Famine
Spoilers: Up through "My Bloody Valentine"
Rating: Teen-Alcohol and Blood/Gore Reference
Paring: Dean/Jo
The withered man was right. He was dead. He wasn't hungry, he wasn't horny, and he sure as hell wasn't happy. And even though he wished he could ignore the tremor running through his heart every moment; the only thing he starved for, the only thing he famished from was gone from this world. He didn't even know if it was in the next. All he was even sure of was that wherever she had ended up, he wasn't going there. He dreamed of her every night they were in town and every night after. The sinking desperation and ache he felt was crippling in the minutes before daylight. They filled him up, washing over in waves of indescribable longing. Every passing blonde, every hip-swaying barmaid made him do a double take. And then his throat would catch and he thought for an instant that he would never breathe again when he realized it wasn't her.
He called her phone every day. Her voice-mail would pick up and he'd listen to her speak, that clipped, hard edge evident in her voice. Sometimes he left her messages, but most of the time the beep would come and he'd slam the phone shut, squeezing it in his palm until his knuckles shake, pale and strained. He doesn't cry; even if he wanted to, the tears were long ago leeched from him, hardened by anguish and fear and the defeated slump in his walk.
Her lips had felt cold and dry against his, but he'd clutched to the one thing he'd denied himself, denied her. There love burst out in short, concentrated flashes of anger and distress, and even at the end, trying to hold her insides from spilling outside, he's filled with it. He's tempted to grab a beer from the fridge, or maybe a whiskey bottle from the shelf beside him. It would be so easy to drown out her cries. And if he really cared, he'd shoot her now, right in the heart. But his is trembling, its beating caught somewhere between his throat and his stomach, lurching back and forth until he's retching in the bathroom as he grabs more paper towels to sop up the blood and bits of tissue. This is her, the only women he couldn't have, the only women he ever wanted, and she's bleeding out in front of a register.
The memory clutches to his weakest muscle, pulsating it. The blood comes rushing through him in a fever; lurching, stumbling through the wiry veins. Standing in the cold night air, staring up at the heavens, he feels like he's almost calling out to her. The desperate plea for strength isn't for the fight, he just sometimes wishes for the strength to get through the next day. That maybe if he can, he will finally pull the trigger he's been so desperate to hold.