Characters/Pairings: OC, Destiel
Rating/Warnings: K
Universe: Canon
Word Count: 410
Prompt: I was procrastinating my homework on Tumblr and came across this speculation from freckledbuttchester: "What if Cas died in Dean's arms and he had scorched wing marks on his skin for the rest of his life?" For some reason I just couldn't scroll past it, and so I wrote a thing.
Disclaimer: The SPN-verse does not belong to me.
Author's note: My first foray into writing for Supernatural. Those of you waiting for me to update my Merlin stories, fear not, I haven't abandoned them! Also my first foray into writing in second person; the story presented itself to me this way and it seemed weird otherwise.
The laundromat is almost deserted this late at night; the only other person in there aside from the half-asleep employee is the man folding clothes at the dryer next to yours. He's tall and broad and attractive even in this shitty yellow lighting, though a bit older than you usually go for, and though your brother's always telling you not to talk to strangers, you still have 45 minutes left until the cycle's over and you've left your book in the car.
You're not one to start out with a comment on the weather, and commenting on his plaid shirts and well-worn jeans is more creepy than you want to get. Then you notice the ink on his arms: feathers, smoky-black, the detail so fine that each barb looks gossamer-light and distinct. They spider across his forearms and disappear up his rolled-up sleeves, like a slivered section of wings, and you wonder at the story behind them, and see an opening for a conversation.
"Nice tats," you say, flashing a grin in the hopes that your friendliness will get the story out of him. But your innocuous comment makes him freeze, and confusion washes over you as his eyes close and something like pain tightens the lines around his eyes, stretches his lips thin and white. You're frozen too now, awkward and horrified, because he's turning to look at you, and the sorrow in his eyes carves you hollow because it's unfathomable and all-consuming and terrible, and the unvoiced scream of loss written across his face steals your breath away.
Finally, somehow, you find the breath and strength to mumble "I'm sorry," and for once it's not a platitude but you run anyway, back to your car or to the bathroom, anywhere that's away from the cavernous black hole of his grief. There's a strange ache in your chest that even breathing deep won't cure, a sort of hook behind your lungs that you try to cough away, but when you squeeze your eyes shut the image of his face appears and you wonder if you've ever seen anyone so empty before and know that you haven't.
By the time you've calmed yourself down it's time to take out your laundry, and he's long-gone with no trace of him remaining; but as you fold your clothes you wonder what sort of masochist would purposefully put a reminder of that loss on his skin.