Shiver
By PhoenixDragonDreamer
Warnings: Spoilery ficlet for 5.11, Angst, Dark!fic
A/N: Approximately 1447 words of a diseased mind from a diseased mind - mature, with extremely dark themes - consider yourself warned.
Disclaimer: Alas, I own them not - but I do like to play with them in my sandbox. The characters are Kripke's, the story (though it can be considered an episode tag) is mine.
Also...bless Sera Gamble.
It was the shiver - no other way to describe it really - a slick, shivery taste of blood constantly in the back of his throat that started it all. He found the only way to dilute it, to cover the horrible -
Wonderful, fascinating, delicious
- taste was to drown it, mask it with alcohol. It was a comfort and a reminder that here...here he could do that. There was a way to stop the constant ache that followed the sweet, coppery slide of blood and ash that seemed to forever be there behind his gullet, across the rough lines of his tongue, just waiting to remind him of -
Home
- Hell and all that he so desperately wanted to forget. He needed to forget it, needed to rid his mind of the hazy, but oh-so-provocative images of
Pain, Gore, the smooth feel of flesh flayed from bone, the greasy slide of intestines in his hands
his time Downstairs, at the mercy of all and none, serving the whims of -
His Master
- his tormentors as they cut and sliced and bent and burnt and hollowed out all that was him, all that made him Dean Winchester, son of -
No One
- John Winchester, brother/protector/guardian of Sam Winchester. He needed it, the oblivion of liquor and all the dank, empty promises that it held. Of rest, of respite, of forgiveness - because he had a bad feeling that there was none to be had. Not from himself, not from the world - and definitely not from those he loved most. As he did that slow, deathly slide into remembrance, he was assured of their hatred, their anger at what he had done, how he'd let it all slip through his fingers - how he had given in, given up -
Embraced his true nature, laughed the sweet, childish laughter of the criminally insane as he killed and shredded and ripped and destroyed it all. He had become the true son of the creature known as Alistair, he had
- become a monster, so much worse than what they hunt, because he still wore the face of a man. Seventy years on this merry-go-round (though he wasn't aware of that when he first came back to breathe real air) and he still was the demon with the face of an angel. Ironic in a sick and horrible way. He'd laugh endlessly if he wasn't too busy hiding and drinking the nightmare away.
Another benefit of the alcohol - it swept away the dreams, the desire to dream, the need to revisit his sins. He was brought oblivion from the taste, the smell - but it also brought a black mass of Nothing that took the place of his dreams. It doused the images in the flames of whiskey and burned them into the ashes that he could barely taste, even as he slept. It took away the fear, the loneliness, the ache of what used to be his soul. It made him better - stronger, more real, even as he knew inside the image he projected was a lie, it would always be a lie, there was nothing left of him. Just a memory that came to life whenever he saw his brother's eyes, when he took in Bobby's gruff affections, when he felt the strength of Castiel in the room. But it was a lie, it was all a lie. He wasn't a saviour of men, he wasn't a guardian, a protector, or even a brother anymore, he was -
The Bringer of Unending Death. The Lord of Pain and Torment - the light of Alistair's dark eye
- a sham. A drunken, stumbling, writhing, screaming falsehood that had to find himself in a bottle or shake apart from the sheer need to not be himself, be what he had become.
Even months later, when he had found the other side of himself, the darker side and had fallen to It's strength (though no one knew it), when he confessed the vileness of his sins (and seen his brother shrink from him) when he faced what he had brought himself, his brother, the world to - he needed that burn, the sting of his liquid mistress to quell the horror, the parody, the sick fucking joke of a damned stain he had become.
No one knew. He couldn't admit his weakness to himself (as if he ever could) so he found ways to hide it, to ignore it, to cover it up. The only problem now, was that it no longer had the effect that he had always sought, the oblivion he desired could no longer be found behind a black label. He didn't know what frightened him more - the dreams that now threatened to overtake him even awake (for sleep was no longer an option), the shaky need that left his mouth dry (and slicker than ever with that hated blood and ash), the promise of the ultimate oblivion (in the fire of an angel's form) or the overwhelming need to lay down and admit defeat. Lucifer was never going to stop, who he had become could never be burned clean in the Light of Michael - and one day...one day they would all realise that what they got back, the thing that wore Dean Winchester was a fraud. He feared the sorrowful disappointment of Castiel, the cold dismissal of Bobby, the deepening hatred of Sam - the cruel shadow of himself.
He found it ironic (and utterly hilarious really) that he was forced to admit his own shortcomings to a figment of his own imagination. His dreams had long turned to reality, his fears as old and weak as he felt - so the purely delicious unburdening of his soul to himself was almost the last straw. His need for that drink was an understatement. He could deal with the tremors, the shakes, the slipping slope of harsh reality - but to be fooled by his own mind so thoroughly, well...it was a shock, it was an outrage, but it was also alot like -
Coming Home, finding himself, finding his path Back
- realising the twisted, arrogant hypocrite standing beside you is you.
How could he blame Sam for fighting the vice of the bottle with the narcotic of blood (a narcotic he partook of for forty years and had been running from for two)? How could he accuse him of being Daddy's stepping stone, when the stone was around his own neck?
How could he keep fighting when all he fought was himself? When all he dreamed about while he was in that hellish asylum was how to find the stash in the nurse's station to either simulate what he needed, or drive it all away for good? That the only strength he'd found was in saving his brother - and in the bark of a command (from a broken down loony) no less. He'd come so far, wasted so much, become so much less - only to wind up right back where he started, with fewer weapons, resources, will and hope.
And he had to use all of those just to keep his brother tethered to his side. He wanted that drink (or three or twelve), ached for them - but it had proven to be a fickle and faded mistress. If he was truly back to square one, he would have to shore himself up on the addictions he'd anchored himself with before. Finding them again wouldn't be easy, but he knew somehow he'd persevere. He had to as there would be no dreams tonight, there would be no oblivion either, even as his throat ached with the crackling need that could neither be wished nor quenched away - he bolstered himself with the hope that he could find where he had left off so many, many years ago. In a world that was rapidly falling away from under their feet, it was all he had left to hold onto. It wasn't much, it wasn't healthy - but it was a start.
He turned his relieved, hopeful, desperate eyes upon his brother (his salvation, his anchor, his job, his family, his pride) - hoping that Sam was in this with him, that he could feel it too. That he wouldn't -
Send him back, falling, failing - only to find that Creature that clawed and screamed deep inside waiting release, wanting to fill that hollow, aching void in his soul...the void comprised solely of himself that he had to drown and burn and
- reject him this time, wouldn't find him lacking, wouldn't find him weak and powerless.
That he wouldn't find the darkness that threatened them all staring back at him, reflected in the shivering, perfect sorrow of his brother's mirrored gaze.
~Fin~