SUMMARY: Missing scene from 9.21. Dean isn't fine at all.
DISCLAIMER: Not my characters. Harsh lingo. You know the drill.
Short and not so sweet...Not particularly lengthy or, (admittedly), well thought out. But I just had to.
You can stop.
You can stop….
Trembling, he released the Blade, heard the thing drop to the floor - so, so heavy he felt his body might just follow it down.
Her warm blood slithered in rivulets over his fingers, dripping down to decorate the floor with pretty little crimson polka dots.
Gone. And, it's finished. And...
Stop.
Can stop now…but…no. Nothing's going to stop me. Nothing can-
Sam stood gaping down at him, chest heaving and eyes wild. As if he was trying to convince himself what he was seeing wasn't true. Desperation overflowing with a disbelieving fear. Fear of what? Not fear of…not of him. Never of him. Not ever. No, Sammy…
Oh…oh god…
It was gone. That white, white noise charged full of calm nothing - it bled from him like a seeping wound. Drained him dry and hollowed a small piece of his soul. Empty. Left him empty, empty….
Abaddon's mutilated corpse stared up at him, her lips pulled wide, frozen in a demonic scream. The calm had vanished. And now, now he could feel…feel horrid emotions and overwhelming sensations slamming into his gut like a fucking freight train. And now he felt…he felt so…sick...
He was going to be sick.
"Dean?"
Sam's voice again, worried and uncertain, hoping against hope that Dean hadn't already gone careening over the edge. Dean felt his fingers slipping. Nothing to grab onto and nowhere to go but down…down…
Sam took a step forward, his hand outstretched in a consolatory gesture towards his brother. Dean instinctively reeled back, landing on his ass, then clambered to all fours. He staggered to his feet, half running, half stumbling out of the room.
He heard Sam calling his name, but he didn't look back. He couldn't face his brother. Couldn't bear to see the look on his face again. Not yet.
Somehow he found the bathroom and slammed the door shut, not caring if anyone heard. He leaned his head against the solid frame, trying to calm down, control himself. It wasn't working. He felt the searing panic clawing its way up his throat. Or maybe that was just the bile.
He grabbed for the sink, bearing his weight down heavily and panting through the dizzying onslaught of nausea. The contents of his stomach sloshed uncomfortably and he couldn't seem to catch his damn breath for the life of him. He bent over and rested his forehead against the cool rim of the sink, absently turning on the faucet. Noise. Noise was soothing. Distracting.
His arm…the mark…it was burning. Throbbing angrily, screaming at him to pick it back up. He growled, the sound a frustrated rumble deep in his throat, and gave his forearm a vicious slap. The abused skin sizzled hot with electricity.
Pull it together.
Fucking pull it together.
He inhaled a deep breath through his nose and straightened, splashing a handful of water over his face. His reflection greeted him in the mirror, eyes weary and hollow – old – but still his. All his own.
Nobody here but us chickens.
"Dean?"
A soft but determined knock on the door. His stubborn, pain-in-the-ass little brother. Never gave up even when he'd wanted to. Even when he ought to. Even when Dean deserved to be left...alone. All alone.
"I'm okay, Sam." His voice sounded foreign to his ears. Disembodied and far from what it ought to sound like. Calm and reassured…it was his duty. Always had been and always would be. Sam couldn't know. "Just gimme a minute."
I just need a minute.
"Yeah," Sam didn't sound sure at all. "Yeah, okay." But he relented. Just like Dean knew he would. Because Sam didn't want to push. Didn't want to make him angry.
Because Sam was scared. Scared of him.
He didn't throw up. But it was a near thing. He gagged twice before managing to swallow back the disgust and loathing threatening to spill out and reveal everything.
He spat into the sink and sipped a handful of water. The mark pulsed furiously even as he pulled his sleeve down over it - hiding it.
His hands shook uncontrollably as he yanked the cotton towel from its ring and wiped at the blood.
Just another day. Just another monster that needed ganking.
Nothing else.
He steeled his features, rubbed the towel over his hands until they were red and raw, and exited the bathroom like he'd just gone to take a piss.
Sam was wrapping the Blade in a heavy cloth. He looked up expectantly when Dean entered, his eyes full of worry…bordering on panic.
"You all right?"
"I'm fine."
And he was. Nobody could tell him different.
But somehow, he knew Sam didn't buy it.
And neither did he.
END.