All is revealed!! Kamikaze remix - 'These Rags of Memory' - gen
Wheeeeee!
My kamikazeremix author has been revealed! theladyscribe is the author who took 'Thou Born to Match the Gale' and teased out a neat little bit of 'other' pov, inhabiting the oc of the story and letting us see through his not-quite-human eyes. To cope with heaven and earth and sea and hurricane [The What's Your Sin Remix].
And i've changed my author tag at the comm, but i want to post the story here, too, so i can have it in my tags.
The original story was Homeless Hits a Bit Close, by essenceofmeanin. A darkish little slice-of-life piece, about the 'less glamorous' side of hunting. I was so thrilled to get her as my author, and i only had to read the story over once to be hit with a big 'ole bunny.
Beta'd by darkhavens, of course.
Enjoy!
Title from Edwin Arlington Robinson - Collected Poems.
V. The Town Down the River 22. Alma Mater.
Sam remembered this.
Or, actually - he'd imagined it so many times, he thought he remembered it. But in truth, he'd never seen it with his own two eyes. Just pictured it in his head, for fleeting moments and obsessive nights. Lurid detail and vague, fuzzy flickers.
The dumpster was solid green, battered on the corners, sticky along the edge. Thick odor of food left to sour in the heat. It was half-empty. Or half-full, if you were gonna be an optimist. Sam wasn't sure if he was.
*"Hey, Dean - what's optimist mean?"
"It means if somebody gives you a shovel and pile of horse shit, you start digging."
"I don't get it."
"Because, Sammy - gotta be a horse in there somewhere!"
And Dean had cracked up laughing at Sam's expression, slapping his thighs and rolling around on the bed until Sam just rolled with him, musty bleach smell of hotel-white sheets, Dean's worn flannel and flannel-soft jeans.
*I'd settle for a burger,* Sam thought, and took a deep breath. Leaned in over the dumpster's edge, digging. Two ripped bags and three un-ripped ones and then - jackpot. Loaf of bread, mold-spotted green on one end, perfect on the other. He yanked it free with a grunt of satisfaction and dropped it into the Safeway bag he'd plucked out of the weeds three blocks earlier. It fell haphazardly over the torn net bag of bruised apples - the jar of peanut butter that someone had opened and dug into and that Whole Foods had, considerately, set on top of the dumpster. Organic, no sugar, no salt. Oily and dense and someone else's germs in there but...
But he could scrape that part out and it would be fine. Just fine.
He's twelve the first time he remembers it really mattering. Twelve and a half, almost, sitting in their room at the motel, idly drawing stars and spirals and boxes in his homework. Hungry because you don't get seconds when you're doing the free school lunch; hell, you barely get firsts. The 'fridge gave out its last real food item two days ago and there's nothing but mayo on the top shelf, two inches of milk in the jug and salt-and-pepper on the stove. Sam wonders if he could just eat the mayo with a spoon - imagines a cold, slippery-thick dollop of it going down his throat and swallows hard. No, maybe not.
Dean is slumped in the chair opposite Sam, gaze flicking distractedly from his hands to the TV. Back and forth, back and forth, worrying the tape-patched strap of Sam's backpack. Looking pissed off and twitchy like he does - like he has been - and Sam just keeps his head down, making little explosions in blue ballpoint ink.
"I'll be back later," Dean finally mutters, kicking up out of his chair like it's done something to him personally. Slam of the door and the little scrape-tick-click of him jiggling the loose doorknob and then nothing. Doug and Porkchop on the TV, something about math homework and Sam clicks it off, ignoring the persistent, tooth-sharp ache in his belly.
Sam hadn't planned for this.
Or, actually - he'd planned for years, but the best laid plans, as they say.... He hadn't planned on Dad finding his paperwork - hadn't planned on that fucked up, blow-off-the-roof argument that had ended in slammed doors and curdling silence and him with his duffel and his bag and his shoes, out the door and down the road a whole month and a half early. He'd walked for four hours, letting the persistent Oklahoma wind dry his face and then Dean had been there. The car's engine was like a disgruntled dog, rumbling displeasure and the heartbeat-steady thump of AC/DC. Sam had walked a stubborn half-mile further before coming to a dead stop, shoulders slumping and his duffel dragging down into the dirt.
Dean had just watched him through the open window, bruise already discoloring his jaw where Sam's wild swing had landed. Sam hadn't been aiming for his brother - hadn't been aiming for anything at all. Had just been... *Drowning, suffocating, sinking....*
Sam lifted a hand to run it back through his sweaty hair and then stopped, because his hand was grimy and stank and he couldn't shower until after dark and Jesus fucking Christ.
*Really didn't think this one through, did you, smart guy? Dean would fucking kill me....*
Except Dean wouldn't, because Dean wasn't there, and Dad wasn't there, and that was just fucking fine, he didn't need them to be there, all they did was stir up trouble, draw attention - might as well just paint a giant bull's eye on their backs and be done....
Sam sniffed and rubbed his nose on his shoulder - switched the Safeway bag to his other hand and trudged toward the sidewalk. *Only three and a half weeks to go. Three and a half weeks and then I'll have a dorm room and a meal card and a job...* And thank God for his last high school counselor. Because of her, Sam had filled out forms to be on the Federal Work-Study program, because 'full ride' didn't actually mean 'full ride'. *Three and a half weeks.*
Dean has been gone an hour - maybe a little more. It's dark outside - twilight fading fast under the low, grey sky and Sam contemplates drinking the last of the milk. But Dean... Dean is out there in the wind and the drizzle, getting food. Holding out his hand and begging, maybe, and Sam remembers doing that. Remembers standing in line in a church basement, hiding behind Dean when the ladies smiled at him, brittle and too bright and too eager to rush in. Asking questions Dean wouldn't answer and making little clucking sounds of displeasure when Sam tripped over his unknotted shoe laces and slopped the glass of blue-white skim milk. Sam can count, same as Dean, and he knows the money's gone - knows Dad is two days overdue and where else is Dean supposed to get them dinner and breakfast?
Sam gets up and drinks a couple of glasses of water - holds his breath against the roll of nausea and sits back down. He's three chapters ahead in his English and two in History so he just closes his books and shoves them away - lays his head down. Take a little nap and then Dean will be back, Dean will....
Sam hated summer.
Or, actually - he hated the lull in classes, when his campus job stopped paying and his meal card ran out. When most everybody had gone home and he was stuck waiting out the two or three weeks before he got his first summer-job paycheck, sleeping in the empty dorms because he could pick the locks and slip inside, unnoticed. Camping out in his old room because it felt like less of a cheat than taking somebody else's. Rolling out his Goodwill sleeping bag and cracking open a window - timing the security patrols so he could take a fast shower when nobody would notice the noise and the steam.
He made the rounds of the grocery stores and restaurants with his head tucked down and his eyes on the ground. Wondering if the ratio of calories scrounged to calories burned was even worth it, but shying away time and again from the free lunches at the First Lutheran or the 'Everyone welcome!' fish fry at Our Lady of the Rosary. Remembering all too well the look of mulish fury on Dean's face when they'd walk by other such places in other cities, Dean telling Sam to stay inside and do his homework and coming back with food in mis-matched grocery bags and the rot-tang of dumpsters on his coat - sludge on his shoes. Washing his hands until they were red and sore and Sam never, ever told him about the hamburger with the cigarette butt under the bun, or that the week-old doughnuts had acquired fur inside the hole.
He got it, now. That sick, hot feeling of helplessness and wounded pride that made you want to just lash out. Dean couldn't work 'cause he was underage - under-parented. Couldn't drop out and couldn't leave Sam for night shifts or weekends and Sam remembered watching Dean's hands. Watching them move over gun barrel and kitchen stove with equal ease - over the car's engine or Dad's clawed skin. Hands that could do anything - anything at all - reduced to grubbing in other people's cast-offs.
*Nobody gives a fuck that you're pre-law, 4.0, head of the class. Suck it up, Winchester.* The woman who worked at the little coffee shop beside the record store was on the back step, having a smoke, and her gaze flinched away from him as he passed her. It hurt, but it had hurt Dean more.
When the door opens, Sam jerks around, his mouth ready to smile. But it's not Dean, it's Dad. Wrinkled shirt and wrinkled face, his hair flattened a little from rain, his boots muddy. Half smile behind the beard that falters and fades when Sam only stares.
"Son. Where's your brother?"
"Dean's out," Sam says, anger surging up and twisting his gut. Making the water in it roil, uneasy and sick-making.
"What in hell's he doing out at this time of night? He should be -"
"Should be what?" Sam says, and turns in his chair. Bites his lip and glares at his notebook, his finger twisting and twisting into the fringe of loose threads that surround a rip in his jeans. His knee rough under the soft fuzz, week-old scrape.
"He should be here." Dad's duffel thumps to the floor, but his boots are nearly silent on the thin carpet as he crosses the room - comes to a stop by Dean's chair. Scarred hand on the back of it, dirt under his nails and the cuff of his coat wet.
"He's getting dinner," Sam says, staring hard at his dad. Staring like a fucking basilisk, Dean says, and Sam wishes.... "We're out of food."
Dad's face smoothes out, blank and inscrutable, and Sam wants to hit him. Wants to make him react. Make him - make him....
"Out for how long?" Dad asks, and Sam finally hears the hoarseness in his voice - sees the bloodshot rims of his eyes and the way his shoulders are hunched, held awkwardly still. Hurt, Sam guesses. Hurt somehow, and just like that, the anger sinks away, leaving Sam feeling hollow inside - bones like sticks and his head too heavy - eyes gritty.
"Couple days. Dean's taking care of it, Dad," Sam says, and Dad musters up that half smile - reaches out and squeezes Sam's shoulder gently. Runs his warm, callused fingers up the back of Sam's neck and into his hair, rubbing.
"Dean takes good care of us. He always...." Dad's hand drops away and he sits down, moving slow. Sam leans forward, arms crossed, resting his chin on his wrist. He watches his Dad rub a hand back through his hair and then Dad leans forward, too - mirrors Sam's pose, his eyes half-lidded. "Guess we'll just have to wait for him to get home, huh, kiddo?"
"He'll be here soon," Sam says, and Dad smiles again. Takes in a long breath and lets it out on a sigh, his eyelids dropping down to slits. Sam does the same, feeling weighted to his chair - stuck there by an invisible force - a bell jar of silence and pressure. Doesn't know anything until Dean's fingernail pops against his ear, savory smell of cooked chicken and Dean's knee against his under the table, heat and weight that says 'here' and 'safe' and 'home'. Dad's hand on Dean's shoulder, just the same.
The table under Sam's elbows shook and Sam jerked back to here-and-now, startled. Moved his feet as Dean's carelessly trampled them and sat back in the slippery vinyl embrace of the booth.
"You look like you're sleeping sitting up, man."
"Nah, I just... Was just thinking about...stuff."
"Brunette or redhead?" Dean asked, little wiggle of his eyebrows and Sam huffed a small laugh. Picked the menu out of the coiled stainless holder that was behind the napkins and examined it.
"Ha, ha. Hey, they've got Cream of Wheat."
"That stuff looks like -"
"Don't even," Sam warned, and Dean subsided, smirking. Getting his own menu out and glancing at it, fingers tapping out a ragged beat on the red-and-orange speckled Formica tabletop. "They've got buckwheat pancakes, too."
"Jesus, Sam," Dean groaned, making an exaggerated 'yuck' face. "That's like eating horse-food or something. Look at the choices here, man! You can get anything your strait-jacketed little soul desires. Spanish omelet, French Toast, and that American classic - pigs in a blanket!"
"Heart attack in a shroud," Sam countered, and Dean grinned at him. Kept grinning while they got their coffee, ordered their breakfasts and ate. When they were done, Dean put down a twenty and a five with a little pat of satisfaction, and Sam followed him out the door, into the sun.
My kamikazeremix author has been revealed! theladyscribe is the author who took 'Thou Born to Match the Gale' and teased out a neat little bit of 'other' pov, inhabiting the oc of the story and letting us see through his not-quite-human eyes. To cope with heaven and earth and sea and hurricane [The What's Your Sin Remix].
And i've changed my author tag at the comm, but i want to post the story here, too, so i can have it in my tags.
The original story was Homeless Hits a Bit Close, by essenceofmeanin. A darkish little slice-of-life piece, about the 'less glamorous' side of hunting. I was so thrilled to get her as my author, and i only had to read the story over once to be hit with a big 'ole bunny.
Beta'd by darkhavens, of course.
Enjoy!
Title from Edwin Arlington Robinson - Collected Poems.
V. The Town Down the River 22. Alma Mater.
Sam remembered this.
Or, actually - he'd imagined it so many times, he thought he remembered it. But in truth, he'd never seen it with his own two eyes. Just pictured it in his head, for fleeting moments and obsessive nights. Lurid detail and vague, fuzzy flickers.
The dumpster was solid green, battered on the corners, sticky along the edge. Thick odor of food left to sour in the heat. It was half-empty. Or half-full, if you were gonna be an optimist. Sam wasn't sure if he was.
*"Hey, Dean - what's optimist mean?"
"It means if somebody gives you a shovel and pile of horse shit, you start digging."
"I don't get it."
"Because, Sammy - gotta be a horse in there somewhere!"
And Dean had cracked up laughing at Sam's expression, slapping his thighs and rolling around on the bed until Sam just rolled with him, musty bleach smell of hotel-white sheets, Dean's worn flannel and flannel-soft jeans.
*I'd settle for a burger,* Sam thought, and took a deep breath. Leaned in over the dumpster's edge, digging. Two ripped bags and three un-ripped ones and then - jackpot. Loaf of bread, mold-spotted green on one end, perfect on the other. He yanked it free with a grunt of satisfaction and dropped it into the Safeway bag he'd plucked out of the weeds three blocks earlier. It fell haphazardly over the torn net bag of bruised apples - the jar of peanut butter that someone had opened and dug into and that Whole Foods had, considerately, set on top of the dumpster. Organic, no sugar, no salt. Oily and dense and someone else's germs in there but...
But he could scrape that part out and it would be fine. Just fine.
He's twelve the first time he remembers it really mattering. Twelve and a half, almost, sitting in their room at the motel, idly drawing stars and spirals and boxes in his homework. Hungry because you don't get seconds when you're doing the free school lunch; hell, you barely get firsts. The 'fridge gave out its last real food item two days ago and there's nothing but mayo on the top shelf, two inches of milk in the jug and salt-and-pepper on the stove. Sam wonders if he could just eat the mayo with a spoon - imagines a cold, slippery-thick dollop of it going down his throat and swallows hard. No, maybe not.
Dean is slumped in the chair opposite Sam, gaze flicking distractedly from his hands to the TV. Back and forth, back and forth, worrying the tape-patched strap of Sam's backpack. Looking pissed off and twitchy like he does - like he has been - and Sam just keeps his head down, making little explosions in blue ballpoint ink.
"I'll be back later," Dean finally mutters, kicking up out of his chair like it's done something to him personally. Slam of the door and the little scrape-tick-click of him jiggling the loose doorknob and then nothing. Doug and Porkchop on the TV, something about math homework and Sam clicks it off, ignoring the persistent, tooth-sharp ache in his belly.
Sam hadn't planned for this.
Or, actually - he'd planned for years, but the best laid plans, as they say.... He hadn't planned on Dad finding his paperwork - hadn't planned on that fucked up, blow-off-the-roof argument that had ended in slammed doors and curdling silence and him with his duffel and his bag and his shoes, out the door and down the road a whole month and a half early. He'd walked for four hours, letting the persistent Oklahoma wind dry his face and then Dean had been there. The car's engine was like a disgruntled dog, rumbling displeasure and the heartbeat-steady thump of AC/DC. Sam had walked a stubborn half-mile further before coming to a dead stop, shoulders slumping and his duffel dragging down into the dirt.
Dean had just watched him through the open window, bruise already discoloring his jaw where Sam's wild swing had landed. Sam hadn't been aiming for his brother - hadn't been aiming for anything at all. Had just been... *Drowning, suffocating, sinking....*
Sam lifted a hand to run it back through his sweaty hair and then stopped, because his hand was grimy and stank and he couldn't shower until after dark and Jesus fucking Christ.
*Really didn't think this one through, did you, smart guy? Dean would fucking kill me....*
Except Dean wouldn't, because Dean wasn't there, and Dad wasn't there, and that was just fucking fine, he didn't need them to be there, all they did was stir up trouble, draw attention - might as well just paint a giant bull's eye on their backs and be done....
Sam sniffed and rubbed his nose on his shoulder - switched the Safeway bag to his other hand and trudged toward the sidewalk. *Only three and a half weeks to go. Three and a half weeks and then I'll have a dorm room and a meal card and a job...* And thank God for his last high school counselor. Because of her, Sam had filled out forms to be on the Federal Work-Study program, because 'full ride' didn't actually mean 'full ride'. *Three and a half weeks.*
Dean has been gone an hour - maybe a little more. It's dark outside - twilight fading fast under the low, grey sky and Sam contemplates drinking the last of the milk. But Dean... Dean is out there in the wind and the drizzle, getting food. Holding out his hand and begging, maybe, and Sam remembers doing that. Remembers standing in line in a church basement, hiding behind Dean when the ladies smiled at him, brittle and too bright and too eager to rush in. Asking questions Dean wouldn't answer and making little clucking sounds of displeasure when Sam tripped over his unknotted shoe laces and slopped the glass of blue-white skim milk. Sam can count, same as Dean, and he knows the money's gone - knows Dad is two days overdue and where else is Dean supposed to get them dinner and breakfast?
Sam gets up and drinks a couple of glasses of water - holds his breath against the roll of nausea and sits back down. He's three chapters ahead in his English and two in History so he just closes his books and shoves them away - lays his head down. Take a little nap and then Dean will be back, Dean will....
Sam hated summer.
Or, actually - he hated the lull in classes, when his campus job stopped paying and his meal card ran out. When most everybody had gone home and he was stuck waiting out the two or three weeks before he got his first summer-job paycheck, sleeping in the empty dorms because he could pick the locks and slip inside, unnoticed. Camping out in his old room because it felt like less of a cheat than taking somebody else's. Rolling out his Goodwill sleeping bag and cracking open a window - timing the security patrols so he could take a fast shower when nobody would notice the noise and the steam.
He made the rounds of the grocery stores and restaurants with his head tucked down and his eyes on the ground. Wondering if the ratio of calories scrounged to calories burned was even worth it, but shying away time and again from the free lunches at the First Lutheran or the 'Everyone welcome!' fish fry at Our Lady of the Rosary. Remembering all too well the look of mulish fury on Dean's face when they'd walk by other such places in other cities, Dean telling Sam to stay inside and do his homework and coming back with food in mis-matched grocery bags and the rot-tang of dumpsters on his coat - sludge on his shoes. Washing his hands until they were red and sore and Sam never, ever told him about the hamburger with the cigarette butt under the bun, or that the week-old doughnuts had acquired fur inside the hole.
He got it, now. That sick, hot feeling of helplessness and wounded pride that made you want to just lash out. Dean couldn't work 'cause he was underage - under-parented. Couldn't drop out and couldn't leave Sam for night shifts or weekends and Sam remembered watching Dean's hands. Watching them move over gun barrel and kitchen stove with equal ease - over the car's engine or Dad's clawed skin. Hands that could do anything - anything at all - reduced to grubbing in other people's cast-offs.
*Nobody gives a fuck that you're pre-law, 4.0, head of the class. Suck it up, Winchester.* The woman who worked at the little coffee shop beside the record store was on the back step, having a smoke, and her gaze flinched away from him as he passed her. It hurt, but it had hurt Dean more.
When the door opens, Sam jerks around, his mouth ready to smile. But it's not Dean, it's Dad. Wrinkled shirt and wrinkled face, his hair flattened a little from rain, his boots muddy. Half smile behind the beard that falters and fades when Sam only stares.
"Son. Where's your brother?"
"Dean's out," Sam says, anger surging up and twisting his gut. Making the water in it roil, uneasy and sick-making.
"What in hell's he doing out at this time of night? He should be -"
"Should be what?" Sam says, and turns in his chair. Bites his lip and glares at his notebook, his finger twisting and twisting into the fringe of loose threads that surround a rip in his jeans. His knee rough under the soft fuzz, week-old scrape.
"He should be here." Dad's duffel thumps to the floor, but his boots are nearly silent on the thin carpet as he crosses the room - comes to a stop by Dean's chair. Scarred hand on the back of it, dirt under his nails and the cuff of his coat wet.
"He's getting dinner," Sam says, staring hard at his dad. Staring like a fucking basilisk, Dean says, and Sam wishes.... "We're out of food."
Dad's face smoothes out, blank and inscrutable, and Sam wants to hit him. Wants to make him react. Make him - make him....
"Out for how long?" Dad asks, and Sam finally hears the hoarseness in his voice - sees the bloodshot rims of his eyes and the way his shoulders are hunched, held awkwardly still. Hurt, Sam guesses. Hurt somehow, and just like that, the anger sinks away, leaving Sam feeling hollow inside - bones like sticks and his head too heavy - eyes gritty.
"Couple days. Dean's taking care of it, Dad," Sam says, and Dad musters up that half smile - reaches out and squeezes Sam's shoulder gently. Runs his warm, callused fingers up the back of Sam's neck and into his hair, rubbing.
"Dean takes good care of us. He always...." Dad's hand drops away and he sits down, moving slow. Sam leans forward, arms crossed, resting his chin on his wrist. He watches his Dad rub a hand back through his hair and then Dad leans forward, too - mirrors Sam's pose, his eyes half-lidded. "Guess we'll just have to wait for him to get home, huh, kiddo?"
"He'll be here soon," Sam says, and Dad smiles again. Takes in a long breath and lets it out on a sigh, his eyelids dropping down to slits. Sam does the same, feeling weighted to his chair - stuck there by an invisible force - a bell jar of silence and pressure. Doesn't know anything until Dean's fingernail pops against his ear, savory smell of cooked chicken and Dean's knee against his under the table, heat and weight that says 'here' and 'safe' and 'home'. Dad's hand on Dean's shoulder, just the same.
The table under Sam's elbows shook and Sam jerked back to here-and-now, startled. Moved his feet as Dean's carelessly trampled them and sat back in the slippery vinyl embrace of the booth.
"You look like you're sleeping sitting up, man."
"Nah, I just... Was just thinking about...stuff."
"Brunette or redhead?" Dean asked, little wiggle of his eyebrows and Sam huffed a small laugh. Picked the menu out of the coiled stainless holder that was behind the napkins and examined it.
"Ha, ha. Hey, they've got Cream of Wheat."
"That stuff looks like -"
"Don't even," Sam warned, and Dean subsided, smirking. Getting his own menu out and glancing at it, fingers tapping out a ragged beat on the red-and-orange speckled Formica tabletop. "They've got buckwheat pancakes, too."
"Jesus, Sam," Dean groaned, making an exaggerated 'yuck' face. "That's like eating horse-food or something. Look at the choices here, man! You can get anything your strait-jacketed little soul desires. Spanish omelet, French Toast, and that American classic - pigs in a blanket!"
"Heart attack in a shroud," Sam countered, and Dean grinned at him. Kept grinning while they got their coffee, ordered their breakfasts and ate. When they were done, Dean put down a twenty and a five with a little pat of satisfaction, and Sam followed him out the door, into the sun.