This story was written for the March Prompt Exchange Challenge. Loose tag to 9x16. Slight spoilers. The prompt is below. Hope you enjoy!
Prompt: "If there's one thing I've learned, it's that just because you mean well, doesn't mean it's going to go well."—Luke Spencer (General Hospital) [Sent by Unattainable Dreams]
Dean's POV
I am not dead but I'm barely alive. Hanging on by the skin of my teeth and the thrum of my stubborn pulse as it echoes against my starving veins. I'm not satisfied with knives dipped in the blood of just any demon or monster that crosses paths with us. Not anymore. Now I long for something more, a greater high that can only be accomplished with that one particular blade in my hand. Because without it, it feels like I barely exist. Without it, there's no reason to open my eyes in the morning. I need it.
It started out as a martyr's mission, a righteous cause to destroy evil, to wipe it off the map completely, no matter the cost. That was the reason for the branded Mark on my skin. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that just because you mean well, doesn't mean it's going to end well. And I'm pretty certain this won't end well for me. Because this self-appointed mission is supposed to be about killing Abaddon, but all I can think about now is that rush. All I can focus on is the urge, the need to have that blade in my hand again, no matter who I'm carving into. It was burning fire, coursing its way up from my forearm and spreading its flames into the very heart of my being, the very center of my already darkened soul. It made a home there, a heated mesh of orange light that lit the spark behind my eyes, left me craving more even as the blade fell from my trembling grasp. It was only in my hand for a moment, but I have been branded by more than just the Mark itself now. I have been touched by true power, and I can't seem to let it go.
Nothing compares.
I try to relight that fire in my bones with the steady burn of whiskey. Then bourbon. Then beer. Whiskey again. Nothing works. All I'm left with is slightly blurred vision and a pounding in my head the next morning that is almost a welcome companion, as long as it pulses loud enough to drown out the constant flow of thoughts in my head.
Just one more time. Just to hold it one more time...
"What's up with you?" Sammy asks.
"Nothing," I respond because it's true. And that's the problem. Nothing is "up" anymore. It's all down, too low to the ground, feet dragging across the floor because I can't find the energy to lift them. Not without the promise of that jagged weapon in my hand. My muscles ache for it, fingers grasping at empty air, latching onto anything in sight with a violence that could break bones.
And still there's no true diversion from this humming need, the persistent urge that throbs its way up my arm, tendons singing under a weight that isn't there. A weight that needs to be there. Nothing feels right anymore.
And I don't want to think about what that means.
Dun dun dun. Kids, Dean is in trouble, let me tell ya. Anyways, thanks for reading! Reviews are always appreciated.