Fic title: Do You Want the Truth or Something Beautiful?
Author name: vampireifurita
Artist name: mulanreflection
Genre: Gen, Wincest
Pairing: Dean/Sam, some background Castiel/Sam, Castiel/Crowley
Word count: 26,732
Warnings: horror, disturbing imagery, violence
Summary: After Sam sacrificed himself to save the world; Dean had gone to Lisa just as he’d been asked. Things had been just fine until he started hearing music that no one else could hear and things just go downhill from there. With no one to turn to, bear witness to man lost at sea, in the throes of grief and unexplainable music that haunts him much like the memories of his brother.
It was noon. He couldn’t bear to go outside. It was too hot. He was just sitting on the couch, beer in his hand, staring into space.
After his freak out and subsequent drive to the middle of nowhere, she had suggested that he take a day off from the garden and just try and take it easy. It had sounded as if she was saying that it was the garden that had pushed him over the edge of the precipice he had been straddling and not anything supernatural. He had only nodded and curled up tighter around her in the bed. Surely it was only an isolated incident, temporary insanity. He wasn’t hearing things, and he certainly wasn’t imagining things, like the figure standing just outside the second floor window.
So here he was, sitting on the couch, his second beer of the day in his hand flipping through the channels on the TV.
~Yeah, I’m sitting on this bar stool talking like a damn fool
Got the twelve o’clock news blues
And I’ve given up hope for afternoon soaps
And a bottle of cold brew
Is it any wonder I’m not crazy?
Is it any wonder I’m sane at all? ~
Twitching, he changed the channel. It was probably some commercial, not a mysterious radio DJ in his head. After all, why would anyone want to be a DJ in his head? Surely there were better gigs than that.
Bringing the cool bottle to his lips he took a sip. It just didn’t taste like anything. Sighing, he put the bottle on the coaster on the coffee table. Grabbing his sunglasses he went back to the garden, using the remote to turn off the TV and tossing it on the couch.
Pushing open the door he surveyed the yard. It looked the same as it had yesterday. The fertilizer was where she had said she would put it if he felt like working in the yard. Moving towards the wheel barrel full of fertilizer, he grabbed the handles and started to roll it towards the fence. When it was where he wanted it, he put it down and doubled back to get his pitchfork from the garage. Circling the house, he took note of the actions of his neighbors. No one looked like they were watching him, concerned for his well being, but they seemed almost to be avoiding looking at him altogether. Scoffing, he punched in the code to the garage, grabbed his pitchfork and headed back to the back yard.
Digging out fertilizer, he spread it over his flower bed and turned it into the soil. It only took him an hour to do the whole bed.
Wiping a hand across his brow, he grabbed both wheel barrel and pitchfork and brought them back to the garage. He paused to look at his baby; she was still uncovered from his little excursion the other day. Bringing a hand to his pocket he felt the keys weighing heavy there. He pulled them out and looked at them. Perhaps he would take a drive, go where he could, see the open road, and find some easy marks to make money off of, try working a small job…
~I’m so tired of losing; I’ve got nothing to do and all day to do it.
So, I go out cruising but I’ve nowhere to go and all night to get there.
Is it any wonder I’m not a criminal?
Is it any wonder I’m not in jail? ~
“Fuck!” he shouted and dropped the keys, backing away from the impala. It was happening again, wasn’t it? But this wasn’t some random song, he knew this song. This was Styx. This was Too Much Time on My Hands. It wasn’t like this song was stuck in his head; hell, he hadn’t listened to any of his tapes since he got here. It was too hard to listen to the music that he had shared all his life with…
“Son of a bitch!” he yelled and made a break for the house. He dashed through the door, throwing the lock behind him and diving for the couch. He gulped down his warm beer in one go, cursing the fact that he didn’t have anything more alcoholic. If this kept up he would have to visit a freaking liqueur store.
~Is it any wonder I have too much time on my hands?
Ticking away with my sanity
I’ve got too much time on my hands
It’s hard to believe such a calamity
I’ve got too much time on my hands
And it’s ticking away – ticking away from me. ~