i wanna watch you turn into a werewolf (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gorgeousnerd) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
firmament2009-05-04 09:22 pm
gorgeousnerd) wrote in firmament2009-05-04 09:22 pm
Entry tags:
"Are You Ready?", Supernatural, PG-13, gen.
Title: Are You Ready?
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Length: About 490 words.
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Bobby, Ruby.
Spoilers: 4x01.
Summary: The path to a decision isn't marked by major stops, but by little moments along the way.
Notes: I woke up on a day in September 2008 with the opening to this story in my head, and the rest of it came out after about a half-hour's work.
Are You Ready?
July 24th
I'm staring at an author's online journal – I hate the word "blog" -- when I realize that I haven't prayed in months. I can remember the last thing I prayed, and I can remember when I prayed it, but I wish to hell that I couldn't.
But I don't want to think about that, so I look at the journal and wonder why it inspired the thought. It's just words and pictures. Pictures of the man who wrote it hugging his daughters.
Not for the first time, I hate my dad. I can feel the hate burning through my veins without its usual chaser of guilt or worry, and I sit back and close my eyes and let it rage.
June 5th
"Why, Sam," the demon says, batting lashes over black-drowned eyes. "You killed your last chance."
It isn't true, and I know it. I know that my dad probably dealt with Yellow-Eyes for...no, he did deal with Yellow-Eyes. Dad was the one who had the Colt, and it only turned up again when the Devil's Gate opened. The Crossroads Demon was probably my best chance (why did I), but it wasn't my last one.
"Come on," I say. "There has to be one..."
The demon shakes her head. "Not stupid enough to have two Winchesters burning in the pit."
I'm biting down so hard my teeth are creaking, and my eyes are smarting, but I feel constant as I pull the knife out from the band of my belt (the way he carried it) and shove it into the demon's chest, just to the left of her sternum.
The orange flashes under peach skin look like fireworks.
May 31st
My fist hovers over the side door, and my throat contracts. I push my stomach out, force the air in my lungs so hard I'm choking on it.
That's why I'm not knocking. I can move my hand any time I want.
And I do, when I hear a crash. I grab the doorknob, but of course, it's locked; Bobby leaves openings for neither man nor demon. The window nearby isn't any better, but I can see through the curtains well enough to get an idea of the situation.
Bobby's reaching over to the ground to pick something up. I can't see what it is. But I see perfectly when Bobby's foot slides and he falls to his knees, and I see his shoulders shaking, and I see him cover his face with his hands.
I back away from the window. (I was right when I left, Bobby doesn't have he can't I can't) The minute I'm far enough back, I make a run for the car.
June 16th
I think I used to be picky about my alcohol. Beer when I wanted to chill, whiskey when I wanted more of a kick. But I've been doing vodka shots for hours, and I can't remember what they tasted like, much less what I used to drink. All my rules are out the window, at least for the day.
A shot glass clinks against the bar next to me, and I hear a hiss right in my ear. I raise my eyes as best as I can, but I feel like I'm moving along with them, and I have to put a hand on the bar to steady myself.
The hiss belongs to a leggy brunette. Well, she looks leggy, but drinking sometimes throws off my perspective, so she could be four feet tall for all I know. Except that she's standing at a bar that has to be at least five feet tall, so that couldn't be right. Anyway, she's wearing a short denim skirt and heels, so her legs look like they could crush skyscrapers (hahaha, that doesn't even make sense).
"What...what are you drinking?"
She smiles at me, her mouth as dippy as I probably am right now. "Jack. The way it burns...it's nice. Why?"
"I'm having vodka. I could buy you vodka. It burns, too."
"Vodka...yeah, okay. I could do vodka."
I raise my finger and point at the two of us. I don't know if the bartender sees us because the brunette's collapsing on my shoulder, giggling into my neck, and a different part of me burns. Not a "I slept with the wrong hooker” burn. Hell, I haven't slept with anyone since...since...
My fingers tangle in her hair, and pretty soon, I stop caring about the vodka.
July 24th
How long has Dad been gone now? I wonder, as I sit back with my eyes closed. A little mental calculation, and it occurs to me that it's been about two years.
The anger has upgraded to full-blown rage. But it isn't Dad that's the cause. Dad isn't the one burning in Hell, not anymore. He did his deal, but he fought his way out, and he's in a better place (any place is better than that one). He isn't the one trapped...he isn't the one with his Goddamned brother sitting pretty on Earth, not doing a Goddamned thing.
"Hello, Sam."
I don't open my eyes, but my body goes cold.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes, Ruby," I say, and my muscles relax. "I'm ready."
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Length: About 490 words.
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Bobby, Ruby.
Spoilers: 4x01.
Summary: The path to a decision isn't marked by major stops, but by little moments along the way.
Notes: I woke up on a day in September 2008 with the opening to this story in my head, and the rest of it came out after about a half-hour's work.
July 24th
I'm staring at an author's online journal – I hate the word "blog" -- when I realize that I haven't prayed in months. I can remember the last thing I prayed, and I can remember when I prayed it, but I wish to hell that I couldn't.
But I don't want to think about that, so I look at the journal and wonder why it inspired the thought. It's just words and pictures. Pictures of the man who wrote it hugging his daughters.
Not for the first time, I hate my dad. I can feel the hate burning through my veins without its usual chaser of guilt or worry, and I sit back and close my eyes and let it rage.
June 5th
"Why, Sam," the demon says, batting lashes over black-drowned eyes. "You killed your last chance."
It isn't true, and I know it. I know that my dad probably dealt with Yellow-Eyes for...no, he did deal with Yellow-Eyes. Dad was the one who had the Colt, and it only turned up again when the Devil's Gate opened. The Crossroads Demon was probably my best chance (why did I), but it wasn't my last one.
"Come on," I say. "There has to be one..."
The demon shakes her head. "Not stupid enough to have two Winchesters burning in the pit."
I'm biting down so hard my teeth are creaking, and my eyes are smarting, but I feel constant as I pull the knife out from the band of my belt (the way he carried it) and shove it into the demon's chest, just to the left of her sternum.
The orange flashes under peach skin look like fireworks.
May 31st
My fist hovers over the side door, and my throat contracts. I push my stomach out, force the air in my lungs so hard I'm choking on it.
That's why I'm not knocking. I can move my hand any time I want.
And I do, when I hear a crash. I grab the doorknob, but of course, it's locked; Bobby leaves openings for neither man nor demon. The window nearby isn't any better, but I can see through the curtains well enough to get an idea of the situation.
Bobby's reaching over to the ground to pick something up. I can't see what it is. But I see perfectly when Bobby's foot slides and he falls to his knees, and I see his shoulders shaking, and I see him cover his face with his hands.
I back away from the window. (I was right when I left, Bobby doesn't have he can't I can't) The minute I'm far enough back, I make a run for the car.
June 16th
I think I used to be picky about my alcohol. Beer when I wanted to chill, whiskey when I wanted more of a kick. But I've been doing vodka shots for hours, and I can't remember what they tasted like, much less what I used to drink. All my rules are out the window, at least for the day.
A shot glass clinks against the bar next to me, and I hear a hiss right in my ear. I raise my eyes as best as I can, but I feel like I'm moving along with them, and I have to put a hand on the bar to steady myself.
The hiss belongs to a leggy brunette. Well, she looks leggy, but drinking sometimes throws off my perspective, so she could be four feet tall for all I know. Except that she's standing at a bar that has to be at least five feet tall, so that couldn't be right. Anyway, she's wearing a short denim skirt and heels, so her legs look like they could crush skyscrapers (hahaha, that doesn't even make sense).
"What...what are you drinking?"
She smiles at me, her mouth as dippy as I probably am right now. "Jack. The way it burns...it's nice. Why?"
"I'm having vodka. I could buy you vodka. It burns, too."
"Vodka...yeah, okay. I could do vodka."
I raise my finger and point at the two of us. I don't know if the bartender sees us because the brunette's collapsing on my shoulder, giggling into my neck, and a different part of me burns. Not a "I slept with the wrong hooker” burn. Hell, I haven't slept with anyone since...since...
My fingers tangle in her hair, and pretty soon, I stop caring about the vodka.
July 24th
How long has Dad been gone now? I wonder, as I sit back with my eyes closed. A little mental calculation, and it occurs to me that it's been about two years.
The anger has upgraded to full-blown rage. But it isn't Dad that's the cause. Dad isn't the one burning in Hell, not anymore. He did his deal, but he fought his way out, and he's in a better place (any place is better than that one). He isn't the one trapped...he isn't the one with his Goddamned brother sitting pretty on Earth, not doing a Goddamned thing.
"Hello, Sam."
I don't open my eyes, but my body goes cold.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes, Ruby," I say, and my muscles relax. "I'm ready."