Title: Whiter Shade of Pale
Summary: Dean spends his days counting.
Disclaimer: They belong to Kripke and the CW, I just like to torment play with them sometimes.
Characters: Dean
Genre/pairing: Gen
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: All seasons, through 5x22, "Swan Song."
Warnings: angst, permanent disability, language
Notes: Written for the LJ community hoodie_time's Writing Between the Lines challenge, where authors post a line or two from a story they haven't finished and someone else makes their own story from it. The prompt I picked was "There are days, before he opens his eyes in the morning, that Dean manages to forget he's not whole anymore but sooner or later he has to get out of bed, and open the floodgates of his own personal hell" by neonchica.
He finally opens his eyes because what else is he going to do?
There are days, before he opens his eyes in the morning, that Dean manages to forget he's not whole anymore but sooner or later he has to get out of bed, and open the floodgates of his own personal hell. He wants to lie here, on his soft sheets, in his warm bed, and pretend for a little while longer, that he's still asleep, that nothing has changed, that he hasn't changed. He can deny reality a few minutes longer but reality, this morning, takes the form of a full bladder, which can only be denied for so long. (Five minutes then ten.)
The birds outside are those little ones that stick together in clumps. He figures there's probably a couple dozen, maybe more. He keeps his eyes closed and listens to their noise. Little tweets that, like imps, are only really annoying in packs. The neighbours (one house over) have a dog. It barks five times, pauses two seconds, then barks for four. It never stops the birds, only sets off the rest of the dogs in the area.
Someone's mowing their lawn with a gas lawnmower. The timing's off and it's hiccupping. (One second, two and three, hiccup.) He still mows Lisa's lawn. Front left quadrant is ten paces by four. Front right quadrant is ten by eight before it wraps, two paces wide, to the back of the house. There are no ornaments, no bushes beyond the line of roses right next to the porch and Ben does the weed-whacking along the fence. He could mow the lawn today but he doesn't want to open his eyes.
The rain stopped but he can still feel the moisture in the air, can taste it—an edge of scrubbed freshness that he hardly ever noticed before… before. Now he can't help but be aware. The feeling will last maybe an hour more, then the sun will dry it and the morning traffic will taint it, and Dean will be counting another day on the calendar.
Some apple pie life…
He finally opens his eyes because what else is he going to do?
He rolls onto his right side, sits up, reaches out with his right hand (one second, two) and finds the side table right where it's supposed to be. He sets his feet, rises and turns left a quarter turn. He can feel the sun hitting his toes. It's going to be hot in a couple hours.
Five steps… he grabs his bathrobe hanging on the back of the door. Open the door into the hallway and the hardwood is smooth under his feet. No sun in the hall and he feels the cool air flowing in from the windows Lisa insists on opening when they're home. He's told her (once a day for just under three months or eighty-seven days) it's dangerous but she won't listen. Just gives him a kiss and tells him she's checked all the protections and they're all in place. She doesn't understand how quickly everything can change. She can't: she's not a hunter.
Mind you, neither is he, anymore (Four months or one hundred twenty three days since Sam…)
He hears her and Ben talking homework—math, he thinks. He can't help with math homework. His math is simple: two minus one equals seriously fucked up. Adding that one to the two over here doesn't change the final result. Still, these days, he's always counting something.
They pause and he knows they've heard him moving around so he calls out a rough 'good morning' before continuing to his destination. Three steps across the hall to the washroom. It's always loud in here because of the tile. It makes even the smallest sounds echo but if he's quiet, then sometimes the world is quiet. If only his mind would get with the program. It could shut the fuck up instead of bombarding him with memories and 'what ifs' all the frigging time. He used to be good at shutting out his thoughts, when he had other things to distract him. Hunts, research, the Apocalypse for God's sake. He survived the friggin' Apocalypse only to end up like this. Like that song Cassie had liked by those weird British dudes, Dean thought God has a sick sense of humour.
Lisa hadn't signed up for this and half the time (sixty-two days) he thinks she'd be better off if she just tossed his ass out. He'd call Bobby and go live with him and spend the rest of his life counting the spaces between stacks of abandoned cars. Rusting away with the rest of the junk.
He goes through his morning routine with his eyes shut, doesn't really have to see to piss and brush his teeth, and he uses an electric razor now. He wonders if he should take a shower, can almost feel the warm water trailing over his body, heating the chill in his core, but decides to wait until after he's mowed the lawn… if he mows the lawn. He mowed it four days ago and it'll hardly have had time to grow enough to require another cut. He'd like to help Ben with his homework because then it would be some kind of work but he can't read the problems so there'll be nothing for him to do again today, like there was nothing yesterday or will be tomorrow and his whole fucking life is going to be like this… fucking helpless and useless and he can't save his brother because he can't fucking see…
One step to the door and then he leans against it so he knows he's not going to hit anything as he slides to the floor.
In a few moments he'll drag himself to his feet. Move one step to the left to be at the sink and he'll splash cold water on his face. Then he'll walk the one step back to the door and reach out for the door knob he doesn't see and cross a hall he doesn't see, into a bedroom he hardly remembers and try to adjust to the reality that there's no such thing as a blind hunter.
And he'll count the ticking of the clock in the hall.