Hey guys! Been almost a month since I last blogged and I feel a good way to blog again is give you a small Supernatural ficlet I wrote recently for my school's literary magazine. It's really (really) short but I liked the way it turned out. Leave your suggestions below please? I'm thinking of doing some imagines as well so if you have any ideas for that, I'd love to hear them too :) Meanwhile, enjoy this gif of Castiel that describes my entire existence
I Will Burn The Heart Out Of You
The
lights in the motel room flicker on, illuminating the two figures standing in
the doorway. The taller of the pair relies heavily on the door frame to keep him
upright. His brown hair was matted down in places with swatches of dark red,
the same color of the medium that was smeared across the light switch in areas
his finger touched. The man next to him, considerably shorter, staggers into
the room. The duffel bag in his hand weighs him down. He reaches into his
pockets, pulling out a stack of dusty IDs – each decorated with a different
name – and throwing them carelessly onto the bedside table. There seemed to be
no significant features that would label the two men as brothers except for the
same hollow, faint, burning remnants of humanity clouded by the dark that
lingers in their eyes.
“Who’s
taking the bathroom first, Sammy?” The
older one grumbles. His fingers fumble with the zipper of the duffle bag,
frowning when it gets stuck on a thread.
“Guess
I will…” ‘Sammy’ moves away from the door. Don’t let the nickname fool you.
Gordon made that mistake once and almost got his head chopped off. It’s Sam. He would say. Only Dean gets to call me Sammy. But
even Sam, as hard as the name is, didn’t begin to convey the monster that he
could be. Dean was the soldier, the ruthless brother, the one with the Mark of
Cain, but Sam, Sam, he was the
reckless one. The one who has everything to lose, nothing to lose, only Dean
left to lose. The two combined forms a vicious flame. The constant pulling and
pushing and flickering of the fire never leaves them. The fire will not, cannot, exist without the two. As Sam
closes the grimy bathroom door behind him, the cheap yellow light decreasing in
the room, Dean tugs off his shirt. He grunts, tendrils of cotton tugging
painfully at the dried blood that seemed to be burned onto his skin.
The
air is weighed down with the nightmares they see, thick, choking tension
burning their lungs until they fall asleep, until they can fall asleep. And then,
and then, Sam, resting his forehead
against the cold tile as red burns the water swirling around at his feet, and
Dean, bloodied and burnt and broken and bruised and his jaw set as a needle
threads through his skin, know, know,
that in their world,
in humanity,
in
the universe,
something
must
always
B U R N.
