Dean looks closer at the cuts on his face. The old mirror in the flea bag motel is not nearly as clear as it would have been fifty years ago. Black spots around the edges, small cracks that will inevitably become bigger. Won't be long before the lower right corner just breaks away. It's worn out. Just like Dean.
He sighs and purposefully shakes himself out of this seemingly uncharacteristic introspection. Not even Sam knows how often he examines himself. His tired body, his ocassionaly suspect motives, his fluctuating resolve in the ever forward march toward salvation. Because that's what they do, he and Sam; in the constant effort to save themselves, they save the world. One battle at a time.
But the cuts, the slowly seeping wounds on his face, are proof that the battles are not easily won. And Dean has decided to focus on the outer self and stop looking so fucking deep into his damn psyche. It's dark and scary in there, and he's not currently interested in fighting his own demons. He's honestly not interested in fighting any demons at all at the moment. Not demons, or angels, or monsters, or friends. These cuts are starting to sting.
Cotton and alcohol in his still grimy hands, he begins cleaning the worst of them, the ones still bleeding. Maybe he'll be able to grab a shower later, after Sammy has chance to clean up. For now he can attmept to stave off infection. He hisses as he swabs the wet, cold cotton ball across a particularly deep cut. It always seems a little less painful when someone else does it.
He's reminded of the last woman he'd saved then screwed. She'd had a lighter touch.
He doesn't get to reap the spoils of heroism nearly as much as he'd used to, but that time he has been very happy to accept that benefit. After she'd cleaned him up, they'd spent an eventful evening on her couch. He doesn't technically take them to bed anymore, so to speak. It's too close a reminder of the things he'd once had and left behind. He shakes the thought from his wandering mind, splattering tiny drops from his face onto the sink and the dirty floor beneath it. Just passsing through this place, leaving his blood behind. Not a new story. Not the last time it will be told.
He pitches the used cotton toward the trash can and wets a new one. He flicks his eyes back to the mirror and catches a glimpse of a few old scars, scars with their own half forgotten stories. Cuts inflicted by monsters and men he doesn't really remember. He scoffs at the idea of calling them old, though. They aren't. Not really. These are just the ones he's picked up in the last ten years. He thinks about the ones that are missing; the ones that didn't make it back from Hell. Those are the ones that are only visible to him, and only at the bottom of a bottle.
Dean closes his eyes, breathes deeply, sighs a deep release. He just wants to rest back at the bunker; wants to sit in his chair, watch his tv, wait for the internet to tell them there's a new monster of the week to hunt and kill. He wants to go back to the days of scouring the newspaper for leads, of traveling in the car with Sam across the country, of fighting battles they understand and know they're going to win. He's smart enough to admit that they will instead deal with more time travel, or dimensional slips, or unexpected resurrections. And more cuts. To his body, his memory, his sanity. Deep cuts to family ties and trust. Some more lasting than others. More cuts to cover and hide, pretending they heal, forever feeling the scars.
Having pissed himself off quite thoroughly with all this fucking thinking, he throws out the evidence of all weakness along with the blood stained cotton balls, puts on the recovery like a protective skin, a bandaid to hide the vulnerability below the surface. Stitches on his smirk. It is his armor. It is his mask. It hides most everything else underneath. Only the cuts will show.
"Sam, it's your turn," he calls as he steps out into the small room.
His brother's eyes show that though he has far fewer visible cuts, he enters the bathroom battling wounds of his own.
AN: I'm easing back into a relationship with my words. I guess we're taking it slow. Just a one shot inspired by a random picture.