The History of our Days (gen-fic, 780 words, G)
The History of our Days
(gen-fic with mildly slashy Sam/Dean subtext, 780 words, G)
It’s Tuesday night. You’ve got a History test tomorrow and you should be studying for it, but you’re not. Instead, you’re helping Bobby hold your brother down on the kitchen table while your Dad cuts the blood-drenched clothes from his body.
You’re in charge of the bottle of Jim Beam; your job is primarily to get Dean as drunk as humanly possible. But his head’s thrashing from side to side like crazy and when you do finally manage to get the bottle at his mouth, he bites down so hard you think he’s going to shatter the glass. The whiskey dribbles down his chin and throat in tiny golden-brown rivulets, soaks his shirt until the dark stains of blood are turned bright red again.
You cradle Dean’s head against your chest and try not to cry when he arches so high it looks like his spine’s gonna become a right-angle, when his eyes roll back in his head, when he begs you for help, Sammy… Sammy, you gotta stop them, they’re tryin’ to kill me… hurts, Sammy, please… make ‘em stop…
Bobby meets your eyes for a second. He looks like he’s about to say something to you but then he has to fight to keep Dean on the table. The electric light flashes off the blades of your Dad’s scissors as they swim jerkily through the bloody denim. The fabric falls away in a heavy heap and you can see your brother’s hip, can see where the barb went it. Blood pulses from the puncture wound - a thin, dark flow as Dean just keeps on bleeding out. His skin’s a mess of purple and green. You didn’t realise skin could go that colour and you imagine the colour of the poison going through your brother’s veins.
When your Dad’s blunt and deft fingers touch the wound it’s like Dean catches fire. He writhes and twists and there’s a dull thump of pain through your chest. Your Dad snarls at you and Bobby to hold him down! Bobby grunts and his old hands tighten on Dean’s body. You focus on the dirt beneath Bobby’s short fingernails, how it contrasts with the slick, slippery redness of Dean’s skin. And you tip the bottle up and try to drown Dean in whiskey.
There are half-words spilling from Dean’s mouth but they’re lost in the gush of alcohol. You don’t want to hear him begging you anymore. You don’t want to be the one he turns to, not when you can’t help him. You want him to be looking to Dad for rescue, not you. Not you.
So you stubbornly keep the bottle in place and watch as your Dad pries the wound open, pushing at the swollen, purpling skin and something black and pointed slides to the surface. Dad keeps squeezing and Dean must be exhausted but his body twitches and spasms against you. The barb pops free and it’s an ugly, jagged thing, wet with blood and venom, and you’re struck with the image of it digging into your brother’s flesh, breaking the skin and sliding inside.
You’re so intent on studying the thing that it takes you a moment to realise your Dad’s prying the bottle from your fingers. He holds the wound open with one hand and douses it with whiskey with the other. The fall of alcohol sparkles in the light, clean and bright, and the effect is almost immediate. The sick colour of Dean’s flesh starts to fade, purple moves through to red like the colours of an evening sky.
Dean goes limp. He sags against you and his body is heavy and warm in your arms. He falls into soft whimpering: a pitiful, childish noise, peppered with slurred cursing. Bobby’s hands on him slacken. Your Dad slumps back into a chair, wipes a dirty hand over his face and leaves streaks of your brother’s blood over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.
:::
It’s Wednesday and you fail the History test. Your chest is bruised from Dean’s struggling and you're so tired your eyes keep trying to shut on you. There’s blood on your History textbook; you don’t know how it got there, but you know whose it is.
:::
It’s three years later and you’re packing your things for Stanford. You pack your clothes and toothbrush, you pack the notebook you’ve used for scribbling down your plans for the future, you pack a few paperback novels you’ve picked up over the years, ones that you’ve thumbed through over and over in the backseat of the car while your Dad drives you from motel to motel, to banshee to spirit to bugbear.
You don’t pack the History textbook; you don’t need any reminders why you’re leaving.
~end
(gen-fic with mildly slashy Sam/Dean subtext, 780 words, G)
It’s Tuesday night. You’ve got a History test tomorrow and you should be studying for it, but you’re not. Instead, you’re helping Bobby hold your brother down on the kitchen table while your Dad cuts the blood-drenched clothes from his body.
You’re in charge of the bottle of Jim Beam; your job is primarily to get Dean as drunk as humanly possible. But his head’s thrashing from side to side like crazy and when you do finally manage to get the bottle at his mouth, he bites down so hard you think he’s going to shatter the glass. The whiskey dribbles down his chin and throat in tiny golden-brown rivulets, soaks his shirt until the dark stains of blood are turned bright red again.
You cradle Dean’s head against your chest and try not to cry when he arches so high it looks like his spine’s gonna become a right-angle, when his eyes roll back in his head, when he begs you for help, Sammy… Sammy, you gotta stop them, they’re tryin’ to kill me… hurts, Sammy, please… make ‘em stop…
Bobby meets your eyes for a second. He looks like he’s about to say something to you but then he has to fight to keep Dean on the table. The electric light flashes off the blades of your Dad’s scissors as they swim jerkily through the bloody denim. The fabric falls away in a heavy heap and you can see your brother’s hip, can see where the barb went it. Blood pulses from the puncture wound - a thin, dark flow as Dean just keeps on bleeding out. His skin’s a mess of purple and green. You didn’t realise skin could go that colour and you imagine the colour of the poison going through your brother’s veins.
When your Dad’s blunt and deft fingers touch the wound it’s like Dean catches fire. He writhes and twists and there’s a dull thump of pain through your chest. Your Dad snarls at you and Bobby to hold him down! Bobby grunts and his old hands tighten on Dean’s body. You focus on the dirt beneath Bobby’s short fingernails, how it contrasts with the slick, slippery redness of Dean’s skin. And you tip the bottle up and try to drown Dean in whiskey.
There are half-words spilling from Dean’s mouth but they’re lost in the gush of alcohol. You don’t want to hear him begging you anymore. You don’t want to be the one he turns to, not when you can’t help him. You want him to be looking to Dad for rescue, not you. Not you.
So you stubbornly keep the bottle in place and watch as your Dad pries the wound open, pushing at the swollen, purpling skin and something black and pointed slides to the surface. Dad keeps squeezing and Dean must be exhausted but his body twitches and spasms against you. The barb pops free and it’s an ugly, jagged thing, wet with blood and venom, and you’re struck with the image of it digging into your brother’s flesh, breaking the skin and sliding inside.
You’re so intent on studying the thing that it takes you a moment to realise your Dad’s prying the bottle from your fingers. He holds the wound open with one hand and douses it with whiskey with the other. The fall of alcohol sparkles in the light, clean and bright, and the effect is almost immediate. The sick colour of Dean’s flesh starts to fade, purple moves through to red like the colours of an evening sky.
Dean goes limp. He sags against you and his body is heavy and warm in your arms. He falls into soft whimpering: a pitiful, childish noise, peppered with slurred cursing. Bobby’s hands on him slacken. Your Dad slumps back into a chair, wipes a dirty hand over his face and leaves streaks of your brother’s blood over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.
:::
It’s Wednesday and you fail the History test. Your chest is bruised from Dean’s struggling and you're so tired your eyes keep trying to shut on you. There’s blood on your History textbook; you don’t know how it got there, but you know whose it is.
:::
It’s three years later and you’re packing your things for Stanford. You pack your clothes and toothbrush, you pack the notebook you’ve used for scribbling down your plans for the future, you pack a few paperback novels you’ve picked up over the years, ones that you’ve thumbed through over and over in the backseat of the car while your Dad drives you from motel to motel, to banshee to spirit to bugbear.
You don’t pack the History textbook; you don’t need any reminders why you’re leaving.
~end