Sometimes...
By PhoenixDragon aka PhoenixDragonDreamer
Warnings: Angst, Blood!fic, Horror, Dark!fic - this is a rough one folks, just to let you know.
Wordcount: 1,396
Note: I haven't written anything in a damn long time (as of now). I have WIPs piled up to my eyebrows, and believe me, THAT is frustrating. My Muse isn't there, usually, when I DO have time, and RL conspires against me on a constant, CONSTANT basis - so don't ask me where THIS came from, except that having had it up to my neck with RL and other assorted torments, and somehow, amongst all that, I just wrote this up. I don't know if it is accurate, or even good - I'm leaving that to you folks...
Note 2: Out of all my works, I do have to say, this is a major favorite of mine. My all time favorite if one could come close. It just poured out like it wanted to be written - and it took very little editing and checking before it was put out to be read. Plus - angst is my thing, lol!! I'm sure one day, another will come and toppel this fic out of the favorite slot - but until then - enjoy!
Disclaimer(s): I do not - nor shall I ever, sadly - own SPN. That privilege and honor is strictly for Kripke and Co. Which is good for the guys, 'cause I do not know if they would have too much fun playing in my world. Well, not ALL the time anyway!
FB is totally appreciated, criticism right now...not so much - but I can take it if necessary.
The first time, when Sam had been gone for six months, his father for three of those six - Dean wondered why...
After too many beers, no hot chicks in sight, nothing but reruns on the television, and no time for anything but thinking, he wondered -
What am I here for?
He blinked owlishly in the dim light of the hotel bathroom, the cracked and stained mirror looking as tired, old and worn out as he did.
He wondered if he had always looked this way - but somehow, he doubted it.
Then he wondered if his father was even coming back this time.
Why would he? His son is in California. A dark voice inside whispered.
He hadn't even realized that he had cut himself until later - when the blood from his wrist had puddled against the leg of his jeans, soaking the denim a startling purple-red.
He only moved to clean it up when dawn approached - and only because his phone rang -
He knew then that someone out there needed him - even if it wasn't the people that he loved.
The second time was a year later.
John was off on another long hunt - translate to ' the sight of Dean's face pisses me off ' - and he had been gone for four months this time.
Four very long and bleak months.
The anniversary of his mother's death had come and gone, his time on that day spent lonely and strangely afraid in another dusty motel room, where the plaster was cracked, the wallpaper peeling and the tile of the bathroom aged and dirt-encrusted. On that day, and many days since, it seemed, he recognized the lonely melancholy of the room, and somehow faded into it, breathing as the room breathed through the grime of the ages.
On that day, he had called Sam - just rung his phone at the dorm, and no one answered.
Until the fifth time he called.
All he could do was breathe and wish the sudden headache that loomed out of nowhere would recede back to where it came from - his brother's voice a breathless, husky 'hello', then a firm and curious 'who is this' - then finally -
" Dean? Dad? I told you not to call - it better not be you..." A pause. " I'm hanging up now - don't call again, I won't be so understanding next time."
Angry - so angry.
But he didn't cry - he never cried. He never laughed any more either - and all that alcohol seemed to do was make the ache sharper, like a shard of glass, digging and digging and digging.
He remembered what happened next only vaguely, but he did remember. There was that much.
He had pulled the knife from his boot and just looked at it, a grin stretching his face from just the sheer pleasure of hearing his brother's voice, before even the smile faded like colors on a worn hotel sheet, faded until all he could feel was where the smile used to be - a hurt that felt good, so he didn't worry about it. His head pounded and throbbed in time to his pulse and he felt like he was floating - floating above it all, as he spun the knife deftly in his calloused fingers, admiring the flash and glint of the sixty watt bulb off of the clean lines of the metal. So clean, so pure looking - god, his head hurt.
Don't call…I won't be so understanding next time...
Oh, to bleed and never stop.
To bleed like he did inside everyday.
Sam had left him - had walked away - had included him in his hatred.
The knife point shone so brightly Dean had to squint against it - then he took that clean, perfect surface, and marred it - like he did with everything else he touched.
It bit deeply, the wide cut so satisfying in the dazzling stab of pain the edge left in its wake, and Dean's headache seemed to seep out with his blood. He held the knife to the edge of the cut and watched as silvery white was layered with soft maroon madness.
To hurt so much it felt good - that was the goal.
He let it bleed for ten minutes - until he felt lightheaded, and with an ache of sorrow he sewed it up, making sure the needle cinched and pulled savagely as it worked to close the hole he had made in himself to relieve the hole that was already there.
He made sure to get no blood on his jeans this time.
John Winchester knew.
He could see it in his eyes.
He had disappointed him again.
He lost track after that. He never did it more than twice in two months, sometimes as few as once in five - but he needed it now - needed it to feel invincible - need it like he needed them...
It was almost to the point where he needed to bleed more than he needed them - and he smiled through the pain that this knowledge left in his soul - and cut deeper the next time.
He never did it around his father - but that wasn't hard.
Papa Winchester was finding more and more excuses to stay away it seemed...
Dean looked more than once at the shiny perfection of his Desert Eagle.
But it was too soon for that...
Maybe someday.
He liked the way it felt afterwards, too.
The rub and pull of an Ace bandage against the clotted smear of a wound against the cuff of his shirt or the edge of his jacket. A squeezing needle-shot of pain would light his world for a moment - just a moment - and it made it easier.
Easier to smile.
Easier to lie.
Easier to say he was fine.
He was fine a lot nowadays.
He no longer really bothered to sew the wounds up, anymore.
It's not like he needed a deep cut to make it all better anyway - small ones would do -
Just for the smeary shine of his life force against the mortality of his skin.
That's all he'd ever need.
Just until the need for the pain blotted out his need for them...
Three years later and Dad is back - for awhile.
Not that it matters - he won't stay, and when he leaves again...
He prefers not to think about that.
It's definite that John knows - he's seen, and it's only a matter of time.
The time comes too quick, too soon -
John moves too fast and he has his shirt cuff up, and the bandage off, and he's red and scared and pissed -
" What have you done Dean?"
What haven't I done?
" Son, talk to me!"
Your son is in California - slipping away from us - or what used to be us.
But instead he smiled the smile he'd been practicing those long hours of being alone - and lied through lips that were worn with the weight of them - and told his father -
" Nothing - came across a 'geist that was quicker on the draw than me, that's all."
And he pulls up the cuff to his elbow, and he shows the other nicks and scratches that went with - that make the wound look defensive, not offensive - and John slowly relaxes.
He nods and buys the story, not because he believes him - but because he WANTS to believe him.
And that .45 is just looking better and better all the time.
What was an eternity in Hell - when you lived it every day?
When it was all that you knew?
He waited until his father was gone three days later -
Then slowly, and oh-so-satisfyingly, he scraped away the scab over the wound -
And as the electric fire of agony danced up his arm to his elbow, he bit his lip until blood flowed there, too, that smile never wavering.
He was starting to believe the lie too.
And as he looked in the mirror, at the man dying inside the glass, he said it out loud.
" It's okay, Dean."
I'm fine...
FINIS
A/N: I haven't written anything in quite a looong time. I had written, at the time this came out, three stories - that I immediately deleted the next day. A lot of WIPS have just been sitting, and in a total bout of frustration, this came spilling out. I don't know if it's accurate, or what you would even call 'in character' - but at the time this was written, it just FELT right, so bear with me on it folks! I have a lot of friends that have backed and supported me in the past year and whether they even READ this bad boy or not - they know who they are. Love you guys!
Story written and completed Feb. 18th, 2007