Fic: Wander This World (Supernatural)
Apr. 6th, 2006 04:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
apocalypsosHeh. That makes thirty Supernatural fics I've written. Obsessed? Moi? *snickers*
Title: Wander This World
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,022 words
Pairing: John/Mary
Spoilers for: "Pilot"
Warnings: Bad language
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, I just like playing with them.
Summary: The hunt begins ...
Author's note: I get one plotbunny that needs to be written ASAP and end up writing this one. Stupid plotbunnies and their stupid priorities. (But hey, when John calls, I come a'runnin'. ;))
*****
Wander This World
*****
The grass ain't even growin' on Mary's grave yet when he goes on his first hunt, armed to the teeth 'cause there isn't a damn thing like bein' prepared for any eventuality. He'd think it makes him the world's biggest Boy Scout if the Boy Scouts had half the artillery he did, a pile of guns and a duffel full of odds n' ends lookin' like he dumped out the junk drawer in the kitchen into the canvas sack without doin' any fuckin' inventory.
The obituaries string together like the lyrics of a slower-n'-molasses Johnny Cash song, this dark deadly thread behind 'em that raises the hair on the back of his neck, and he's pretty sure he's the only one 'round who notices the darkness there. It's like the letters in the articles cast shadows and the things in that subtle gray haze stare out at him from the safety there and taunt him with wicked smiles.
Can't catch me, I'm the boogeyman, he hears, and always with a low cackle followin' after like a dare as punctuation.
*****
Missouri knows about the things that go bump in the night 'cause she's been seein' the damn things for years, but the way she tells him about 'em, it's like she just learned their names weeks ago, like the pain of discovery is still fresh in her mind.
He gets a picture of himself twenty years down the road just like this, knowin' and not knowin' all at once. Older John's settled in a world where the sun goes down and the monsters come out to play, and he fires off rounds at 'em like he's still gettin' used to the idea of something wild out there. Older John's still wonderin' if it's gunnin' for him and him alone and has from the very beginnin', or if Mary was just some collateral damage in a twisted game.
Older John sees his boys with guns in their hands with smooth, comfortable lines to 'em that flow from wrist to barrel, like the damn things grow from their skin and listen to their wordless commands, and somehow that makes his younger self sleep better at night.
There's a war goin' on out there whether he likes it or not, and for the sake of his sanity he won't be raisin' his boys to lay down their weapons and walk away from it.
*****
He gets up some nights and thinks he sees somethin' pale and perfect watchin' the boys sleep like it's their guardian angel, and if he tries to pretend it ain't Mary, can't help it if he doesn't want to break down in a moment of weakness over somethin' that's probably just a play of the moonlight off the .45 in his hand.
You might just fall in love again, Missouri says these days when he goes to her, and every time she says it he feels like he's being cursed.
*****
Man ain't no pastor, ain't no holy man by any stretch of the imagination, but there's a dozen tattoos of religious symbols runnin' up and down his arms ready to make a case for it.
The thing that pins John against the crumblin' bedroom wall of some abandoned farmhouse gets hauled off him so fast he almost doubts it was there at all, but there's that bastard with his goddamn tattoos (Call me Pastor Jim, he says later, most people who ain't the cops call me that) and he's firin' off shots into the beast at his feet like it's a paper target designed to bleed.
Pastor Jim teaches him the things Missouri can't even touch, every damn use for holy water and how to speak Latin like it's everyday conversation and the meanin' of all of the symbols scaling his arms like steel vines in ink.
*****
When they served together, Caleb was the one who made miracles appear by request like maybe he was magic, too, and when John goes to him with news of Mary's murder and a request for a pile of guns that'd catch the worried interest of any law enforcement official, Caleb just slaps him on the back and says, Anybody asks, man, and the Tooth Fairy's started arming her customers.
John checks them off his list like he's grocery shoppin', grunts a quiet thanks and wonders how long it'll take him to come clean with Caleb on the details.
*****
Takes him a month after he starts huntin' to figure out the quickest way to scrub grave dirt from under his nails and blood from his jeans.
Takes him two to learn how to stifle the smells, sulfur and blood and rot.
Takes him three before diggin' out a grave doesn't so much as make his muscles twinge anymore.
Takes him four before he gets up the nerve and shows Dean how to fire the .45 in case there's an emergency.
*****
His whole life's taken on this twang, sharp and smooth all at once like pluckin' at the strings of a finely tuned bass guitar. He doesn't even know when it happened, when the evil in his life started wearin' down his rough edges as if he's a stone tossed against a creek bed by the current at the same time it started givin' him calluses on his soul that aren't breakin' away anytime soon.
The nights when he wakes up bathed in nightmare sweat come at the same steady frequency as the nights he wakes up with Mary's scent fresh in the air.
Either way, he comes to and finds a weapon in his hands, and the only difference is that he's holdin' his gun after the nightmares and his throbbing head after the dreams.
Title: Wander This World
Author: Troll Princess
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: R
Word Count: 1,022 words
Pairing: John/Mary
Spoilers for: "Pilot"
Warnings: Bad language
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, I just like playing with them.
Summary: The hunt begins ...
Author's note: I get one plotbunny that needs to be written ASAP and end up writing this one. Stupid plotbunnies and their stupid priorities. (But hey, when John calls, I come a'runnin'. ;))
Wander This World
*****
The grass ain't even growin' on Mary's grave yet when he goes on his first hunt, armed to the teeth 'cause there isn't a damn thing like bein' prepared for any eventuality. He'd think it makes him the world's biggest Boy Scout if the Boy Scouts had half the artillery he did, a pile of guns and a duffel full of odds n' ends lookin' like he dumped out the junk drawer in the kitchen into the canvas sack without doin' any fuckin' inventory.
The obituaries string together like the lyrics of a slower-n'-molasses Johnny Cash song, this dark deadly thread behind 'em that raises the hair on the back of his neck, and he's pretty sure he's the only one 'round who notices the darkness there. It's like the letters in the articles cast shadows and the things in that subtle gray haze stare out at him from the safety there and taunt him with wicked smiles.
Can't catch me, I'm the boogeyman, he hears, and always with a low cackle followin' after like a dare as punctuation.
Missouri knows about the things that go bump in the night 'cause she's been seein' the damn things for years, but the way she tells him about 'em, it's like she just learned their names weeks ago, like the pain of discovery is still fresh in her mind.
He gets a picture of himself twenty years down the road just like this, knowin' and not knowin' all at once. Older John's settled in a world where the sun goes down and the monsters come out to play, and he fires off rounds at 'em like he's still gettin' used to the idea of something wild out there. Older John's still wonderin' if it's gunnin' for him and him alone and has from the very beginnin', or if Mary was just some collateral damage in a twisted game.
Older John sees his boys with guns in their hands with smooth, comfortable lines to 'em that flow from wrist to barrel, like the damn things grow from their skin and listen to their wordless commands, and somehow that makes his younger self sleep better at night.
There's a war goin' on out there whether he likes it or not, and for the sake of his sanity he won't be raisin' his boys to lay down their weapons and walk away from it.
He gets up some nights and thinks he sees somethin' pale and perfect watchin' the boys sleep like it's their guardian angel, and if he tries to pretend it ain't Mary, can't help it if he doesn't want to break down in a moment of weakness over somethin' that's probably just a play of the moonlight off the .45 in his hand.
You might just fall in love again, Missouri says these days when he goes to her, and every time she says it he feels like he's being cursed.
Man ain't no pastor, ain't no holy man by any stretch of the imagination, but there's a dozen tattoos of religious symbols runnin' up and down his arms ready to make a case for it.
The thing that pins John against the crumblin' bedroom wall of some abandoned farmhouse gets hauled off him so fast he almost doubts it was there at all, but there's that bastard with his goddamn tattoos (Call me Pastor Jim, he says later, most people who ain't the cops call me that) and he's firin' off shots into the beast at his feet like it's a paper target designed to bleed.
Pastor Jim teaches him the things Missouri can't even touch, every damn use for holy water and how to speak Latin like it's everyday conversation and the meanin' of all of the symbols scaling his arms like steel vines in ink.
When they served together, Caleb was the one who made miracles appear by request like maybe he was magic, too, and when John goes to him with news of Mary's murder and a request for a pile of guns that'd catch the worried interest of any law enforcement official, Caleb just slaps him on the back and says, Anybody asks, man, and the Tooth Fairy's started arming her customers.
John checks them off his list like he's grocery shoppin', grunts a quiet thanks and wonders how long it'll take him to come clean with Caleb on the details.
Takes him a month after he starts huntin' to figure out the quickest way to scrub grave dirt from under his nails and blood from his jeans.
Takes him two to learn how to stifle the smells, sulfur and blood and rot.
Takes him three before diggin' out a grave doesn't so much as make his muscles twinge anymore.
Takes him four before he gets up the nerve and shows Dean how to fire the .45 in case there's an emergency.
His whole life's taken on this twang, sharp and smooth all at once like pluckin' at the strings of a finely tuned bass guitar. He doesn't even know when it happened, when the evil in his life started wearin' down his rough edges as if he's a stone tossed against a creek bed by the current at the same time it started givin' him calluses on his soul that aren't breakin' away anytime soon.
The nights when he wakes up bathed in nightmare sweat come at the same steady frequency as the nights he wakes up with Mary's scent fresh in the air.
Either way, he comes to and finds a weapon in his hands, and the only difference is that he's holdin' his gun after the nightmares and his throbbing head after the dreams.
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no subject
Date: 2006-04-06 09:02 pm (UTC)Very, very wonderful. I especially like the drawl you wrote into John's voice, droppin' the g's and adding the 's.
no subject
Date: 2006-04-06 11:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-04-07 04:43 am (UTC)Whoa. That was... poetic. But yeah, what I said above. *flails*
no subject
Date: 2006-05-03 07:15 pm (UTC)