Beta: The lovely LivingforTV
Disclaimer: I don't own them
Touch
Small fingers caress his shoulders when Dean's back is turned. When he reaches out to touch objects, he can feel something grazing his forearm. The hand is fragile, pale, and feels like ice. He can never see who she is—for it must be a she with such small hands—but he knows she's there.
Do you think I'm pretty? She whispers in his ear. Her breath tickles against the stubble on his cheek. He hasn't slept in a few days.
"Let me see you," he whispers back.
There's a rustling sound as she moves again, and then gone. Dean wishes for a moment he wasn't alone. He turns back to the newspaper clippings that brought him here, and polishes his gun again. The barrel is bright and gleaming, he can even see his reflection. Worn out green eyes, and furrowed eyebrows.
The curtains in the motel move as something passes by them. She must be moving, he thinks, must be pacing. He's had enough pacing this past week. Enough walking out, done with moving on.
Love me, she whispers in his ear, as he stands in front of the fridge opening another beer.
Dean nods halfheartedly acknowledging her and moves back to the table. Running his fingers over the array of papers. Touching everything. Perhaps, he wonders, that's what's been missing. A simple touch, a simple connection. If you don't have that connection with others, you don't have anything. Dean doesn't have a family anymore. Not since he argued with Dad last week about the Sam Situation.
Tired of the repetition, of the argument running through his head, of this heaviness in his chest- he throws his t-shirt on the floor and moves to sleep under the rough sheets. The weight on the bed shifts and she's next to him, running her fingers up his arm. Do you think I'm pretty?
Dean rolls over to look at the empty room. "Let me see you," he pleads softly.
His heart isn't in the hunt. His heart is beating too fast. His heart is weighed down by the ghosts of his family. "Please," he adds.
The air pulses, swirls, and she appears. Tall and thin, in an ancient kimono. The red silk clings to her, shredded in some places, dried blood patches in others. One hand hovers just below her small nose, the long sleeve masking half her face. Dean drinks in the image of her grey eyes, and drifting black hair.
Love me, she murmurs, letting her hand drop. He sees now what she was hiding-her mouth is one large slit across her face. The wound is raw and uneven, still bloody. Whoever did it took time to make sure it would stay etched on her ivory skin. Dean can't look away. Someone must have loved her once to leave a mark like that.
Do you think I'm beautiful?
From the sleeve of her kimono, a long silver blade drops into her open palm. Dean doesn't notice as he simply breathes, "Yes."
He means it. A scar is beauty, a memento from someone. That's what it means to be touched by the ones you love. The healed over wounds, the scared palms, they're all the result of his family. And he loves them. They're gone though, and it's then that Dean realizes how truly lonely he is without any family.
Deans looks up into the slit-mouthed woman's eyes and reaches up to touch her.
She tilts her head to the side, eager to please, and raises her blade.
end
