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apocalypsos) wrote2008-02-15 12:32 am
apocalypsos) wrote2008-02-15 12:32 am
Entry tags:
Fic: And The Vermin Of The World Inhabit It (Supernatural) -- PG-13
Title: And The Vermin Of The World Inhabit It
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: None
Spoilers: “Mystery Spot”
Summary: There's an empty room and an empty bed, with an empty man with an empty head ...
Author's Note: Er, I may be on crack.
*
And The Vermin Of The World Inhabit It
*
Every time that Sam enters a new motel room, he has his routine. He checks the windows and the door, salts where it's needed. He orders takeout, sets it out on the table and takes his time finishing it. He throws out the extra portion and starts posting his wall of clues. He sits on the floor or the bed, depending on just how cheap the motel room is, and he cleans the guns and he stares and stares and stares.
Sometimes he watches the news or the Weather Channel or bad porn, and sometimes he listens to Bobby's newest voicemail message.
He pulls back the covers on the bed and slides in between the cool rough sheets, lies back and fixes his gaze on the ceiling and thinks about the four hours he's about to waste.
Against his better judgment, he sleeps.
*
Waitresses stop serving him after the first month, if they can help it. He hears them whispering behind the counter, no matter how low they keep their voices. He starts to think maybe this is part of his curse, too – knowing what he looks like. He showers when there's blood on him, when the gore stains through his clothes, when the voice in his head grows too loud and it's either wash or listen. He thinks sometimes that might be a turn-off.
People can turn him away but they never do. He knows what they think about that, too. If they turn away his patronage, he'll turn on the customers. He's tall and strong and maybe a little dead inside. It might be a mistake to ruin his day.
Sometimes he gets offered pancakes and bacon on the house, usually with some added bullshit about a millionth customer or something. He's supposed to be looking at the waitress's smile and not the tremble in her hands.
Once he says, “Thank you,” and the waitress faints.
He stops going to restaurants after that.
*
He listens to the music because it's still in the car.
He uses the guns because there's no need to replace a perfectly good arsenal.
He uses the car because if he doesn't have it when he finally finds the Trickster he is going to be in serious shit with someone else.
*
If he hums, he finds, the voice goes away.
It doesn't make cracks about a ruler on the nightstand or midgets or clowns. It doesn't tease him senseless about the girls he won't make eye contact with. It stops reminding him to brush his teeth and wash his hair, have a little fun and buy new underwear.
If he hums. You know, in his head. To drown it out.
Something.
God, anything.
*
The blood under his fingernails never goes away.
After a while it's a line he can't scrub out, a dark mark under his nails that may never come out. And he doesn't really care if it's him and the blood and the world out there, if the girl at the gas station cringes aside and the people at Wal-Mart walk far and wide.
In his dreams he is covered in it, brown and thick, and when he walks it flakes away in a sick souvenir, and if everybody in the world knew what he thought right now, they'd run far away from here.
And they still might. Oh, they just still might.
*
It's a Thursday night at a craphole bar and he's standing in the beam of the one streetlight, and the good old boys scatter pebbles in their wake as they run away from him. And everything feels like a low cruel song and the heat of the air burns bright and sweet, and we all go a little mad sometimes but why not stay awhile?
He doesn't grin and he doesn't speak, but the boys in their trucks don't need a word, they just run for the hills from him or the beast or both.
The shotgun in his hands is light and clean, and the thing in the shadows is dark and mean, and so is he. By God, so the fuck is he.
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: None
Spoilers: “Mystery Spot”
Summary: There's an empty room and an empty bed, with an empty man with an empty head ...
Author's Note: Er, I may be on crack.
And The Vermin Of The World Inhabit It
*
Every time that Sam enters a new motel room, he has his routine. He checks the windows and the door, salts where it's needed. He orders takeout, sets it out on the table and takes his time finishing it. He throws out the extra portion and starts posting his wall of clues. He sits on the floor or the bed, depending on just how cheap the motel room is, and he cleans the guns and he stares and stares and stares.
Sometimes he watches the news or the Weather Channel or bad porn, and sometimes he listens to Bobby's newest voicemail message.
He pulls back the covers on the bed and slides in between the cool rough sheets, lies back and fixes his gaze on the ceiling and thinks about the four hours he's about to waste.
Against his better judgment, he sleeps.
Waitresses stop serving him after the first month, if they can help it. He hears them whispering behind the counter, no matter how low they keep their voices. He starts to think maybe this is part of his curse, too – knowing what he looks like. He showers when there's blood on him, when the gore stains through his clothes, when the voice in his head grows too loud and it's either wash or listen. He thinks sometimes that might be a turn-off.
People can turn him away but they never do. He knows what they think about that, too. If they turn away his patronage, he'll turn on the customers. He's tall and strong and maybe a little dead inside. It might be a mistake to ruin his day.
Sometimes he gets offered pancakes and bacon on the house, usually with some added bullshit about a millionth customer or something. He's supposed to be looking at the waitress's smile and not the tremble in her hands.
Once he says, “Thank you,” and the waitress faints.
He stops going to restaurants after that.
He listens to the music because it's still in the car.
He uses the guns because there's no need to replace a perfectly good arsenal.
He uses the car because if he doesn't have it when he finally finds the Trickster he is going to be in serious shit with someone else.
If he hums, he finds, the voice goes away.
It doesn't make cracks about a ruler on the nightstand or midgets or clowns. It doesn't tease him senseless about the girls he won't make eye contact with. It stops reminding him to brush his teeth and wash his hair, have a little fun and buy new underwear.
If he hums. You know, in his head. To drown it out.
Something.
God, anything.
The blood under his fingernails never goes away.
After a while it's a line he can't scrub out, a dark mark under his nails that may never come out. And he doesn't really care if it's him and the blood and the world out there, if the girl at the gas station cringes aside and the people at Wal-Mart walk far and wide.
In his dreams he is covered in it, brown and thick, and when he walks it flakes away in a sick souvenir, and if everybody in the world knew what he thought right now, they'd run far away from here.
And they still might. Oh, they just still might.
It's a Thursday night at a craphole bar and he's standing in the beam of the one streetlight, and the good old boys scatter pebbles in their wake as they run away from him. And everything feels like a low cruel song and the heat of the air burns bright and sweet, and we all go a little mad sometimes but why not stay awhile?
He doesn't grin and he doesn't speak, but the boys in their trucks don't need a word, they just run for the hills from him or the beast or both.
The shotgun in his hands is light and clean, and the thing in the shadows is dark and mean, and so is he. By God, so the fuck is he.