He hurts, he really fucking hurts.

He can feel the blood like lava running down his leg, down his chest, down his cheek, scorching him even though the snow is everywhere. He can see it, in the corner of his eye, pink, red, like those cherry ice things the cheap ice cream trucks would sell. Yeah, cherry.

But it hurts, it hurts. It hurt when it got him in the shoulder, so bad he felt the connection to his fingers snap like a rubber band. It hurt when he tried to walk, when the leering white face went down and he tried, goddamnit he tried. He's reminded of that time before, before he knew what was bad and what was wrong, all that fucking time ago and he's reminded of that guy. The one with the knife, who liked to jab at little kids with it until they couldn't take it any more and breathed out, and of that blade that stuck him good in the stomach. He never thought anything would hurt, could hurt, worse then that.

But then it got him in the legs and the back end everywhere else and he went down, into the cherry ice.

All he can think of is the knife, the white face, and he can think of Jerry and how he wanted to be wrong, despite all the evidence piling higher and higher he wanted to be wrong. Not Jerry, not Jerry. Jerry was the first that gave a shit. No, she was the first who gave a shit. But Jerry followed close.

And Bobby.

Because that's who he wants. Not Jerry, who could've, probably did, cause all this. This pain and the white face and the cherry underneath him. He didn't want Angel, he didn't want his screaming, hysterical girlfriend, he didn't even want his mother, his real mother. He wants Bobby.


His voice like a muffled bullhorn to his own ears, with shots and screams and his favorite place in the fucking world going down around his brothers so far away from him. He knows he'll die, he knows no one could live with this but, fuck, if he's going to die alone.


He rolls on his back, because he's tired and the hunk of telephone pole is just too much to hold on to.

He wants Bobby, he wants Bobby, he wants his brother. Like the fucked up kid he was when they first met, he wants to know that mean, calculating face wouldn't hurt him, would make him better.

But he can't think right now. The cherry is too strong on his lips, his throat. So he sits, he calls his brother one more time, but he sits. And he waits.

The gunshots have stopped some, and his eyes are heavy, the sky is white.

A crash, right over there, close enough for the slush to sprinkle his weakening fist. He hears Angel's voice, Bobby's breathing, Jerry's grunts, getting closer and closer.

"Jack," Bobby says, and two warm, covered hands grab his chin. "Jack, look at me Jack, you alright? Hold on-we need an ambulance!"

And Angel, with his blindingly white teeth, calls over his big, bulking shoulder, "Somebody help! Call 911!"

Even though they're right there, and they're louder then he can hear of his own voice, its quiet. Really quiet.

"Come on, Jack, you gotta breathe. Don't die on me you little fairy you gotta fucking breathe!"

But its too much, too much.

He opens his eyes for a second, as long as they'll go, and he sees Bobby and suddenly Ihe's not bleeding out in a pile of darkening mush and Jerry didn't do shit with Victor Sweet and Angel ain't crying like a baby. All he can see is Bobby, like any other day, when he's been gone for a real long time, so he does what he always does.

He smiles.

Why? Fuck you, that's why.

Author's Note: Well, its been a while, hasn't it?

As always, I'm pretty positive this isn't very good. I haven't written a word since I posted that Twilight fic months ago and I doubt I have grown in any way as a writer. But I just obssessed over this movie for days after seeing it on FX and, as well all know, the final stages in a genre addiction is writing fan fiction about it. Hope you liked it.