Fic: After the Flood
Morning. Wasted on the floor like a teenager. A salad of loose muscles and brains. Body parts all trying to do the same thing: forget, forget, forget. Wondering why he ever remembered in the first place.
A dusty fan sails round and round on the ceiling, and pigeons coo on the window ledge like they’re speaking in Pig Latin, insulting him. One flies into the room, lands inches away from his outstretched arm. And he stares at it. It tries to eat a piece of his smashed bottle of bourbon.
“Fucking idiot,” he tells it.
His head throbs enough that he doesn’t dare move. The hangover isn’t doing the lingering concussion any favors.
Hours later, when the sun isn’t on the same side of the building anymore, he tries to get up; in doing so, is reminded that there is a cast on his leg, fat and heavy and much uglier, more painful, than a little string tied around his finger.
His crutches are on opposite sides of the hotel room. Must have argued while he was sleeping. He hops over to one, then the other. Makes use of them. Heads down the hall to the shared bathroom.
The hotel is all old peeling Victorian wallpaper, mildew, cast-iron: New Orleans charm. The bathroom sink has only cold water; it’s all he needs. On his face, neck, hair.
He vomits in the john, rinses out his mouth, and heads out.
The street is a ghost of itself. Houses abandoned like old snake skins, left to rot or satisfy the morbid curiosity of passers-by. A few, still lived in, clinging to a delusion of normalcy. A man mows his lawn, mostly clay. His dog, tied to the porch, barks at the impala as it drives past.
Further down the road, number 79, the year he was born. It’s in better shape than the others, freshly painted. Baby blue like the old Bel-Air he saw with his father a week ago outside a hardware store in Biloxi. On their way into town.
Dean kills the engine, gets out. There’s a soft vibration in his coat pocket, which he ignores. It’s cold and the sun is setting behind the house. The keys to the impala bite into his palm, his fist tight around them, trying to stop the trembling. A gust of wind gently pushes him towards the house.
He grabs the crutches from the back seat, a crowbar from the trunk.
The backdoor breaks under the stress like the set of a high school production of Our Town. Inside, all the furniture is gone. A few half-broken appliances remain on the kitchen counter, a few dead plants in the hallway. In the living room lies a dark red stain covering almost the entire carpet, splattered across the side of the staircase, the front door.
“Jesus.”
There is nothing to sit on, so Dean leans his crutches on the wall, and slides to the floor. His broken leg scrapes the stained carpet, red residue caking up on the heel of his cast.
Dean gasps raggedly, presses his hands out on the stain, steadying himself against vivid grief.
And he remembers. He remembers his arms tied, leg broken, gagged. A captive audience of one.
Remembers how the ghost took each child, one by one, gutted them right there, behind the yellow armchair that isn’t there anymore. How he starred at a basket of knitting needles and yarn, a pile of old People magazines.
He can still hear them, all of them, crying for their Mama.
It demanded his attention. It said he had to watch. And when he didn’t, it made him feel it instead; all of their blood spilled on him, warm and oozing and impossible to ignore.
He remembers his father carrying him out to the car. Driving him far away from this place. Holding him up in the shower, half naked, tinted-red water swirling down the drain. His father saying don’t you leave me again. Holding him, holding him so tight.
“Why’d you come back here?” John whispers, hand tangled in the hair at the back of his head, kneeling next to him on the floor. Dark out now, and shadows obfuscate the nightmares splattered on the walls. Dean doesn’t know how to speak anymore; he opens his mouth, but only tears come.
John presses his hand over his own mouth, stops himself from saying the wrong thing. He’s always known what to say. This time, there’s nothing. He just sits there. And Dean wonders if this is how John felt when he was in Viet Nam: numb and crazy and afraid of his own thoughts.
Eventually, Dean says “It really happened.”
John nods. “Wish to god it didn’t, kid.”
After a while, John pulls him to his feet, hands him his crutches. Doesn’t let him move without a guiding, steadying hand. They climb into John’s truck, and leave. Dean’s leg throbs, his heart too.
The whole city feels suddenly like one endless funeral.
They drive away from New Orleans for the second time, head back to the hospital in Baton Rouge. And Dean discovers that it’s not the city. It’s him.
“The old man that lived there before the hurricane, Levon Parish,” John says-he is all rigid and business, save for his right hand clinging to Dean’s car keys, an inanimate extension of their owner-“his kids left him there to drown. He used to beat ‘em.”
They stop less than a mile up the highway. Dean drags himself out and into a ditch full of brittle Queen Ann’s lace, dry heaves and tries to find his breath.
Dad helps him back into the car, says, “It’s like a disease. All this goddamn violence,” like he tastes it in his mouth, bitter and vile. Standing with the passenger door half-open, he wipes his running nose on the sleeve of his field coat. He looks at Dean and shakes his head. “You don’t run off like that. Not when you have people worried as shit already.”
“People?”
“Yes, people.”
At the hospital Dean’s bed is still empty. They keep him one more night, give him fluids, and a prescription from the doctor. And-not like a child, who might ask such a thing naively, but with a coldness and cynicism that can only be learned-he asks one of the nurses,
“Is there somethin’ I can take to forget again?”
-fin-
A/N #2: I've always been curious about Dean's passionate desire to protect children. Obviously, he grew up protecting Sam. But I feel like there's something else that must be driving him. Something that would have really rocked his world view. This is one such possibility. I hope you enjoyed reading it.
A dusty fan sails round and round on the ceiling, and pigeons coo on the window ledge like they’re speaking in Pig Latin, insulting him. One flies into the room, lands inches away from his outstretched arm. And he stares at it. It tries to eat a piece of his smashed bottle of bourbon.
“Fucking idiot,” he tells it.
His head throbs enough that he doesn’t dare move. The hangover isn’t doing the lingering concussion any favors.
Hours later, when the sun isn’t on the same side of the building anymore, he tries to get up; in doing so, is reminded that there is a cast on his leg, fat and heavy and much uglier, more painful, than a little string tied around his finger.
His crutches are on opposite sides of the hotel room. Must have argued while he was sleeping. He hops over to one, then the other. Makes use of them. Heads down the hall to the shared bathroom.
The hotel is all old peeling Victorian wallpaper, mildew, cast-iron: New Orleans charm. The bathroom sink has only cold water; it’s all he needs. On his face, neck, hair.
He vomits in the john, rinses out his mouth, and heads out.
The street is a ghost of itself. Houses abandoned like old snake skins, left to rot or satisfy the morbid curiosity of passers-by. A few, still lived in, clinging to a delusion of normalcy. A man mows his lawn, mostly clay. His dog, tied to the porch, barks at the impala as it drives past.
Further down the road, number 79, the year he was born. It’s in better shape than the others, freshly painted. Baby blue like the old Bel-Air he saw with his father a week ago outside a hardware store in Biloxi. On their way into town.
Dean kills the engine, gets out. There’s a soft vibration in his coat pocket, which he ignores. It’s cold and the sun is setting behind the house. The keys to the impala bite into his palm, his fist tight around them, trying to stop the trembling. A gust of wind gently pushes him towards the house.
He grabs the crutches from the back seat, a crowbar from the trunk.
The backdoor breaks under the stress like the set of a high school production of Our Town. Inside, all the furniture is gone. A few half-broken appliances remain on the kitchen counter, a few dead plants in the hallway. In the living room lies a dark red stain covering almost the entire carpet, splattered across the side of the staircase, the front door.
“Jesus.”
There is nothing to sit on, so Dean leans his crutches on the wall, and slides to the floor. His broken leg scrapes the stained carpet, red residue caking up on the heel of his cast.
Dean gasps raggedly, presses his hands out on the stain, steadying himself against vivid grief.
And he remembers. He remembers his arms tied, leg broken, gagged. A captive audience of one.
Remembers how the ghost took each child, one by one, gutted them right there, behind the yellow armchair that isn’t there anymore. How he starred at a basket of knitting needles and yarn, a pile of old People magazines.
He can still hear them, all of them, crying for their Mama.
It demanded his attention. It said he had to watch. And when he didn’t, it made him feel it instead; all of their blood spilled on him, warm and oozing and impossible to ignore.
He remembers his father carrying him out to the car. Driving him far away from this place. Holding him up in the shower, half naked, tinted-red water swirling down the drain. His father saying don’t you leave me again. Holding him, holding him so tight.
“Why’d you come back here?” John whispers, hand tangled in the hair at the back of his head, kneeling next to him on the floor. Dark out now, and shadows obfuscate the nightmares splattered on the walls. Dean doesn’t know how to speak anymore; he opens his mouth, but only tears come.
John presses his hand over his own mouth, stops himself from saying the wrong thing. He’s always known what to say. This time, there’s nothing. He just sits there. And Dean wonders if this is how John felt when he was in Viet Nam: numb and crazy and afraid of his own thoughts.
Eventually, Dean says “It really happened.”
John nods. “Wish to god it didn’t, kid.”
After a while, John pulls him to his feet, hands him his crutches. Doesn’t let him move without a guiding, steadying hand. They climb into John’s truck, and leave. Dean’s leg throbs, his heart too.
The whole city feels suddenly like one endless funeral.
They drive away from New Orleans for the second time, head back to the hospital in Baton Rouge. And Dean discovers that it’s not the city. It’s him.
“The old man that lived there before the hurricane, Levon Parish,” John says-he is all rigid and business, save for his right hand clinging to Dean’s car keys, an inanimate extension of their owner-“his kids left him there to drown. He used to beat ‘em.”
They stop less than a mile up the highway. Dean drags himself out and into a ditch full of brittle Queen Ann’s lace, dry heaves and tries to find his breath.
Dad helps him back into the car, says, “It’s like a disease. All this goddamn violence,” like he tastes it in his mouth, bitter and vile. Standing with the passenger door half-open, he wipes his running nose on the sleeve of his field coat. He looks at Dean and shakes his head. “You don’t run off like that. Not when you have people worried as shit already.”
“People?”
“Yes, people.”
At the hospital Dean’s bed is still empty. They keep him one more night, give him fluids, and a prescription from the doctor. And-not like a child, who might ask such a thing naively, but with a coldness and cynicism that can only be learned-he asks one of the nurses,
“Is there somethin’ I can take to forget again?”
-fin-
A/N #2: I've always been curious about Dean's passionate desire to protect children. Obviously, he grew up protecting Sam. But I feel like there's something else that must be driving him. Something that would have really rocked his world view. This is one such possibility. I hope you enjoyed reading it.