More of hell on earth and pretty-boy angst...
The black sky churns violently, crackling with lightening and booming roars of thunder – a party of demons at last set loose by their strict master. The sweet breeze blowing earlier has picked up speed, howling in anguish, becoming a screaming tornado. The sea boils, hissing and bubbling, and the waves hurtle themselves against the yielding shore. Whatever demon-free humans there are left in the world are probably squatting in their man-made storm ditches, praying and begging for the end to be swift. The world has been turned upside down in a raging inferno and it seems like the Apocalypse is finally about to tear the earth apart.
Dean knows better.
Sammy's in one of his moods.
He's extra sissy, pissed at just about everything and everyone; he eats compulsively, bitches to everyone about every little thing, and generally acts like a PMSing girl. (always knew there was a reason for all that hair) The only difference is that Sam spews evil powers and offs anyone who crosses him the wrong way. The glinting yellow eyes and irritated snarl curling menacingly around the mouth are also dead giveaways.
It's on days like these when Dean finds himself speculating what it would feel like to have that tiny pellet of metal rip through the flesh at the back of his throat, cutting through upper cords of his fragile spine, and exploding out the back of his head in a spray of warm blood. Would he feel it, or would there just be a shot, the booming retort of the gun, then nothing? Or he could go with the 'out with a bang' approach. Go looking for that coven of vampires he still hasn't taken out. Provoke a particularly nasty spirit maybe. Wendigo? Zombie? Trickster. He could even summon a demon and ad-lib. With his job, he has the privilege of getting creative.
Who knew contemplating suicide would be so morbidly entertaining?
A gust of black wind nearly shoves him off the hood of the Impala. He quickly rights himself, pushing his hands back into the usually comforting warmth of his leather pockets. During these off days, they only serve to ruthlessly remind him of the nonexistent disappointment shining in Dad's dying eyes (notrealnotrealnotrealnotDAD). It jams the lump back into his throat and he's back to thinking of the best ways to go out. Go out while still leaving an imprint on the world that isn't going to remember who he was or what he sacrificed for its safety and blessed innocence.
So many choices…
Dean tilts his head back; eyes closed, and he pretends there's actual sunshine beaming through wispy white clouds to soak up. If he does that, leaning his head just right, it almost feels half like the real thing. Other than that, the place is almost unrecognizable. The only familiar aspect about this spot now is the rough texture of the sand. The dusty field, ashy and black with soot rather than sparkling tan, is the only thing left here that's managed to escape the total corruption brought on by the demons and their crooked breath. The clouds (more demons) are too thick for the sun to shine through, if the sun even still exists. The ideas of a sun and light are all foreign to the world now.
It sucks just as much as it sounds.
Dean can barely remember what it was like before; the memories have faded with time and distance. It's like trying to remember exactly how his mother smiled down at him when she tucked him in at night, if her eyes twinkled or her head inclined fondly, mouth curling up tenderly at the perfect corners.
("the angels are watching over you, dean. they'll keep you safe.")
(but they're gone now, momma. what do i do now? mommy? daddy? what am i supposed to do?)
The dark sky screams and flashes an alarming yellow. It burns and writhes thousands of feet in the air where the airplanes no longer soar. (the one thing hell got right) Dean watches passively as the boiling clouds shriek again, exploding in a storm of angry fireworks. Mr. Boy King must be prissier than usual this time. Dean actually feels sorry for whatever unfortunate dumbass decides to annoy Sam today, demon or creature alike. Sam's ruthlessness knows no bounds, especially when his ever fragile temper is shoved clear off the edge.
As for himself, Dean prefers to steer clear of his little brother during his unnatural demonic 'time of the month'. He hasn't yet seen what a grouchy Sam with freaky psychic powers is like, and he'd like to keep it that way. Keeps the precious image mostly intact.
A stray wave hits the sand right in front of him, spraying brackish water into his eyes. And in case it's never happened to you, go spray some Lysol into your face – it freaking hurts. He scowls, cursing as the sting of salt burns under his lashes. He blinks and scrubs at them, which only serves to make the blazing sensation worsen. Ire rising steadily and eyes tearing up pathetically, Dean is having a hard time keeping up the stoic façade, and he wonders when he became so melodramatic and moody. Sam must be rubbing off on him.
A feral snarl of pure frustration escapes him as he pushes roughly off his girl's hood and stalks to the water's foaming edge. He doesn't know what exactly he's raging at – the scratching in his sockets, his own stupidity, or the fact that He's abandoned him again – everything is beyond screwed and there's no one left to blame but himself. So, naturally, Dean charges the responsibility on the memories of everyone (momdadsammygod) who left him and the people (momdadsammygod) who didn't come to his rescue. No one is safe from his condemnation.
The waves soak through his clothes in furious rushes of salt and wetness that leave him fuming. Dean raises his eyes to the ravaged heavens, eyes scorching. He sucks in the hot sulfuric air and his stance turns stone solid with livid defiance.
(i hate this. i hate you)
"Ya hear that?" he screams to the unfeeling clouds. "Yeah, that's right, I said it! I. Hate. You!" He clenches his clammy fingers into tight fists. They shake and his arms ache with the trembles. God could just smite him down right this second for all Dean cares. In fact, he glares fiercely at the disregarding heavens, he dares Him.
"Where were you, huh?" he wants to know, yelling hoarsely. "What was so damn friggin' important you decided you had to go and ignore my entire family when they needed you the most? Why did they deserve to die? Huh?"
He's crying now. The tears burn sizzling tracks down his frozen cheeks. He's gritting his teeth so tightly together his jaw hurts. He tastes warm salt on his lips.
"What did I do to deserve this? Just tell me that!"
His demands are met with silence. Hateful, raging, resentful silence.
Dean screams wordlessly, long and guttural, until he feels as empty as when Dad had left him. It's a bitter, curdling, broken sound, full to the brim with a cold hollowness that burns at his insides. He screams until Sam's shrieking voice cuts in front of his own. Sam's voice always prevails, he seethes resentfully.
(its always about sam. samsamsam. what about me?)
Dean! Where are you!
He spins in a tight circle, kicking up sand with a vicious jerk. The Impala glints strangely evilly under the unholy wrath of the storm overhead. He doesn't look back.
Dean!
The car looms closer until he can nearly touch it. (too close) He yells irately, ramming his booted toe into the rim of the Impala. Another kick. Followed by another. All the rage comes pouring out in an overwhelming wave of crashing frenzy. Kick. Kick. Clang.
Dean! Quit playing around!
"Shut the hell up!" Dean screams at no one. He's alone on the beach. The crashing of the gray waves can't drown out the buzzing at the corner of his awareness. It goes on and on and on, haughty and infuriatingly irksome. "Get out of my frickin' head!"
Then come on!
Dean spins again and puts his fist through the windshield. It shatters impressively and slices into the skin of his bony knuckles. The cuts are deep and run through the back of his hand to bend of his wrist, blood bubbling up from the fleshy tissue to spill over his outstretched fingers. The red throbs in time with his beating heart. He doesn't feel a thing.
Dean! Hurry it up already!
He stands in the headlights of the broken Impala, watching red ribbons curl around the ridges along his knuckles. The insane urge to giggle surprises him. But at the same time, it doesn't.
I need you!
(oh, so now you admit it)
He stands in front of his wounded girl, blood dripping from the splintered pieces of glass, wishing his head would just explode to save him the trouble of doing it himself.
Where the hell are you!
The sleek black of the Impala flashes; reflecting the glint of lightening behind him. It illuminates the red embellishing the fractured glass for the barest of seconds. He's going to have to fix that, the annoying realization comes a little too late.
Dean!
He's sick of this. Needy. Dependent. Clingy. Spoiled. Always calling him for every damn hitch in his little plan for frickin' world order. As if that's even possible with demons let loose running around, screwing everything all to hell and back. Like walking backwards blindfolded. He is so sick of this.
Dean!
(when will it end?)
- - -
The roar of the engine was all Dean could hear for the next few hundred miles. He didn't once stop for a break or to sleep. He needed to get the image of the motel room out of his head and driving aimlessly with no destination seemed like the perfect way to do it.
(blood and white feathers)
He was still waiting for Sam to say something. So far, all he'd done was flinch away from the stray pair of flashing headlights across the dashboard and lean into Dean when he'd helped him into the passenger seat. Then he'd clammed up, curling into a tight ball against the cool window. Sam had somehow managed to fit all 6'4" onto a tiny square of the bench seat, legs and all. He hadn't made a sound since Dean had found him amidst the carnage of the motel room, a place which Dean was trying to get as much distance between as possible.
(shredded overcoat in blood and white feathers)
The Impala rolled and dunked into a large ditch in the road – it was so dark, the headlights weren't much help. The car dipped violently, rocking them both in their seats with a loud curse from Dean and a tiny whimper from Sam. When they finally bottomed out, Dean coiled his fist around the steering wheel, face hard as he studied his brother anxiously. (god, what happened, sammy?)
"Sam?"
Sam whimpered again, louder. He curled tighter in his tiny ball, smearing more blood over the leather of the seats, which, right now, Dean could care less about. Sam made a high keening sound at the back of his throat that slowly escalated into a panicked screech.
Dean jerked the wheel and braked harshly before shoving his door open. He quickly rounded the front of the car as Sam's screaming grew increasingly louder. He could hear it through the glass. His own throat ached as he yanked open the passenger door and caught his brother as he spilled into his arms.
Sam fought him at first, clawing at his face with raw cries of terror. They tore at Dean's insides and he clenched his heart against them. His arms gripped his brother, awkward, yet firmly and pulled him close to his body. The minute Sam realized who it was, he instantly quieted. His hoarse shrieking reduced to small, heartbroken whimpers and he drooped heavily into the embrace.
Dean would take his victories where he could.
"Sam, come on. What's wrong, huh? I'm here, I'm here. Nothing's wrong, right? You're all right now, okay? I'm here. I'm here, Sam,"
To his increasing horror, Sam began to sob in earnest – great, hacking cries of misery. He seized at the lapels of Dean's jacket, desperate for the contact. Dean leaned into the touch, more than willing to comply. With Sam, there were no boundaries he wasn't willing to cross. His arms came around the broad shoulders properly in something that came as close to a cuddle as Winchesters were capable of.
"Shhh, Sam. You're all right. You're okay. I gotcha. It's gonna be fine, alright? I've gotcha,"
The repeating litany of soothing words seemed to stream out from him nonstop. Some instinct involuntarily pushed him, spilling words from his otherwise frozen lips. Dean rocked their bodies back and forth, hoping the motion would calm his brother down. It'd always worked when they were younger.
"Shhh. It's Dean, remember? I gotcha, little brother. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere, okay? I promise, you hear me? You're fine,"
He thought he felt Sam nod against the hollow of his throat, where his head was tucked. Dean felt his arms tighten subconsciously in response.
"I gotcha… I'm gonna make this right, I swear, Sammy. If it's the last thing I do, I'm gonna make this right, promise," He said it with enough conviction that he was pretty sure he persuaded Sam of his pledge. Now he needed only to convince himself of the same.
"'Cause I'm an awesome big brother, right Sam? Should be a piece of cake, am I right?"
Sam shifted in his lap and nodded tentatively. He hiccupped and nodded again, stronger and surer of himself. He could trust his big brother. He could always trust Dean.
"Good, 'cause big brothers are always right. And I'm never letting you forget it,"
All the responsibility would crush him eventually. But for now, he had a job and a promise to keep. He had to take care of his little brother.
"You're ok, Sam. I gotcha. I've always got you,"
And a Winchester never went back on a promise.
Last of the daily updates. I have to actually start writing again, man... This is actually going to go somewhere, I promise. It's not going to be just aimless angsting, I'll get there... eventually. PS: If there's a certain "scene" you'd like to see played out in this fic, just let me know and I'll see if I can fit it in somewhere. No suicides or character deaths, though. I got something special planned for that... =D
Oh, and before I forget, we all know from Ghostfacers that Sam and Dean are routine cussers. So in Dean's little "monologue" (for lack of a better word) up near the beginning, feel free to substitute a couple of the harmless words for some choice ones if it makes you feel better. =D (My parents still scare me, heh...)