Without A Trace >> Dean Winchester

01 | They're Brothers, And They're Gay For Each Other

Chapter 01 | They're Brothers, And They're Gay For Each Other

WHEN YOU'RE TRULY consumed with music, songs will come to you whether you're trying to write or not. For this reason, I got used to carrying around a recording device and singing into it every time an idea struck me.

Yeah, all that sounds dandy and all, but right now, I hit rock bottom—the ideas used to come to me like a waterfall. The situation today is quite different from others because I'm falling into an endless pit called out-of-ideas.

In this case, if an author has writer's block, then a lyricist gets...lyricist's block?

I'm a genius, I know.

I could imagine how dumb I look, having a staring contest with the blank space in my paper. My mind's saying, 'think, think! Goddammit, just think!' But it's just static.

When white spots came into my field of vision, I clicked my tongue. You may have won, Blank Space of Paper, but I'll get you next time.

Propping my legs on the coffee table, I take a swig of beer, the warm liquid running down my throat. I let out a satisfying smack when I lick the foamy substance off my lips. Beer is my best friend, guys. People suck, beer doesn't.

I'm getting nowhere. I've written other pieces with no problem at all, but why am I stuck here?

Maybe it's because I want it to be more special from the rest.

I want a piece that has a deep, cutting edge with an eerie sombre, yet a touching, deeper meaning that breaks the ice.

Anyway, pushing those pressing and stressful matters away, all the pondering got me hungry, therefore resulting me into chowing three packs of crisps.

Apparently, stuffing my face with junk foods and downing beers doesn't seem to help with anything, does it? Excellent, Clarissa. Such fathom!

You can't blame me, drinking is just so addicting. Don't take this the wrong way, though— I'm not an addict who can't keep one's emotions in tact when drinking. Im a stable, definitely mature woman who loves to have a good drink.

*whispers* maybe because I'm incapable of having a social life, BUT THAT DOESN'T MATTER, OKAY?!

ANYHOO, the beer seemed to quench my thirst from all the singing I've done for the past hour, trying out different tones. Attempting to let my hands rest from all the strumming of my guitar, I crack my knuckles.

That didn't help. If anything, my fingers seem to be more pained. Stupid stupid me.

I reach for my music notes, but is interrupted when loud, hasty knocks echo throughout the motel room. My eyes fly to the door with my brows furrowed. My hands instinctively grab the knife hidden underneath the heel of my shoe, approaching the door with caution. I flinch a bit when the knocks start becoming more booming.

Guess what else is booming? My love for myself.

Oh, is it not the time? Alright, I'll see myself out.

It could be anyone, or anything at all that wants a piece of me. But how could I blame that person slash creature? I know I'm magnificent , but shucks.