For KittyCatCutiePie who reviewed every single one of my Supernatural fics and mentioned somewhere that she liked angsty fics.
It was the twisting, sick feeling of fear. It crawled all over his skin, made him shudder in the night even as he ensconced himself in layers and layers of thick blankets. It was an aching, numbing fear of what was to come, creeping up behind him, tackling him to the ground in a ferocious and vicious death lock.
He wondered what the hounds actually looked like. He bet they looked like rabid monsters, ready to do whatever their demonic master commanded. There was not a single scrap of mercy within them, not a single bit of hope for him. He was completely and utterly lost to the Other Side the moment he locked lips with the demon in the hot woman's body.
He knew he made the choice; he wouldn't hesitate to do it again. But the clock ticks, counting down the months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds, to when he would be literally screaming his lungs as the demons inflicted every horror they could imagine. He searched feverishly. Gone was the steeled determination when he sought out the pretty lady in the red dress. He was flailing in frantic waters, yelling for help as his tears mingled with the salty water, unseen and unheard.
The day had arrived. The day. The day he went. He watched the clock as it struck 12 midnight, knew then, that he only had 24 hours left to live. He saw Sam, messy mop of hair, dark panda-like eyebags, flipping through books with such ferocity that some of the pages tore. He saw Bobby, his eyes glued to a thick tome written completely in Latin. He saw himself, sitting, staring lifelessly at the clock. He hated that machine. It was the worse invention ever.
The room seemed to bear onto him, suffocating, pressing the life out of him. He gasped as a shudder zipped through his body. Dropping the book he was perusing with a loud thud, he bolted. He jumped into his '67 Impala and ran a quick hand over the steering wheel before sticking the key into the ignition and twisting it with a sharp gesture. The large muscle roared to life, back wheels kicking up a flurry of dirt as he jammed his foot on the acceleration.
The car shot off like a bullet, tires screeching as it turned a sharp corner. He placed all his weight and more on the pedal as the car picked up speed. He had to run. Far, far away. Maybe if he moved to China they would not find him. He suddenly imagined grotesque-looking dogs, ears pressed flat against their head and teeth bared in a feral grin, blood dripping from their widening maws.
He ran a hand through his short, spiky hair. His baby had provided him no release that last night. Tears fell from his clear green eyes, his body shaking so much he looked like he was convulsing. He was back in Lawrence, Kansas again, running back and forth from the nursery to his room as he brought toys into his baby brother's nursery. He saw his father's proud smile, felt his mother's overwhelming joy. He wanted that back. Wanted it back so bad. Dad told him to look after Sammy. He had to. He did it for a reason.
He felt a heavy weight settle on his stomach as he slowed his car. He wanted things to be simple. He wanted to be the people they protected on a daily basis. Civilians. No worries about spirits, shape shifters or demons that killed. He wouldn't be running all over, falling, tripping over his own bloodied feet as he tracked an answer, getting weaker and weaker as the blood drained, leaving only a body for the hellhounds to collect.
Dean pressed a hand to his eyes in an attempt to stem the cruel fear that thrummed through his body. He could feel his heartbeat, thud, thud, thud, beating for the last few times that night. The fear obscured his vision, created a misty veil over the world.
He was falling off a ravine and he couldn't fly.