A bear of a man climbed from the car, too much coat for midday in June, barely concealing a pistol, and Billy felt like he’d literally dodged a bullet. The kids flew out of 37 in a flurry of skinny limbs and wide smiles and words tumbling from their mouths (“Yessir” and “nosir” and “Dean always gets to pick what we watch” and “You try and make Sammy take a bath..sir”) and he moved away from the window, muffled voices floating over him, relieved. He had been good, he’d been good and they’d pack up their meager belongings and motor on down highway 62 and Billy could go back to living in this rooms-by-the-week dump and get on with the slow business of drinking himself to death.
Thank you, he breathed, and decided that his restraint had earned him some alone time with his…thoughts. He stretched out on the bed and tugged down his zipper and thought of skinny-boy limbs in a twisting tangle beneath him.
But they did not motor on down highway 62, they stayed that day, and the day after and when he heard the old car rumble away at first light on the third day, he knew knew it was just the man, that the car had left but the boys had stayed and his trial was not over. Groaning, he rolled over and jerked himself, hard, angry thrusts like lancing a boil. His need was ballooning and he knew he was not a strong man.
~~~
It was a pattern that repeated itself over the next few weeks. The car would rumble up, Papa Bear would be greeted enthusiastically by his kids, he would stay for a day or two, and then drive off again. But how long he would stay and how long he would stay gone were variables Billy couldn’t predict (good, good, can’t get in trouble if I can’t find the pattern). And if he found himself thinking about room 37 more and more often (right after he leaves would be best, more time), well, a man could not be held accountable for his thoughts.
~~~
The next Saturday evening finds him sharing his vodka with Randall behind the front desk and playing gin between the very occasional visits from guests.
“Those kids bothering you any?” Randall asks, dealing out a new hand of seven and laying the deck between them.
“What kids?” Billy asks, voice suddenly thick in his throat.
“Figured you’d seen them, they’re down at your end of the court. Dad strolls through every few days to pay for another week but I don’t think he sticks around long.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen ’em. Don’t seem to get in too much trouble considering.”
Randall discards a six of clubs. “Can’t figure out what he does all the time, in and out like he is. Don’t seem right.”
Billy grunts but says nothing.
“Seem like okay kids I guess. Come in to play the arcade games once in awhile.”
Billy picks up the six. “Guess they aren’t hurting anything. Not like anyone’s asking you to babysit.”
“No…not like I want cops sniffing around here either. Still, it’s kinda weird.”
Billy grunts again, willing his face into a mask of indifference.
“Lemme know if they’re being too rowdy or anything and I guess I can make them move along next time the big guy passes through.”
“They’re not bothering me none. I guess just let ’em be.”
“I guess.”
When Randall hits the head, Billy stretches up to grab one of the extra keys for 37 from the row of keys that hang on nails behind the desk. He tucks it into his shoe, where it feels hot against the arch of his sticky foot, hot like desire and the flush of guilt.
He’s stopped playing eenie meenie in his head, figures an opening will come along and he’ll take it, whichever kid it is, his five years of “sobriety” gone in a wink. They both fall into what he considers the acceptable (desirable) age range, the oldest just a whisper away from puberty. He figures going for both would be greedy…plus he’s seen how well they fight for scrawny underfed kids. But a few minutes with one alone, where shame and guilt will keep them still and stop them from blabbing…hell, he might not even have to move on to another motel. Though he hasn’t forgotten the flash of gun he saw tucked in Papa Bear’s jeans….best play it by ear.
Randall has just laid down his cards (“That’s three in a row for me Billy, where’s your head tonight?”) when the bell rings and in walk the kids.
“Excuse me sir?” asks the older boy (Dean?) “Can we get change for the arcade games?” He steps up to the counter and pushes two crumpled singles across the desk. Randall stands and slides the money into the cash drawer, counts out eight quarters. The older kid smiles up at Randall and Billy’s gut twists. Behind him, the younger boy hangs back, looking shy and uneasy, eyes round and watchful. He meets Billy’s gaze and then looks away again (quiet, quiet is good).
“C’mon Sammy. Gonna kick your ass at deer hunting.”
The younger kid snorts softly but follows his brother into the next room, where the vending machines hum loudly and ice clatters periodically into the large metal bin.
“- seen him watching us” says the young one quietly, and Billy doesn’t dare look up at Randall to see if he’s heard. He strains for more, catches just a snatch of “It’s okay Sammy, dad’ll be back soon” and then the rest of their conversation is drowned out by the sounds of the game and their plastic guns.
~~~
Billy’s watching Donahue and nursing a hangover when he hears the rumbly black car pull into the lot. The key has been tormenting him, small flash of brass on a brown plastic diamond stamped 3 7 that he turns over and over in his hands each night before sliding it back into his shoe. Just pack them up, he wills the father, pack them up and get gone and he means it, but the thought is at war with another, darker, not yet, not yet, just a taste, I’ve been so good… He creeps to the flimsy door to eavesdrop, noticing that they don’t sound quite as happy to see dear old dad as they had the first few visits.
“-nothing to do here-”
“-won’t let me do anything-”
“-can’t get any training done here, and you promised-”
“Boys,” and the low grumble silences the kids immediately. Then murmurs, hard to hear even through the cheap wood: “sorry…idea of summer” and “Jim’s doing a lot better” and louder, “just a few more things to take care of, and we can get out of here. You can stay in Minnesota for the rest of the summer till I figure out where we should be for the school year.”
This is met with laughter and happy shouts and the older kid sounding relieved. “Thanks Dad. We’re going kinda crazy here.”
“How bout you boys let me get a shower and then we can go to McDonalds for lunch, maybe a movie?”
Billy guesses from their cheers (“Batman! Batman!”) that it doesn’t take much to please the two boys who’d been creeping around the Starlight Inn for the past few weeks like unwanted pups.
He takes the key to 37 out of his pocket again, traces the numbers with his index finger, and thinks of long coltish legs and soft pink lips.
~~~
The problem, Billy notices, is that the kids are never alone. Frick and Frack, Tweedledee and Tweedledum-where one goes the other follows. Billy tries to figure out-hypothetically, of course, like a logic puzzle, like a crossword-how he could separate them for just long enough. He’s zeroed in on the younger boy; the older kid seems kinda mouthy and suspicious and old beyond his years. Of course, if the universe were to drop him in Billy’s lap, he’d happily make lemonade from lemons, but all things considered it seems like he’d be safer going after the littler one.
But, he can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen one without the other. Once, Dean’s playing in the shabby arcade alone, another time they pass each other on the rutted sidewalk outside of the liquor store-Billy going to stock up, the kid swinging a Speedway bag with a loaf of bread sticking out the top. That time his heart sped up (alone, alone! ) but he played it cool, nodded at the boy once, knowing he couldn’t do anything at high noon with cars whizzing past. Later, back in his room mixing the day’s first screwdriver, he would note distantly that he’d stopped hoping for Papa Bear to come swoop up the kids and move them out of his life.
~~~
It’s Friday afternoon and he’s been on pins and needles waiting, waiting for his chance. This chance. For the past couple of days he’s been a razor’s edge of need, of want (been so long, been so good), settling for maintenance sips of his vodka so that he’s ready to strike, a coiled snake.
Papa Bear left around dawn and the older brother is trudging into the horizon towards the convenience store two miles down the road. He’d heard the little one say “You want me to go with you?” and then Dean, “Nah, you can hang out here, just getting some food.” A squabble broke out about how much candy they could afford, and then Dean again, “Just stay inside till I get back, and don’t answer the door.”
Four-mile walk plus shopping plus kid-on-his own farting around should give him at least an hour, maybe even two. With shaking hands, he picks up the stolen room key and heads toward the door and into the dazzling July sun.
He hesitates outside of 37, quick glance around. No one nearby, motel office facing the other direction. He hears the muffled sound of the TV inside, Family Feud maybe, nothing else. He slips the key in the lock and opens the door.
Inside, it’s cool and dark, air conditioner humming, but the room is empty. He scans the dim interior for some sign of the kid and then hears the toilet flush, and the bathroom door opens.
“Did you forget the money, loser?” Billy hears before the kid turns toward the door, sees him, and freezes.
“Hi Sammy,” he says, shutting the door softly behind him.
There’s no who are you or what do you want or what are you doing, no chance for him to tell any of the lies that usually work in these situations (“your brother’s been hit by a car” the one he’d been toying with), just a flash of dark eyes and then the kid is bolting for the closet. Billy crosses the room in three steps, intent on grabbing his thin shoulders and shoving him to his knees, when the kid whirls on him (holy fuck, is that a shotgun? ) and fucking growls, “Get out!”
And maybe another day here’s where the story ends, with him fleeing from a homicidal nine-year-old while Ray Combs shouts “Survey says!” but not today, today he’s perpetual motion and he’s been so wound up and ready for this, he’s been so good, and he doesn’t even flinch. He grabs the gun with one hand and flings it onto the bed (and maybe you should have gone for daddy’s pistol you little shit, easier to hang on to). His fist swings around with a meaty thwock to the kid’s left eye. The kid rocks back but stays on his feet and Billy grabs him by the throat.
He’s thinking goddammit and motherfucker because the kid’s marked up now, isn’t he, and it wasn’t supposed to go down like this, he was supposed to be scared and teary and quiet quiet quiet and he could’ve slipped back to his own room with promises of I won’t tell I promise please don’t hurt my brother in his ears and that would have been that but this fucking kid has ruined everything and it’s all spinning out of control and the stupid kid is still not on his fucking knees.
A small sneaker lashes out at him, kicking him square in the kneecap and Billy oofs in pain, tightens his grip on the kid’s throat and lifts him into the air and now the kid’s scrabbling at his hand and struggling to breathe, still kicking but weakly, and that’s better, you little shit, his other arm coming up to press into the skinny chest and keep him pinned to the closet door and god, he’s so hard and he’s been so good and he deserves this, doesn’t he? Leaning over he breathes in the kid’s clean, soapy scent, presses tight against him, reaches for him finally finally…
And then a shattering pain above his left ear and he’s sliding to the floor, senseless.
When he comes to (jesus fuck my head) he’s dizzy and retching, hands wrenched behind his back, and thoroughly confused. Was he in a fight? Arrested? He hears voices, kids, and starts to remember his perfect day sliding into this shitstorm.
“--he was just there, he knew my name--”
“Throw these in a duffel, hurry it up, dad’s gonna be here in an hour.”
“I don’t even understand what he wanted, what did he want?--”
“Sam! Don’t worry about it, you gotta help me pack.”
Silence, shuffling sounds. Then, in a smaller voice, “Is he a monster? Was dad… hunting him?”
A long pause, and then a sigh. “I don’t think so Sammy. I think he’s just a dick.”
Billy tries to sit up see if he can get this fucking day back on track, maybe take on both of the little assholes, but gets another smack to the head for his trouble and his vision goes swimmy and gray again.
The next time he’s fully conscious, he’s slumped against a tree in the scrubby patch behind the motel, head still ringing, hands still cuffed behind his back, aware that his shirt smells like vomit and he’s pissed himself at some point. The sun is lower, the clouds a dreamy pink, and…
Papa Bear is pointing a gun at him.
“Hello William.”
He takes in a shuddery breath.
“Wha’s goin on?” he mumbles.
“You tried to take something today that doesn’t belong to you.”
“I didn’t, didn’t hurt him-” his eyes track the gun with difficulty.
“He has a black eye and bruises on his throat that say different.”
Billy winces. “That wasn’t me, ask the other kid, they’re always fightin-”
“That right?” Papa Bear’s voice is low and gentle as he crouches in front of Billy.
“I swear, I swear, I didn’t touch him.”
Papa Bear scratches his stubbly beard and then asks, “How many kids you hurt over the years, William?”
“None, none, I promise.”
“Well, I know you hurt my boy today so your promises don’t mean much.”
Papa Bear stands up and circles behind the tree Billy’s leaning on.
“I need these cuffs back, you’re not gonna give me any problems are you?” he asks, kneeling.
Billy licks his lips, tries to shake his head no but gets dizzy again.
“No, don’t want any trouble.”
Papa Bear laughs softly at that as he twists the key and Billy’s hands fall numb to the dry grass.
“You a lefty?”
“No,” Billy mumbles, confused.
“Catch” says Papa Bear, tossing him the plastic bottle of Dark Eyes. Billy bats it out of the air with his right hand, knocks it clumsily to the parched ground.
“Last call.”
Billy’s fingers shake as he twists off the cap and takes a swallow, coughing half of it up again.
“More.”
Billy takes another pull, and this one stays down, warming him, cushioning his broken head.
Then Papa Bear is behind him again, gently prying the bottle away with a gloved hand and replacing it with the pistol. He wraps his hand around Billy’s, gently presses his finger over Billy’s on the trigger.
“You know what to do right?”
Billy cries then, pisses himself again as he feels the metal press to his temple.
“Shhhh, it’s okay,” the low voice soothes. “This is best for everybody, you know it and I know it.”
“I don’t wanna, don’t wanna” Billy whines as the finger on his own tightens.
“Bet you've heard that before.”
He doesn’t hear the shot.
Rating: R?
Pairing: None
Word Count: ~3,000
Spoilers: Pre-series, so none? Takes place the summer after "A Very Supernatural Christmas."
Warnings: Creepy OPOV. Also attempted non-con, but not very graphic.
Disclaimer: Please don’t sue me.
Author's Note: Thanks for editing, Mom! No, I'm not telling you my LJ name.
Summary: The boys in room 37 had been alone for four days.
(AO3)
The boys in room 37 had been alone for four days. Billy had been watching Sunday evening when the old black car rumbled off into the dusky twilight, had listened with half an ear for it to return while he nursed a bottle of Dark Eyes and watched a Reds game through 11 innings. He never heard its return and it had been missing from the lot the next morning. He tried to keep his thoughts from straying to the motel room three doors down (so close), the boys left behind (so pretty). After his last bit of trouble he swore to himself he’d be good, he’d look but not touch, and he’d kept that promise for five years. But every day he stood in the shadowy doorway of his room watching them play in the scrubby patch of trees next to the motel. His breath would catch and his heart would speed up when their playing turned to scrapping and rolling around in the dirt, barely pulled punches, growling and yelling like wild things, and his resolve would falter. His eyes would flicker from one to the other and his thoughts would turn from if to when and from when to which, and he’d whisper “Eenie meenie miney moe” to himself as he watched them play.
On the fifth day the black beast pulled into the lot around noon and Billy released a breath he felt like he’d been holding for days. A bear of a man climbed from the car, too much coat for midday in June, barely concealing a pistol, and Billy felt like he’d literally dodged a bullet. The kids flew out of 37 in a flurry of skinny limbs and wide smiles and words tumbling from their mouths (“Yessir” and “nosir” and “Dean always gets to pick what we watch” and “You try and make Sammy take a bath..sir”) and he moved away from the window, muffled voices floating over him, relieved. He had been good, he’d been good and they’d pack up their meager belongings and motor on down highway 62 and Billy could go back to living in this rooms-by-the-week dump and get on with the slow business of drinking himself to death.
Thank you, he breathed, and decided that his restraint had earned him some alone time with his…thoughts. He stretched out on the bed and tugged down his zipper and thought of skinny-boy limbs in a twisting tangle beneath him.
But they did not motor on down highway 62, they stayed that day, and the day after and when he heard the old car rumble away at first light on the third day, he knew knew it was just the man, that the car had left but the boys had stayed and his trial was not over. Groaning, he rolled over and jerked himself, hard, angry thrusts like lancing a boil. His need was ballooning and he knew he was not a strong man.
~~~
It was a pattern that repeated itself over the next few weeks. The car would rumble up, Papa Bear would be greeted enthusiastically by his kids, he would stay for a day or two, and then drive off again. But how long he would stay and how long he would stay gone were variables Billy couldn’t predict (good, good, can’t get in trouble if I can’t find the pattern). And if he found himself thinking about room 37 more and more often (right after he leaves would be best, more time), well, a man could not be held accountable for his thoughts.
~~~
The next Saturday evening finds him sharing his vodka with Randall behind the front desk and playing gin between the very occasional visits from guests.
“Those kids bothering you any?” Randall asks, dealing out a new hand of seven and laying the deck between them.
“What kids?” Billy asks, voice suddenly thick in his throat.
“Figured you’d seen them, they’re down at your end of the court. Dad strolls through every few days to pay for another week but I don’t think he sticks around long.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen ’em. Don’t seem to get in too much trouble considering.”
Randall discards a six of clubs. “Can’t figure out what he does all the time, in and out like he is. Don’t seem right.”
Billy grunts but says nothing.
“Seem like okay kids I guess. Come in to play the arcade games once in awhile.”
Billy picks up the six. “Guess they aren’t hurting anything. Not like anyone’s asking you to babysit.”
“No…not like I want cops sniffing around here either. Still, it’s kinda weird.”
Billy grunts again, willing his face into a mask of indifference.
“Lemme know if they’re being too rowdy or anything and I guess I can make them move along next time the big guy passes through.”
“They’re not bothering me none. I guess just let ’em be.”
“I guess.”
When Randall hits the head, Billy stretches up to grab one of the extra keys for 37 from the row of keys that hang on nails behind the desk. He tucks it into his shoe, where it feels hot against the arch of his sticky foot, hot like desire and the flush of guilt.
He’s stopped playing eenie meenie in his head, figures an opening will come along and he’ll take it, whichever kid it is, his five years of “sobriety” gone in a wink. They both fall into what he considers the acceptable (desirable) age range, the oldest just a whisper away from puberty. He figures going for both would be greedy…plus he’s seen how well they fight for scrawny underfed kids. But a few minutes with one alone, where shame and guilt will keep them still and stop them from blabbing…hell, he might not even have to move on to another motel. Though he hasn’t forgotten the flash of gun he saw tucked in Papa Bear’s jeans….best play it by ear.
Randall has just laid down his cards (“That’s three in a row for me Billy, where’s your head tonight?”) when the bell rings and in walk the kids.
“Excuse me sir?” asks the older boy (Dean?) “Can we get change for the arcade games?” He steps up to the counter and pushes two crumpled singles across the desk. Randall stands and slides the money into the cash drawer, counts out eight quarters. The older kid smiles up at Randall and Billy’s gut twists. Behind him, the younger boy hangs back, looking shy and uneasy, eyes round and watchful. He meets Billy’s gaze and then looks away again (quiet, quiet is good).
“C’mon Sammy. Gonna kick your ass at deer hunting.”
The younger kid snorts softly but follows his brother into the next room, where the vending machines hum loudly and ice clatters periodically into the large metal bin.
“- seen him watching us” says the young one quietly, and Billy doesn’t dare look up at Randall to see if he’s heard. He strains for more, catches just a snatch of “It’s okay Sammy, dad’ll be back soon” and then the rest of their conversation is drowned out by the sounds of the game and their plastic guns.
~~~
Billy’s watching Donahue and nursing a hangover when he hears the rumbly black car pull into the lot. The key has been tormenting him, small flash of brass on a brown plastic diamond stamped 3 7 that he turns over and over in his hands each night before sliding it back into his shoe. Just pack them up, he wills the father, pack them up and get gone and he means it, but the thought is at war with another, darker, not yet, not yet, just a taste, I’ve been so good… He creeps to the flimsy door to eavesdrop, noticing that they don’t sound quite as happy to see dear old dad as they had the first few visits.
“-nothing to do here-”
“-won’t let me do anything-”
“-can’t get any training done here, and you promised-”
“Boys,” and the low grumble silences the kids immediately. Then murmurs, hard to hear even through the cheap wood: “sorry…idea of summer” and “Jim’s doing a lot better” and louder, “just a few more things to take care of, and we can get out of here. You can stay in Minnesota for the rest of the summer till I figure out where we should be for the school year.”
This is met with laughter and happy shouts and the older kid sounding relieved. “Thanks Dad. We’re going kinda crazy here.”
“How bout you boys let me get a shower and then we can go to McDonalds for lunch, maybe a movie?”
Billy guesses from their cheers (“Batman! Batman!”) that it doesn’t take much to please the two boys who’d been creeping around the Starlight Inn for the past few weeks like unwanted pups.
He takes the key to 37 out of his pocket again, traces the numbers with his index finger, and thinks of long coltish legs and soft pink lips.
~~~
The problem, Billy notices, is that the kids are never alone. Frick and Frack, Tweedledee and Tweedledum-where one goes the other follows. Billy tries to figure out-hypothetically, of course, like a logic puzzle, like a crossword-how he could separate them for just long enough. He’s zeroed in on the younger boy; the older kid seems kinda mouthy and suspicious and old beyond his years. Of course, if the universe were to drop him in Billy’s lap, he’d happily make lemonade from lemons, but all things considered it seems like he’d be safer going after the littler one.
But, he can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen one without the other. Once, Dean’s playing in the shabby arcade alone, another time they pass each other on the rutted sidewalk outside of the liquor store-Billy going to stock up, the kid swinging a Speedway bag with a loaf of bread sticking out the top. That time his heart sped up (alone, alone! ) but he played it cool, nodded at the boy once, knowing he couldn’t do anything at high noon with cars whizzing past. Later, back in his room mixing the day’s first screwdriver, he would note distantly that he’d stopped hoping for Papa Bear to come swoop up the kids and move them out of his life.
~~~
It’s Friday afternoon and he’s been on pins and needles waiting, waiting for his chance. This chance. For the past couple of days he’s been a razor’s edge of need, of want (been so long, been so good), settling for maintenance sips of his vodka so that he’s ready to strike, a coiled snake.
Papa Bear left around dawn and the older brother is trudging into the horizon towards the convenience store two miles down the road. He’d heard the little one say “You want me to go with you?” and then Dean, “Nah, you can hang out here, just getting some food.” A squabble broke out about how much candy they could afford, and then Dean again, “Just stay inside till I get back, and don’t answer the door.”
Four-mile walk plus shopping plus kid-on-his own farting around should give him at least an hour, maybe even two. With shaking hands, he picks up the stolen room key and heads toward the door and into the dazzling July sun.
He hesitates outside of 37, quick glance around. No one nearby, motel office facing the other direction. He hears the muffled sound of the TV inside, Family Feud maybe, nothing else. He slips the key in the lock and opens the door.
Inside, it’s cool and dark, air conditioner humming, but the room is empty. He scans the dim interior for some sign of the kid and then hears the toilet flush, and the bathroom door opens.
“Did you forget the money, loser?” Billy hears before the kid turns toward the door, sees him, and freezes.
“Hi Sammy,” he says, shutting the door softly behind him.
There’s no who are you or what do you want or what are you doing, no chance for him to tell any of the lies that usually work in these situations (“your brother’s been hit by a car” the one he’d been toying with), just a flash of dark eyes and then the kid is bolting for the closet. Billy crosses the room in three steps, intent on grabbing his thin shoulders and shoving him to his knees, when the kid whirls on him (holy fuck, is that a shotgun? ) and fucking growls, “Get out!”
And maybe another day here’s where the story ends, with him fleeing from a homicidal nine-year-old while Ray Combs shouts “Survey says!” but not today, today he’s perpetual motion and he’s been so wound up and ready for this, he’s been so good, and he doesn’t even flinch. He grabs the gun with one hand and flings it onto the bed (and maybe you should have gone for daddy’s pistol you little shit, easier to hang on to). His fist swings around with a meaty thwock to the kid’s left eye. The kid rocks back but stays on his feet and Billy grabs him by the throat.
He’s thinking goddammit and motherfucker because the kid’s marked up now, isn’t he, and it wasn’t supposed to go down like this, he was supposed to be scared and teary and quiet quiet quiet and he could’ve slipped back to his own room with promises of I won’t tell I promise please don’t hurt my brother in his ears and that would have been that but this fucking kid has ruined everything and it’s all spinning out of control and the stupid kid is still not on his fucking knees.
A small sneaker lashes out at him, kicking him square in the kneecap and Billy oofs in pain, tightens his grip on the kid’s throat and lifts him into the air and now the kid’s scrabbling at his hand and struggling to breathe, still kicking but weakly, and that’s better, you little shit, his other arm coming up to press into the skinny chest and keep him pinned to the closet door and god, he’s so hard and he’s been so good and he deserves this, doesn’t he? Leaning over he breathes in the kid’s clean, soapy scent, presses tight against him, reaches for him finally finally…
And then a shattering pain above his left ear and he’s sliding to the floor, senseless.
When he comes to (jesus fuck my head) he’s dizzy and retching, hands wrenched behind his back, and thoroughly confused. Was he in a fight? Arrested? He hears voices, kids, and starts to remember his perfect day sliding into this shitstorm.
“--he was just there, he knew my name--”
“Throw these in a duffel, hurry it up, dad’s gonna be here in an hour.”
“I don’t even understand what he wanted, what did he want?--”
“Sam! Don’t worry about it, you gotta help me pack.”
Silence, shuffling sounds. Then, in a smaller voice, “Is he a monster? Was dad… hunting him?”
A long pause, and then a sigh. “I don’t think so Sammy. I think he’s just a dick.”
Billy tries to sit up see if he can get this fucking day back on track, maybe take on both of the little assholes, but gets another smack to the head for his trouble and his vision goes swimmy and gray again.
The next time he’s fully conscious, he’s slumped against a tree in the scrubby patch behind the motel, head still ringing, hands still cuffed behind his back, aware that his shirt smells like vomit and he’s pissed himself at some point. The sun is lower, the clouds a dreamy pink, and…
Papa Bear is pointing a gun at him.
“Hello William.”
He takes in a shuddery breath.
“Wha’s goin on?” he mumbles.
“You tried to take something today that doesn’t belong to you.”
“I didn’t, didn’t hurt him-” his eyes track the gun with difficulty.
“He has a black eye and bruises on his throat that say different.”
Billy winces. “That wasn’t me, ask the other kid, they’re always fightin-”
“That right?” Papa Bear’s voice is low and gentle as he crouches in front of Billy.
“I swear, I swear, I didn’t touch him.”
Papa Bear scratches his stubbly beard and then asks, “How many kids you hurt over the years, William?”
“None, none, I promise.”
“Well, I know you hurt my boy today so your promises don’t mean much.”
Papa Bear stands up and circles behind the tree Billy’s leaning on.
“I need these cuffs back, you’re not gonna give me any problems are you?” he asks, kneeling.
Billy licks his lips, tries to shake his head no but gets dizzy again.
“No, don’t want any trouble.”
Papa Bear laughs softly at that as he twists the key and Billy’s hands fall numb to the dry grass.
“You a lefty?”
“No,” Billy mumbles, confused.
“Catch” says Papa Bear, tossing him the plastic bottle of Dark Eyes. Billy bats it out of the air with his right hand, knocks it clumsily to the parched ground.
“Last call.”
Billy’s fingers shake as he twists off the cap and takes a swallow, coughing half of it up again.
“More.”
Billy takes another pull, and this one stays down, warming him, cushioning his broken head.
Then Papa Bear is behind him again, gently prying the bottle away with a gloved hand and replacing it with the pistol. He wraps his hand around Billy’s, gently presses his finger over Billy’s on the trigger.
“You know what to do right?”
Billy cries then, pisses himself again as he feels the metal press to his temple.
“Shhhh, it’s okay,” the low voice soothes. “This is best for everybody, you know it and I know it.”
“I don’t wanna, don’t wanna” Billy whines as the finger on his own tightens.
“Bet you've heard that before.”
He doesn’t hear the shot.