A/N: This is my first one-shot. Tell me what you think.
Rating: T = angst, situation
Disclaimer: I have no claim to "Supernatural", the characters, the actors, or anything of the sort.
Enjoy!
WF
I wrote this after listening to Billy Squier's "Lonely is the Night."
Lonely is the night when you find yourself alone
Your demons come to light and your mind is not your own
Lonely is the night when there's no one left to call
You feel the time is right-(say) the writin's on the wall
It's a high time to fight when the walls are closin' in
Call it what you like-it's time you got to win
Lonely, lonely, lonely-your spirit's sinkin' down
You find you're not the only stranger in this town
Red lights, green lights, stop 'n go, drive
Headlines, deadlines jamming your mind
You been stealing shots from the side
Let your feelings go for a ride
...
Not a sound. No one was around. Sam had gone to a library somewhere to do more research. The bunker was empty except for himself and his nightmares. He didn't dare call them dreams. When you wake up in the middle of the night with your heart racing, covered in sweat, screaming (what?), you definitely were not dreaming. Dreams were sunshine and fluffy clouds. Unicorns and rainbows. Dean doesn't have dreams anymore.
He laid on his bed in his room staring at a little spot on the ceiling trying to control his breathing and clear his head, sweat drying on his skin in the coolness. It's been a few weeks since he was cured of being a demon, but it often felt like it was just yesterday. The Mark of Cain still ached and throbbed, some days more than others. It never really stopped making itself known. He just did his best to ignore it, to push it away from the now.
The walls in his room, in the bunker, were closing in on him. He could almost hear them buzzing with whispers - sinister voices telling him that he shouldn't resist, that he should let it be what it is destined to be. Last night, as he had many nights before, he silenced them with a couple shots of whiskey. He lost count how many shots. These days it took more than it used to to make the voices go away. But today they were slowly, quietly going away as he lay there.
He took a deep breath, holding it in a moment, then releasing it slowly as he continued to stare at the spot above him.
Dean knew that he, along with Sam and Cas, has looked everywhere for answers to the MoC. They were all frustrated that they had not found any real information about it, how to remove it, what to do next. The frustration just added to his sense of isolation. The other two men did their best to understand and help him, but no one could know what wearing the Mark really was like. No one could tell him that it was going to be better when they didn't know what the hell it was in the first place. How it felt. How it itched, aching for a "scratch" or a kill to make the itch go away.
He breathed again, still watching that spot.
The bunker was still and silent and cold. A sense of nothingness surrounded him. For a moment, his mind emptied as he stared at a little spot on the ceiling of his room.
And, for a moment, he was at peace.