A supplement to 'South China Sea'.... 'Born on the Fourth of July'
The holiday got me thinking. It's so *loud*. So full of gun-powdery smoke and screaming rockets and people yelling. Chaos, and it cannot be fun for some of the troops that make their home here. That we see every day. So, I wrote this. darkhavens beta'd, of course.
And it's for sweptawaybayou, because i owe her about a million fics, but this'll have to do.
Title from the song The Yankee Doodle Boy by George M. Cohan
Jared's first Fourth of July back home, he was in Recovery, buried in the cotton wool of anesthesia, the boom and crump of the big mortars a distant, thundering thing. He stirred, troubled, and a cool hand touched his brow.
"Ss...sit...rainin'?" he asked, toes can feel them, can feel them, just a dream, not gone, not.... curling under the sheet.
"No, it's not," someone said, confusing him, and then the steady pop and boom rushed into static and rolled over him like a wave, and he let go, drifting down into nothingness.
His second, he lasted about five minutes on the back patio, flinching every time one of the kids tossed a firecracker down at the bottom of the yard, or sent a bottle rocket trailing dizzily into the sky. Cordite smoke thick in his nose, choking him. He jerked his wheelchair around, clumsy and shaking, and wheeled himself inside, bumping over the aluminum strip of the sliding door. Over the lumpy den carpet and down the too-narrow hall, wedging himself into the bathroom and locking the door.
He ran the water hard, his shaking hands under the cold stream of it until they hurt, head on the chill lip of the sink, trying to breathe. Mama only knocked twice.
His third, fourth, and fifth, he was well-mortared with beer beforehand, bricked up and chinked tight. It didn't make it any better, but he could hold that sick, too-wide smile a lot better, and nobody thought twice if he had to go throw up.
Seven, eight...he managed to duck out. Said he was doing something with his buddies - earned a little hug from Mama and a smile from his Daddy. He had supper first, out on the patio - hamburgers and hot dogs on the grill, Daddy presiding like the Galloping Gourmet or somebody. Mama loading him up with potato salad and three-bean salad and ambrosia salad and Jell-O mold until he thought he might be sick right there. Belly already twisted up in anticipation and dread, hands sweating on the rims of his wheels.
Finally, before dusk, he said good night and slipped away - drove over to his new-to-him, barely-fixed-up house and crawled into bed. Pulled the covers up tight, turned the stereo on good and loud and shot up, losing himself in the Charlie Daniel's Band and Lynyrd Skynyrd - Heart and the Eagles and ELO. Mama never said a word after the first time, but maybe she knew.
Nine he was back in the hospital, shaking and sweating and screaming - fighting off the creeping horrors and the shadows with gleaming teeth and curling claws and his own blood, which had turned toxic on him, he was sure. He had to let it out before it killed him, and he did it a few times before they tied his hands down and shot him up - like he couldn't do that himself! He lay smothering under the soft, heavy paw of the drug, fireworks like a faltering heartbeat somewhere in the back of his mind.
Fourth of July number ten...he talked to the doc beforehand, and he talked to Mama and Daddy a little, and they stayed inside and played pinochle and crazy eights, and drank grape Crush and root beer until midnight.
Once Mama and Daddy went to bed - Sissy was on an overnight - Jeff hooked up his VCR and made popcorn and Jared dug out the beer. They watched the worst porn ever made, laughing hysterically and trying to shush each other until almost five a.m. It was the best Fourth Jared could remember in a long, long time.
Things got easier after that. Jared got his degree and got his job - taught his classes and saw the doc sometimes, and sometimes.... Sometimes lay on his couch, staring at Johnny Carson and having a beer go warm in his hand, wondering.
The first year Jensen came back, he was gone again before the Fourth came around, and it was three years before Jared got to spend one with him. They'd both been having a bad time of it - both been snapping and snarling at each other and the world, forgetting what was going on until the kids down the street started a bottle-rocket fight, and then the ones up the street started doing cherry bombs and whistling rockets and Jensen snapped.
He trashed the kitchen and gave Jared a black eye - got himself wedged up in the bedroom closet with a .45 and a K-bar and wouldn't come out, wouldn't stop screaming. The cops came before Cooper did, and it was a big fucking mess for a while, Jared thinking somebody was gonna get shot and it sure as fuck wasn't gonna be Jensen.
Jensen went back in the hospital for a while after that, and the next year they spent the Fourth out at Cooper's cabin, and it was better.
Sometimes, Jared watched the old men at the hardware store or at the Piggly Wiggly. The ones who sported the little paper poppies in their lapels - the ones with a cane and a limp and a VFW pin on their hat. Wondering what the Fourth meant to them - did to them. Wondering if they'd ever spent that day - that night - shaking with fear and rage and remembrance. Shaking with horror and loss, curled up in the dark and crying. Wondering what the fuck they'd done to deserve the pictures that spooled out, all Technicolor vivid, on the insides of their skulls.
Wondering if it was different for them. If they didn't mind so much, because they'd won their wars - been real heroes. Come home to fife and drum, flags and pretty girls, kisses ready.
And then Jensen would touch his cheek - call him back. Say something stupid or pretty or loving and make Jared forget all about it. For another year.
ETA: Ever use that LJ Search function? I like to if i'm getting comments on old fics - it usually means someone has rec'd a story of mine, and i like to say 'thank you' if someone has. It's a neat feature, and you learn things! So, on that note...for my dear Anonymous - a new default icon, just for you! :)
And it's for sweptawaybayou, because i owe her about a million fics, but this'll have to do.
Title from the song The Yankee Doodle Boy by George M. Cohan
Jared's first Fourth of July back home, he was in Recovery, buried in the cotton wool of anesthesia, the boom and crump of the big mortars a distant, thundering thing. He stirred, troubled, and a cool hand touched his brow.
"Ss...sit...rainin'?" he asked, toes can feel them, can feel them, just a dream, not gone, not.... curling under the sheet.
"No, it's not," someone said, confusing him, and then the steady pop and boom rushed into static and rolled over him like a wave, and he let go, drifting down into nothingness.
His second, he lasted about five minutes on the back patio, flinching every time one of the kids tossed a firecracker down at the bottom of the yard, or sent a bottle rocket trailing dizzily into the sky. Cordite smoke thick in his nose, choking him. He jerked his wheelchair around, clumsy and shaking, and wheeled himself inside, bumping over the aluminum strip of the sliding door. Over the lumpy den carpet and down the too-narrow hall, wedging himself into the bathroom and locking the door.
He ran the water hard, his shaking hands under the cold stream of it until they hurt, head on the chill lip of the sink, trying to breathe. Mama only knocked twice.
His third, fourth, and fifth, he was well-mortared with beer beforehand, bricked up and chinked tight. It didn't make it any better, but he could hold that sick, too-wide smile a lot better, and nobody thought twice if he had to go throw up.
Seven, eight...he managed to duck out. Said he was doing something with his buddies - earned a little hug from Mama and a smile from his Daddy. He had supper first, out on the patio - hamburgers and hot dogs on the grill, Daddy presiding like the Galloping Gourmet or somebody. Mama loading him up with potato salad and three-bean salad and ambrosia salad and Jell-O mold until he thought he might be sick right there. Belly already twisted up in anticipation and dread, hands sweating on the rims of his wheels.
Finally, before dusk, he said good night and slipped away - drove over to his new-to-him, barely-fixed-up house and crawled into bed. Pulled the covers up tight, turned the stereo on good and loud and shot up, losing himself in the Charlie Daniel's Band and Lynyrd Skynyrd - Heart and the Eagles and ELO. Mama never said a word after the first time, but maybe she knew.
Nine he was back in the hospital, shaking and sweating and screaming - fighting off the creeping horrors and the shadows with gleaming teeth and curling claws and his own blood, which had turned toxic on him, he was sure. He had to let it out before it killed him, and he did it a few times before they tied his hands down and shot him up - like he couldn't do that himself! He lay smothering under the soft, heavy paw of the drug, fireworks like a faltering heartbeat somewhere in the back of his mind.
Fourth of July number ten...he talked to the doc beforehand, and he talked to Mama and Daddy a little, and they stayed inside and played pinochle and crazy eights, and drank grape Crush and root beer until midnight.
Once Mama and Daddy went to bed - Sissy was on an overnight - Jeff hooked up his VCR and made popcorn and Jared dug out the beer. They watched the worst porn ever made, laughing hysterically and trying to shush each other until almost five a.m. It was the best Fourth Jared could remember in a long, long time.
Things got easier after that. Jared got his degree and got his job - taught his classes and saw the doc sometimes, and sometimes.... Sometimes lay on his couch, staring at Johnny Carson and having a beer go warm in his hand, wondering.
The first year Jensen came back, he was gone again before the Fourth came around, and it was three years before Jared got to spend one with him. They'd both been having a bad time of it - both been snapping and snarling at each other and the world, forgetting what was going on until the kids down the street started a bottle-rocket fight, and then the ones up the street started doing cherry bombs and whistling rockets and Jensen snapped.
He trashed the kitchen and gave Jared a black eye - got himself wedged up in the bedroom closet with a .45 and a K-bar and wouldn't come out, wouldn't stop screaming. The cops came before Cooper did, and it was a big fucking mess for a while, Jared thinking somebody was gonna get shot and it sure as fuck wasn't gonna be Jensen.
Jensen went back in the hospital for a while after that, and the next year they spent the Fourth out at Cooper's cabin, and it was better.
Sometimes, Jared watched the old men at the hardware store or at the Piggly Wiggly. The ones who sported the little paper poppies in their lapels - the ones with a cane and a limp and a VFW pin on their hat. Wondering what the Fourth meant to them - did to them. Wondering if they'd ever spent that day - that night - shaking with fear and rage and remembrance. Shaking with horror and loss, curled up in the dark and crying. Wondering what the fuck they'd done to deserve the pictures that spooled out, all Technicolor vivid, on the insides of their skulls.
Wondering if it was different for them. If they didn't mind so much, because they'd won their wars - been real heroes. Come home to fife and drum, flags and pretty girls, kisses ready.
And then Jensen would touch his cheek - call him back. Say something stupid or pretty or loving and make Jared forget all about it. For another year.
ETA: Ever use that LJ Search function? I like to if i'm getting comments on old fics - it usually means someone has rec'd a story of mine, and i like to say 'thank you' if someone has. It's a neat feature, and you learn things! So, on that note...for my dear Anonymous - a new default icon, just for you! :)