Title: Trigger
Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Meg!Demon
Summary: Ficlet. Five pounds of pressure - that's all you need.
Word Count: 606.
Cool silver dripping down a long smooth curve. This blade arcs and gleams in a way that's alluring, as liquid smooth as his muted steps across the carpet. A little like the Impala in the moonlight. Smooth pale curves masking razor-sharp edges.
Sharp? Of course it's sharp. It's Dean-Winchester-and-his-meticulous-weapons-care sharp.
There's a twitch in his jaw that jerks and fades and disappears before he lowers it.
Long fingers – scarred here and there, calloused here and there, smooth here and there – brush against the rough fabric of the canvas bag as he returns it to its place, and slowly glide across the next cool leather hilt. It's balanced, smooth, well-polished, not a scratch or a speck of rust to be seen. A fuller runs the length of this blade, a thin narrow groove to lighten and strengthen the weapon.
The Greeks would protect themselves from nightmares by laying a black blade beneath their pillows.
There's a silver one beneath his brother's.
His fingers roam on, deeper into the canvas bag, and brush against plastic casing. His hand grips the handle. It's heavy, heavier than it looks in the cloying empty-full shadows, but he's used to such weight. It's comfortable. Comforting.
A thin string twines out of nothing in his stomach, tugging gently at his guts with the building promise of a paralyzing no-holds-barred cramp. His face reflects none of it.
The Glock absorbs the moonlight and offers none of it back.
Quietly the safety is caught and released. It's three inches up, four inches to the right. Sight down the barrel, although he hasn't had to for years. Look and breathe and shoot. Mind the recoil, Sammy.
Dean doesn't stir, a cold metal barrel with its sights just to the left of his temporal lobe and he doesn't stir, doesn't move at all.
Too quiet. Too quiet.
A slow shaking clammy finger is reaching towards the trigger. The muscles twitch and jitter and spasm, palsied and reluctant.
The thin metal strip of the trigger is frigid burning agony, one puppet string between a tensing muscle, a tightening tendon, and ignition fire propulsion.
One.
Simple.
Motion.
One ounce on the trigger.
Two ounce, three.
A slight frown pulls at the edges of his brother's face and he rolls, sprawling a lazy arm across the other side of the bed. His face disappears into the starchy pillow. The barrel's empty gaping sight adjusts accordingly.
He catches a faint waft of stale beer and a smoky bar.
A pound, two.
And the thought burbles up, the thought the emotion, through a million misfiring neurons the simple blank agony of empty barrel sights and god don't don't please don't not--
The silky dark seeping through every inch of him in oily, bloody streaks is whispering: Oh, Sammy. Don't beg. It's pathetic.
She manipulates him with all the ease of the experienced demon she is, pulling strings and pushing levers in perfected smoothness. Three pounds, four on the hair trigger and his lungs are seizing in his chest.
He doesn't realize the gun hasn't fired until it's by his side, trigger finger resting against the cool barrel.
The dark is all smug, all pleasure, raw and seething wrath wrapped in silk seduction. Don't worry, sweetie.
He'll be staring you in the face. He'll be pleading, groveling... That's when we'll pull that trigger. You and me.
The light follows him across the room in thick blotted streaks and the glock disappears back into the bag, clenched and cramping muscles manipulated with infinite care.
You and me, hon, we've got lots to do.
(justnothimjustnothim)
The door clicks shut behind him and Dean doesn't stir.
FINIS.