I was feeling a little angsty, and thought I'd try my hand at it.
Warning for small and annoying drabble.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never has been, never will be.
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Dragged Under
Dean went through life blissfully ignoring reality; pretending that everything would be okay in the end, that one way or another they'd finish this, they'd fix this.
But occasionally, when he was all alone in a dingy motel room, blood dripping from his wounds and head pounding, he'd be thrown back into the storm. Sometimes, reality would stem up, and swell over him like a great wave, breaking and crashing into him until it forced the air from his lungs in one great sweep.
He felt as though he was powerless, left alone to drift in a sea of despair and pain, his little brother's pained cries howled to him across the wind, close enough to strike at his core, but far too far away to ever reach.
At times, he wondered how he could still be afloat; how he could ever really hope to overcome this, and knew with a painful certainty, that he would not live to see the end. Every day he felt like he was dragged further down; pulled under the swelling tide and held there, eyes seeing nothing but darkness, and lungs burning for just one more taste of freedom, for one final breath of bittersweet air.
He knew there was no way this was ever going to end; he knew it would never be over. All they had done so far, every step of it had been for nothing. Some days, he found it hard to feel at all, yet some other days the act of breathing alone tore at his lungs; made them burn with hatred. Dean supposed that meant even his body was against the idea of a continued existence.
But every now and then, he would remember; he would start to feel again, and wave after wave of agony and of despair would crash into him, threatening to overcome his pitiful resistance with ease.
The moonlight shone through the motel room window gently, illuminating the walls and furniture with eerie light, as it quietly played witness to the bowed and defeated man that sat within.
Dean was silent, as still as a statue as he sat in the moon's pale glow. In the gentle light a tear collected at the corner of his eye, to roll slowly down the side of his face; the only sign to show that Dean was, and perhaps had always been, just a little broken.
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Well, there you go. Not as angsty as I thought it might be, upon completion, but it's a start.
Apologies for the greatly over-extended metaphor.
You've come this far, is it really that hard to push the button?