Title: Static
Author: Katieelessar
Rating: T
Warnings: One f-bomb
Summary: One night, every night, sometimes it's too much for Dean Winchester to handle but he never knows how to handle it.
Spoilers: Everything's fair game.
A/N: This is my first SPN fan fiction posted here. I was in a bit of a sour mood and felt Dean just wash through me so I'm sorry if it's a bit choppy and hard to read but it's what I intended. Reviews are amazing as always and I can handle the btchy flames, promise.
There's no rhyme or reason why he left when he did.
Except for the fact that he did.
The beer is cold and sweating in his hands. Smooth without bumps, gold without taints, hard in all the right spots. It places its long, deft fingers like a lover's touch over his wounds and caresses until the pain numbs. A little.
Deep set green eyes. That's all he has pulling him down for another swing. He feels the drink burn in his throat. The satisfying clink of glass against wood counter. The casual, tired look from the bartender who smells like strawberries and vanilla as she tops another one off. The feel of her skin when he takes her out back later and fucks her into oblivion.
But the pain never stops. Sure you can try your damndest to stuff it into a box and swallow the key but nothing ever stopped it from resurfacing and pushing that lid off. Nothing ever stopped him from allowing it to.
Tonight isn't about feeling the pain, letting it course through his veins like fire. Tonight isn't about seeing the fire. The car. Dad's tears. The ash. The punch. The cold, sterile room. The lake. The two beds and only him in the morning. The relief. The skin under his palm. The fear. The pain.
It isn't about overriding. "Underidding". Letting the battle rage overhead while he finds a safe corner in the sewers below amongst the grubby rats and disgust that is of human. He hides in it. It's a home for now.
There is so much in his life he wishes he could take back and so much more he could put forward. And then there is only so much he can take. Flat out take.
This wasn't the life he choose. The life he envisioned as a four year old in Lawrence, KS when the only thing between him and the things under his bed was the soft angel that was his mother. He would never admit it, hardly even to himself, but he wishes for that higher power. That someone or something that gives them that second chance when he can't find it. Not for him, never for him. Always for Sam.
For Sammy.
The rhyme and reason he left.
He wants to go back. Every inch in him is screaming it. See Sammy. Make sure Sammy's safe. Make sure he sleeps. Make sure he eats, reads, laptops, showers, dreams, drinks coffee, bitches about his car, shuts off his music, hovers, smiles and sometimes laughs. Make sure.
Save him…
Kill him…
Keep Sammy safe.
He sighs, rough and hard into his drink. The glass clinks.
Enough is enough.
He looks up, catches the eyes of strawberry and vanilla. Escape and freedom. 21 minutes, 34 seconds later. Dumpster outside.
And like that, he's back to square one. Hand groping for Room 34B's knob. The muffled sound of a 1990 Sony TV with color. The even more muffled sigh.
Where'd you go?
Out.
TV's off.
We need to talk about this?
We ever do?
Fingers curled. Bathroom knob. White stained, chipped, broken plaster. Blue Moon Motel. Check out 12pm.
Are we alright?
Fingers tighten.
Dean?
Half lie. Half truth.
The lock snaps.
There's only one rhyme or reason he came back.
To save Sammy.
The End
As always, thanks for reading!