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It's not ending, Dean realizes- this tortured suspension, these vast enclosing clouds the color and scent of scorched metal. Reality splayed out against a sulfuric wind that screams through the dirty atmosphere here like there's no tomorrow, confirming all the deepest horrors of his mind.
Well, he admits, there actually is no tomorrow to be had for himself anymore anyway, but still...
Pain everywhere intensifying, his throat burns acid in a hiccup as he bursts out with an unrestrained hoot in concession to his doomed soul to being so far lost, that indeed denying human timelines might be for him a great step forward in the progress of his coping. Well, if Hell's minions would deign to relentlessly exude all their extensive charms upon him, whilst leaving him still with so many nevermores to contend with, what's there further to lose in even requiting himself little weak fragments of reverie. Life and family gone from him now, there's only the memories anyway.
The weapon feels heavy and powerful in his hands as he aims it at the old wooden fence topped with six darkly tinted Budweiser bottles. The crisp fall air whips windy wisps through his hair, its chill reaching right through his jacket, his small uncovered hands bright pink with the late fall's chafe. Over his shoulder and near his left ear, Daddy speaks quiet and low, telling him how to concentrate and prepare himself for the kick of the pistol.
It's gotta be "Dad," though, and not "Daddy" anymore, Dean reminds himself. After all, he's a big kid now: seven years old in less than three months. It's Sammy's Daddy, and Dean's Dad. He squints one eye shut and focuses with the other hard on the "B" in "Budweiser" of the first bottle.
"You've got to picture the bullet hitting that bottle, son- shattering it," Dad says, "and you should feel certain of its path before ever even pressing on that trigger."
Dean wants to turn his head, look into his father's eyes, if only to affirm that he's concentrating on the same target as well. He won't do that, though. He knows better than to falter.
The "B" waves manifest right in front of his wide eyes, which won't in this moment see anything else. The wind picks up, almost as if in anticipation, and Dean feels his heartbeat pick up as well. His fingers, though bitterly cold, do not tremble. He pictures his bullet hitting the bottle, shattering it; he feels certain of the bullet's imminent path. He prepares himself for the kick, then presses on the trigger…
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