The Worst Gift Ever
The Land Of Broken Toys
Chp.1
He couldn't understand it.
Didn't remember how he got where he was.
The thing which frightened him most is how absolutely clueless and helpless the situation made him feel. Dean had no idea where here was. He was unable to determine if what he was experiencing was real, a dream, or if he had been dropped straight into the very bowels of Hell itself.
It just as easily could have been another personal attack on his psyche by the self-righteous, egocentric angels who enjoyed trying to manipulate him at every turn. Dean thought perhaps God's so-called 'defenders of good', had yet again plucked him from his plane of reality and thrown him into another:
training_learning_dump me into an alternate universe and see if I'll change my ways_mindfuck game.
But whatever was happening, wherever he truly was, did not matter as much as finding a way out. And for Dean, getting out of this place yesterday could have not been quick enough. The word scary is more a description you would expect to hear from a six year old and not a full grown man, alone an experienced Hunter such as he was, but he could not think of any other way to put it.
As the hair on his arms bristled, concurrently the very air around him became oddly still. A strong, unpleasant and indeterminable odor began to set heavy on the wind. It permeated his skin and the fabric of his clothes to such an extent he was certain he was going to be ill. Not knowing things, being unsure of what was going to occur in the next moment was something all Hunters become accustomed to. It simply comes with the territory when one deals with the supernatural, however, this time was different. Not being cognizant of what was coming for him in the darkness, had Dean convinced would surely be the death of him.
Something was wrong. Extremely, seriously wrong. He could not shake the unsettling feeling he was not alone. Dean didn't know if it was human or not, nor did he really care. Something foreboding and ominous was either coming, or already there, causing him to shiver as a chill moved up his spine. With a fast sweep of his head, he quickly surveyed the surroundings.
Black trees.
Dead, black trees were in every direction and stretched out long before him, as far as the eye could see. He began to believe he must be dreaming, otherwise, how else could he be lost in a sea of trees? Dean tried hard to gain focus in the moonless night, the sky so thick with an opaque blackness it reminded him of demon eyes. It was difficult to see more than a several feet in front himself. He strained hard to see and finally was able to focus, but the only thing he could make out with an distinguishing clarity was another tree.
As it slowly came into view, he realized the bark, the branches and even the leaves were all black. Liquid oozed from different areas of the trunk, and to the lay person it would appear to be sap, but Dean knew better.
It was blood.
The entire thicket had a low overhanging ceiling which definitely did not just present an illusion of darkness, the veil it created was like a impenetrable cloak of pure black. Although his vision was limited, Dean could have swore he saw something moving through the trees, circling him, watching him, like an animal hunting prey. When he didn't hear any sounds, he began to question his own sanity.
'This must be a dream. It's too quite, too silent, dark and still.. this can't be real. It can't be real..can it?'
But the very silence which had him convinced a moment earlier he was dreaming, is the same quiet he realized was not possible to fake. It was too real. The air too heavy. It was as if everything around him had taken on some form of dangerous, pulsating, breathing life of its own.
Moments later he had sworn the temperature had risen by thirty or forty degrees, maybe more. He wiped away the salt-laden sweat from his forehead as the droplets quickly accumulated upon his brow, but it rolled into his eyes anyway. It made seeing that much more difficult, and it was one of the last things Dean would ever want. To be blinded in such a situation is beyond the definition of the word disadvantage.
With each second that passed, each one seeming to last for hours, he was all-to-aware of the horrendous knot which steadily rose in the pit of his stomach.
It was his body's own sixth sense. It warned him of something far worse than being alone in a forest full of blood soaked trees, was coming for him. He knew he shouldn't be there so he began to run, but with no idea where he was running to, and the inability to see, hampered a fast escape. Dean wanted to put as much distance between himself and the unknown as quickly as possible. With outstretched arms, he stumbled his way through the forest and prayed he could avoid plowing into a tree. Then he heard it. His name being called by a disembodied voice from behind him.
"Dean."
"Deean."
"Deeeeeannn.."
"Aww come on Deano. What's the matter?"
Shivers ran through his body when he recognized the creepy slow drawl, and the special inflection of tone placed upon a horrid version of his name. Only one place..only certain people..certain things..ever called him Deano. He did not want to turn around. Didn't want nor need, any reminders of his time with the most sadistic demon Hell had ever produced.
His heart raced and pounded painfully. It was as if Hercules himself was trying to break his way out of Dean's body with a sledgehammer. If it battered against his chest any harder, he believed his ribs would break. It became impossible to breathe as his throat and lungs constricted, his very breath trapped deep inside by fear. As he gathered the courage to look, one word swarmed violently through his brain.
Alastair.
When Dean turned in the direction of the voice, he stopped when enormous flames appeared in the darkness. A wall of fire, colored orange and white with a blinding red oval center disappeared as quickly as it arrived, but before it vanished, a figure stepped out from its center.
Dean's fears were confirmed.
"That's not your happy to see me face is it?"
"A-Alastair." Dean cringed just from speaking the demon's name.
"Aww, Deano...you remembered. I knew I left an impression on you. Well... several impressions anyway, didn't I?"
"What do you want? I'm out of the pit now, and there's no way you can take me back you son of a bitch."
A slow grin snaked across too-thin lips as Alastair reveled in Dean's confidence and obvious fear.
"Well, you're right about that Deano. You are out of Hell, and I'm not taking you back, but that's not the point."
Dean replied, "What is your point then?"
"You know I think about you all the time right?" An evil yet quite chuckle escaped from the demon as he continued. "Yep. You were definitely my most favorite play toy. All your angst, guilt and anger was so utterly delicious, just like a gourmet meal prepared by the finest chefs. I languished in your scent, your taste, your pain, it's so beautiful and rare. There are very few people like you in the world Dean, and the ones which are, don't usually make it to Hell. Which makes you so very, very special to me."
Dean couldn't tolerate any more of Alastair's pointless banter.
"Is there a point to all this, or should I just look for my name on the menu as the Special of the Day?"
Alastair clapped his hands together with joy and shouted.
"See what I mean? There's my boy! That snarkiness! That: 'I know I'm screwed but you're gonna hear my worthless two cent G.E.D. educated opinion anyway!"
The demon sighed with disappointment when he didn't receive an answer.
"Don't you like playing with me anymore with me Deano?" Alastair tried to get him to respond, but couldn't. "Tsk. Tsk. You should be nicer to me since I come bearing a gift for you Dean. I miss playing with you so much, so I come bearing a present."
"You have nothing, and I mean jack squat that I want. So whatever you have planned Alastair, let's just get on with it, cuz whatever you think you're about to give me is going to get shoved right back down your throat."
"Ooo Dean. Sadly there's no time for that. Not that I don't miss you shoving something down my throat. Soo tempting. So, so tempting. Be careful what you say next Dean, you just may change my mind about giving you my little gift. I'm sure I'm can make this meat suit last me long enough to play with you topside for at least several months."
Dean didn't respond to Alastair whatsoever. The two simply stood in the blackness staring at each other. Dean, being careful and watching every move of the demon, ever guarding himself from a quick attack by Alastair. The demon, stood resembling the statue of the thinking man, his chin held tightly by his own hand.
"I've made up my Dean. Enjoy the gift. I sure know I'm going too."
With those final words Alastair turned around, the wall of fire reappeared, and he disappeared the exact same way he arrived. The moment the demon re-entered his own dimension, Dean's heart began to race faster than it already was. His skin began to sweat profusely. He was not aware of it, but his eyes had started to turn silver. Suddenly pain shot through his head like white-hot knives and he dropped to his knees, his pounding skull grappled between his calloused hands.
He was on fire, he was certain of it. The core temperature of his body rose to unfathomable degrees and Dean could feel his organs shutting down. Every memory from childhood to present, flashed through his brain with such speed and intensity he believed it was going to explode. A loud, excruciating, pain-filled shout echoed throughout the trees as Dean's body began to rip and tear into thousands of pieces. Seconds later, like a volcano spewing, but instead of black ash and fire, he was torn apart by a silver light which emanated from within him.
xxxXXXxxx
I'd Prefer Not To
Chp. 2
Dean shot up from his lying position on the bed, covered in sweat and gasped for breath. He looked around the room, first at the clock, then the window, at his brother lying in the other bed, then down at himself. He was fine. Everything was the same as when he went to sleep.
Whispering to himself, "Jesus H Christ, nightmares suck.", worked as justification for downing a full glass of whiskey as if it were merely water.
xxxXXXxxx
Oddly, I'm Still Breathing
Chp. 3
The same afternoon as Dean's intense dream he and his brother went on a hunt. It was supposed to end in a simple salt and burn. That's how it should of happened. But nothing went down that evening like it was supposed to. The entire thing went wrong from the beginning. Sam and Dean found themselves battling four demons instead of just one. Sam was knocked unconsciousness during the middle of the fight when he was power slammed against a brick wall by a particularly strong Havoc demon. After she threw Sam, she grabbed the demon killing knife from the youngest Winchester's limp hand, turned and went after Dean. Dean felt the tender flesh of his throat separate wide as the knife sliced deep into him.
A gush of warmth flooded his senses as blood flowed freely down onto his chest. His shirt was soaked deep with crimson and he tasted it in his mouth.
Instinctively he grabbed for his throat and gasped for air. The pain was unbearable. He could feel every inch of his ripped and injured skin when his hands tried to hold the wound together. But right when Dean figured he should have been blacking out and dropping to the ground dead, he didn't. He was still breathing. Still standing. His hands may have been covered in pints of his own blood, and his throat resembled that of the Joker's disfigured smile, but minutes later he was still standing. The demon bitch was shocked to see the Hunter still alive.
"Wha-what are you?" She said as she backed away from the blood soaked and still breathing Dean Winchester.
He shook his head, removed his hands from this throat and laughed. "I don't know sweetheart, but I know what you are. Dead."
She stood and watched a man, whom by all rights, should be on the floor drowning in his own blood and bile while making gurgling sounds, but wasn't. If the supernatural lifestyle had taught Dean anything, it was that the best time to attack anyone, or anything, is when you catch them off guard. And by the expression on her face, Dean figured you cannot get any more off guard than she was. So he grabbed the knife from her and shoved it deep into her belly. He then tended to Sam.
It should have been a simple salt and burn, but so much more happened that evening. So for the next several days locked away in a motel room, his secret about surviving a certain death attack kept to himself, Dean decided he was going to test just exactly what was going on.
xxxXXXxxx
The Morning After
Chp. 4
"You sure have been spending a lot of time in the bathroom this morning. Are you ok?" Sam inquired to his brother from the outside of a closed door.
In front of a chipped and lead clouded mirror, Dean stood shirtless looking at himself. Where there should have been an exposed throat, there wasn't. Just a long scar, and one other tiny, unusual thing. There was something else on his body which garnered more attention and curiosity than the fact he should be dead. In the very center of his breast plate was something he could not quit staring at. It was a mark. A symbol. Actually it was several symbols, two in total, one inside of the other. It was definitely not anything explainable, and it most certainly was new. He had no idea where, when or how he got it.
Of Wings & Pretty, Freckle-Dusted Silver Things
Chp. 4
He started off slowly. Just little things. A knife to his fingertip. A jab of a pen deep into his thigh. Biting his tongue.
It hurt like mad and he bled, but something about it never felt quite right. So naturally, moments later when his first self inflicted wound completely healed, he knew there was something going on way beyond his comprehension.
By nightfall Dean had downed an entire large bottle of bourbon, but his tolerance level was high so he never got falling down drunk. Actually Dean never got too drunk. He was becoming a master at perfecting the art of the meaning of the phrase 'functioning alcoholic.' What the auburn poison did manage to accomplish was a false sense of courage. Throughout the day his mind kept flashing back to the night his throat got slit. He couldn't understand how his body sprayed such a fine mist when the knife cut the main vein. Or how when the redness poured down his body like a river aside a mountain, he didn't die.
He returned to the bathroom and stared at the symbols on his chest. Dean knew he needed answers, but Sam had taken the laptop with him. It was late at night in a small town, so there was no where open to go to do research. Believing it didn't matter anyway because he had a symbol expert at his beckon call, he began to shout for Castiel. Several minutes later during the middle of his pleading, 'Come on Cas. I really need you. I've got some weird shit going on and I..', the angel appeared.
"Hello Dean." Castiel furrowed his dark brow, titled his head and stared intently at his friend. "There's something different about you, but I can't figure out what it is."
"Holy cow Cas, you're telling me. There's something going on with me, and I don't know what the hell it is. I'm so glad you came. You've got to look at this. I have to know what these symbols mean."
The angel glanced around the room but didn't any signs or symbols painted anywhere. "Where? I don't see anything."
"That's because my winged friend, you're looking in the wrong place." Dean removed his shirt and was taken aback by the look of utter confusion and borderline fear in Castiel's eyes.
Dean responded in a nervous tone. "What? What is it? It's bad huh? I know it's bad. Nothing can cause a person to look like that and be good."
The angel walked over to Dean, stood within mere inches of body and stared intently at the markings.
"How did you get those?"
"That's just it. I don't know. One morning I woke up with them, and ever since some really strange things are happening to me."
Castiel slowly drug his finger around and across the markings on Dean's body for several minutes. He didn't speak the entire time.
"Come on Cas. What is it? What are they?"
"Listen to me Dean because this is very important. I need to know exactly what happened in the days before you got these marks."
Dean put his shirt back on and sat down on the edge of the nearest bed. He told everything he could remember about the days leading up to the hunt of the Havoc Demons. When he got to the part about living through what should have been a fatal injury, he wasn't able to finish telling his tale because Castiel interrupted him. Immediate concern washed over the angel's face as he asked Dean if he had experienced any nightmares before the marks appeared. Dean had forgotten about the dream with Alastair.
Dean snapped his fingers in the air "Yeah! Yeah! Actually I did and boy was it whopper, let me tell ya. But, I don't understand what that has to do with anything."
"I need to know every detail of that dream Dean."
Dean recited every part of his dream in great detail. When he got the part about how Alastair stated he was giving him a gift, Castiel jumped up from the chair he was seated in, told Dean he'd be right back, then disappeared.
"Gee thanks Cas. Just leave me hanging why don't you? I hate it when he does that."
A voice from beside him made Dean jump. "Hate it when I do what?"
"Jesus Cas! I hate it when you do that too!"
"Do what?" The angel replied with a innocent look.
"Appear and reappear so suddenly all the time. I don't always hear your wings and you freak me out. Look, we need to work out some kind of system so I know when.."
"Dean. I don't have a lot of time. But I found out what those markings are. I knew there was something different about you, I just couldn't..how do you say..put my finger on it, but now I know. I had my suspicions when I saw the markings, well, that and your silver eyes, but I had to be sure."
Dean's incredulous look almost made the angel laugh.
"Silver eyes? What the hell do you mean silver eyes? My eyes aren't silver!", Dean paused then continued, "A-are they?" He ran to the bathroom and seeing nothing but his normal butter-green coloring staring back, he turned and said, "What are you talking about? My peepers are green as always. Cas what the hell is going on? And do you really see my eyes as silver?"
"Yes, I do. But only an immortal can see the true eyes of another immortal, unless of course one is divine. You don't see the silver in my eyes but I do see yours."
"Im-immortal? All right that's it. Enough cryptic beating around the bush. What the hell are you talking about?"
"You Dean. You're immortal. And what the Hell is going on is right. Those markings on your body are from Alastair. He made you immortal. The snake is eternal life and the other is a blood sacrifice symbol. Alastair must have done a ritual, bound it to you by blood and made you immortal. That must have been the gift he was referring to, although I can't understand why he did it."
Castiel may not have understood, but the eldest Winchester son did. He remembered the demon talking about how he missed Dean and how he was his favorite play thing, about he couldn't make him return to Hell. Alastair loved to revel in Dean's suffering, and it did not take a genius to put two and two together. Dean didn't respond other than to walk over to a beat up, old ice chest, pulled out a beer and started drinking.
xxxXXXxxx
Bartender, Just Leave The Bottle
Chp. 5
The concept of never-ending life was a bit much for Dean to process. All he knew was that he didn't want it. He did not want to live forever. His thought process went something like this:
'Oh god.. forever? Like as in eternity? What the hell am I going to do for eternity?'
Hundreds of memories swarmed through his brain and each was bad. The people he killed, the mistakes he'd made, losing his father so he could live, his mother in flames. The abandoned ghost town where thick, warm blood poured through worn denim and torn flesh from his baby brother's back as he held Sam in his arms. Dean didn't want those memories. He couldn't handle them then, and he certainly couldn't handle them now. If all that happened in the short expanse of a few decades, then how was it possible for him to deal with the memories and the guilt he harbored for each and every one for an eternity? Tears welled in his eyes as his thoughts turned to his brother.
'Sammy. Oh crap. I don't want..I-I can't..for an eternity without?... No. I just can't.'
Dean's pain was already becoming unbearable. He hadn't been immortal, and with the knowledge of said forever life, for more than several hours and already the concept of knowing what he would have to live with-and without-for the rest of forever, was pure torture. A defeated chuckle escaped him when he knew this is exactly what Alastair wanted. The demon couldn't take him back to Hell, so he did the next best thing. Alastair made him live forever so he could watch a sick and twisted live version of the 'Dean Suffering For Eternity Show.'
'That evil son of a bitch.'
He wanted it off. Wanted the symbols and everything they represented, present and future, removed. To claim that Dean was not thinking properly would have been a severe understatement. As he drug the serrated edge of his knife along the symbols, thick warm blood wound its way down his body, becoming matted in the dark, fine line of hair which extended from his abs to below his waistband. If it wasn't for the dilapidated motel being entirely vacant, any and every occupant would have heard his scream when nothing happened to Alastair's marks.
xxxXXXxxx
Just Like An All Day Lollipop, Your Angst is Simply Delicious
Chp. 6
His self loathing along with his ever present, over guilty, heavy-hearted conscience, acted like a lightning rod does during a severe storm. It was a conductor of sorts. His negativity drew every possible bad thing which could be taken from being immortal, and centered it directly in Dean's psyche and very soul, until he was sure he'd drown in emotions. Never once did he think about all the wisdom and knowledge he would obtain from living forever, or how he could change the world with that kind of unfathomable power.
However, doing humanity a favor and helping make the world a better place was no longer of importance to Dean. That concept, the Winchester original goal of 'saving people, hunting things", was crushed and shredded to bits about several hundred demons, the loss of many loved ones and one trip to Hell ago. Dean believed humanity owed him one for a change.
Dean had yet to tell his brother about his encounter with Alastair or what Castiel told him. His attempts at hiding the symbols, and fortunately the scars on his body too, was effective. Dean never let Sam know what he had been doing to himself until it got to the point where he could no longer hide the marks. Sam was smart and very alert, it wouldn't be long before he would find out. Dean had to do something and quick to conceal the scars. Little did he realize his next move was going to become an addiction worse than his last.
xxxxxx Flash Forward One Year xxxxxx
Inertia Creeps
Chp. 7
"Sam! If I see one more goddamn self-help pamphlet lying around, you're going to be the one who needs help. Understand me? I swear I'll beat your ass."
"You haven't been able to take in me at least a year Dean. Besides, I don't want to fight you. Truly I don't. I just want to help. You're spinning out of control, no, I take that back man. You're going so hard you just floored the accelerator and slammed the car into tenth gear. Don't see you it? Or are you truly that blinded? Just look at you. I don't know whether to introduce as my emo brother, or try to explain all the scars and tattoos by telling everybody my biker brother got into an accident. I don't know who you are anymore."
xxxxxxFlash back Eleven Months xxxxxx
(one month after learning of immortality)
Dexter's Got Nothing One Me
Chp. 8
It started off with little things. A horizontal slice over the delicate flesh of the inside of his wrist. A vertical cut would always soon follow. Blood would flow. It would gush over his hand and he'd watch the splatter pattern it would create on the chipped tile floor as it dripped off his the pads of his fingers.
Pain was felt but damn it all if he couldn't die. He wasn't aware of it at at the time, but the feel of warm liquid covering his skin was comforting. Of course his thought process wasn't right about this either. He believed if it didn't work on one arm, than maybe the other would, so he would cut that arm too. Back and forth from arm to arm. After several attempts on his arms, he then tried his legs. But nothing. Nothing but garnet black blood would escape him. The flesh would close, the wound effectively 'healed', but what by all laws of physics should have killed him, didn't. He would be left with nothing but a huge mess to clean up, and several nasty scabs which within only a matter of hours would turn to scars.
Dean wasn't trying to kill himself. The things he was doing were tests of his immortality because he simply could not believe he was destined to live forever. If he would have died, he of course would have regretted it tremendously as he didn't say any final goodbyes or sow any last oats, but then again, Dean clearly was not in his right state of mind.
xxxXXXxxx
month three
I Must Be Emo
Chp. 9
He couldn't fully understand it. Didn't know if ever truly would. However, he was certain of one thing. There was no way he was going to stop anytime soon.
Blood.
It was all about the damn blood and every thing it was supposed to represent. Life and death. The natural order of things. His parents. His brother, and a thousand other things he didn't want to think about being without. As quickly as blood would pour from his body, the lack of such would go straight to his head. His temples pounded with an appreciated pain. It proved he might not be able to die but at least he was still human. He could feel and he could hurt. And somewhere in that broken head of his, where all his emotions drowned in a convoluted thought process, it all began to make sense.
The whole thing was a rush. He gritted his teeth and hissed through the pain. With an arched neck and through closed eyes, he stared blindly at the ceiling. All of senses seemed to come to life as adrenaline mixed with pleasure and guilt and the comforting warmth of his own blood as it flowed freely down his body. It was the worse, yet oddly comforting set of emotions he'd ever experienced.
Dean was certain he couldn't die. Every time after a particularly guilty feeling, a hated and unwanted memory, or just an everyday emotion he wasn't capable of handling, he dealt with it by hurting himself. It was easy for him to excuse the actions by the solace he received when he did it. It was wrong. All of it. But when in the history of the Winchesters had anything ever been normal?
xxxXXXxxx
month five
Of Neon Signs and Ink
Chp. 10The scars became too many and quite impossible to hide. All the test marks, fresh wounds and the scars created by such, lined so much of Dean's body he had to do something before his brother discovered. As Dean sat down shirtless in a chair at a tattoo parlor, his left forearm extended on the arm rest, the artist asked him if he knew what he wanted. Dean smiled. "Yeah. I got a few ideas."
xxxXXXxxx
month ten
Guinness
Chp. 11Over thirty tattoos in various sizes, all with different conveyances and level of memories in a six month period is what Dean managed to accomplish with his knowledge of forever life.
'maybe i should call guinness book of world records' Dean absentmindedly mused to himself as he starred at his newest tat.
He knew if he were to continue at his current pace, Sam was going to start questioning where all their money had been going. It was all for the best anyway. Sam had seen a tattoo on his brother's stomach during a hunt when a demon held Dean fast and strong against a wall. Dean's shirt got lifted up towards his chest, which exposed his abs, and Sam was able to make out a large, dark picture against the pale flesh. Sam asked Dean about it a couple of months later and what he heard from his brother's mouth was difficult to fathom.
xxxXXXxxx
I Might Be Lost, But At Least I'm Back In the Driver's Seat Sammy
Chp. 12
"It grounds me ok? The tattoos.. the cut...just everything...it grounds me all right? So, do you think you understand now? Or at the very least, resign to accept it? We'll both be better off if you could."
The expression on Sam's face clearly indicated he wasn't about to take what Dean had to say with a grain of salt.
"Look Sammy, let me try and explain it this way. I'm so sick of popping in and out of dimensions at the will of spoiled angels and the sadistic whim of demons, so I decided to protect myself the best I could. And it just so happens it helped me hide it all from you for over a year. An added benefit I might add."
"You have more than just symbols and Latin on your body Dean. I mean the Impala? For real?"
Dean grinned, reminiscent of his old self when he stared down at his denim clad calf. He thought about the pattern of cuts which caused his boot to fill with blood necessitating the need to have a tat in the particular shape of a large, dark object such as his car.
"Hey! That's my baby Sammy. Watch what you say next." Dean chuckled.
"And the coordinates? Why would you want our crap memories on you forever?"
"I think you're being a little naive, but it's only the good stuff little brother. Only the good stuff."
"And the large, Old English capital W on your abs around your belly button?"
Dean shook his head. "I'm damn lucky that one came out all. The artist was more lit than I was."
"So you really can't die huh?"
"Nope. And I tried believe me. I'd say ninety nine percent of the ink is the cover up of a scar, but I covered them with a good memory. The rest are honestly just protection spells."
"So you have tried to kill yourself then." Sam scoffed. "I knew I was right."
"No not really Sam. Not in the way you think. I mean, I don't want to live forever, and I don't plan on it. But now that some time has passed..."
Dean was interrupted by Sam.
"Some time? It's been an entire year. You've been at this for a whole year. How could do this to yourself? To me? You've lied. You've kept a horrible, horrible secret to yourself for so long. I don't understand. I'm trying but I don't. Dean you're stronger than this. You of all people don't mess around with self-inflicted wounds..alone because of the fact you can't handle something."
Dean blinked his eyes and sighed.
"Ok. It's like this. I've come to be able to accept that at least for now, it is true. I seem to be able to live through anything. And what you don't get is that I didn't handle it very well when I learned the news. It's taken me a year Sam. A year. A long ass twelve months simply trying to process it all, but in the grand scheme of time for me now a year is similar to breath. It's fast, fleeting, served it purpose, and a million breaths later, you won't remember any particular previous one. I handled it the best I could, and honestly I'm sorry you don't like the end result. But what I was trying to say before you interrupted, is that maybe now that I'm coming to better terms with the concept, we can start looking together for a way to reverse this."
"I don't know about the immortality spell, but I'm pretty sure the ink is there forever Dean."
As the eldest Winchester son listened to his brother speak, he thought about how out of all the ink he'd gotten in the last several months, only one was of any real importance. Not even the protection spells held anywhere near the significance of one particular tattoo. He knew at the very least if he was going to live forever, than so would the happy memories.
It made sense, even if Sam was having a difficult time understanding his explanations. Dean tried to convey it as simple as he could. Dean believed if he really was going to live forever, then he could at least pull from the strength the good memories would provide during times when he was at his lowest.
Dean's hand slid inconspicuously over his own left shoulder. As the pads of his fingers ghosted over a set a numbers, he enjoyed being able to touch, to literally feel the most important thing in the world to him, and he smiled because he wouldn't have it any other way.
05~02~1983
Sam's birth date.
xxx end xxx