Hey, I know it's a bit knee-jerky, but I just get so inspired by Kripke and his storytelling skills. Hope you guys like it.
Bud Labels and Brothers
Bobby leaves and I'm glad he's gone. I understand it too. Can't stand the noise. We'll take turns I guess.
"Dean! Stop this...Dean!"
I tap a fingernail down the back of another label. I hate Buds, what the hell was he thinking? Trust Bobby to buy crap beer just 'cos it's on special offer. I neck the bottle anyway.
"No, no, no...please...please don't..."
I rub at my forehead, willing this relentless fucking pounding in my head to disappear. One less pain to endure. I peel a satisfying strip off the label, and roll it between my fingers.
It's been 18 hours and 35 minutes. Five hours of which has consisted of Sam shouting for me, screaming at Dad, yelling at an assortment of demons and crying...well, just crying. It's the crying that gets me, 'cos he thinks I can't hear him.
"Aaaargh...No! Leave me...just leave me alone!"
We've been in twice so far, Bobby and me. Once because he was writhing against the wall so hard we thought he'd break his neck, and another time because he was fitting under the bed and I didn't want him swallowing his tongue. Or, I just wanted to see how he was. Wish I hadn't now.
We got him back on the bed and I pressed my hand against his chest, told him it would soon be over, and to hang in there, you know... I don't even know what was going on in his head because he shrank back - looked at me like I was Alastair or something...I've never seen him so scared.
I let the beer wash down my throat. Man, I hope Bobby breaks out the whiskey soon, 'cos this horse piss just aint doin' it for me. I pick at another edge of the label.
"Dean! Dean...can you hear me? Deeeaaan!!"
Oh, I can hear you. Even in my sleep, believe me. I lean back, my head against the cast iron door. It feels cold and unforgiving. I whack my head back on it just for the sting. At least I can feel that.
Wonder what Dad would say. Wonder if he's watching us now.
Crying again. The kind of sobs you can't stop, even when you think you've finished.
He's such a strong kid. Much stronger than me. I've told him that before, but I don't think he believes me. It can't be much longer. His body must be flushing out that demonic shit from his veins in double time judging by how fast his heart was racing.
I know one thing though. If he withdraws from this and goes straight back to that demonic skank for more, I'll walk away, I swear. I'll walk.
I hear footsteps. Not Sam's. Bobby's. When I look up, he's in the doorway, cap on, whiskey bottle in hand. He offers it silently, places it on the table between us. Sits down with a sigh.
I flick the label strip onto the floor, amongst several other scraps that lie at my feet. Bobby regards them silently.
"Go take a break," he drawls. I nod and lift myself up from the chair, and walk out the door.
THE END
*I use your reviews as a measure of what dings your bell. I have to have something to measure your opinions on otherwise I'm spitting in the wind. No bells, no similar type stories.