FIC: Of Bastard Saints, 22
May. 29th, 2006 05:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: Of Bastard Saints
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance and beanside
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: We make no claim of ownership on the Brothers and Daddy Winchester. No infringement is intended, no money is made.
Author Notes: Set after the episode "Devil's Trap."
WARNINGS: Character maiming, violence, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
Hands, callused fingers, ghosting over his skin, gentle touches that made him ache, somewhere deep inside. Then, sliding lower, and a new ache, a drowsy warmth that made his breath hitch, made his hips move against the touches.
This wasn't real, Dean thought, even as his breath quickened. He shuddered as teeth nipped at his shoulder, and he realized that he was on his stomach, bent over something. Wasn't real.
"Real as you make it, son," said the familiar voice, that rough, slick growl in his ear.
Fuck.
Dean started to fight, to squirm away, but the thing came with him, purring filth against his skin, its hands never still.
"No," Dean snarled, even as a hand slid down his spine, curling around his ass to-
Oh God.
The sharp clatter from below woke Dean.
He jerked upright, scrambling away, until his back touched the wall. Jesus. For a moment, he couldn't quite pull free of the nightmare into the real world, looking wildly around for something that wasn't there.
Then, his breath hissed out on a sigh, and he looked at the duffel bag that held the hourglass. "You son of a bitch."
No answer.
The noise from below came again, and he peered over the edge of the catwalk in the warehouse he'd chosen. It housed a variety of medical supplies, which came in handy when he'd stitched up the gash the rollover had left on his arm. It'd had a loft for stashing old things that had broken or expired, which Dean figured would give enough time and cover for him to sleep. It'd been that or passing out.
Nobody pulled over to offer him a ride. Hadn't for several hours of walking. Dean figured it had more to do with him having muttered conversations with the demon in his bag than with the signs telling people not to take on hitchhikers. Thank God zombies were relatively easy to outrun and fucking loud about breaking and entering.
Anyway. Demon. Downstairs. Christ, Dean's concentration had gone to hell.
Another sharp clanging, and the demon staggered around the corner. It was in the body of a woman again, a long-limbed one who might've been pretty before she'd been torn nearly open. Its stricken face rolled loosely on a broken neck, the bones grinding together with each of its awkward swinging steps. Its eyes were locked on the ceiling, which explained why it kept walking into things, but it took deep heavy sniffs of the air. Tracking Dean's scent.
Your fear. Dean had that brief warning just before there was a phantom touch, a hand on his back that wasn't really there. It doesn't see well from that far off, but it can drink your fear down and get straight to you. Goes faster the closer it gets to the source.
If Dean tilted his head and stopped thinking for a while, it almost felt familiar. With a little pain, memory let him see why: old hunting trips with his father, kneeling in high brush, learning by observation of the best hunter around. The man had been a master, when he didn't let the rage get the best of him.
Valuable lesson for somebody else, maybe. Dean was too deep now.
Watching the demon, Dean shrugged the phantom hand off and felt blindly for his shotgun. When his fingers touched metal, he silently eased it up off the catwalk and onto his lap. He aimed, but his aim wasn't as steady as it needed to be. Too much caffeine.
Then there were hands on his own, adding their quiet strength. Dean gritted his teeth and lived with that, because he couldn't make a kill-shot without that steadiness. He fired, and watched the demon's head snap back with the impact. It wavered on its long Barbie-doll legs, then steadied. Its head rolled in a slow arc around the neck, what was left of it coming around to lock eyes with Dean. With half a face, it smiled bloodily and staggered towards the stairs like a bad stop-motion nightmare.
Dean swore and pushed himself upright, glad for the adrenaline. He strode for his stash of guns, the smaller amount he'd been able to pull out of the truck and carry. He'd collapsed without cleaning half of them, he'd had to use ammo on the way here, so which ones were-
He had his hand on one of the barrels when the guns suddenly wrenched away. Dean let go before the force of it snapped his wrist, and the guns were thrown skittering across the floor of the loft by an invisible hand. There was one crystalline, sleep-deprived moment as the guns swung out into open air before they dropped and hit the floor.
"Motherfucking son of a bitch!" Dean turned on the hourglass, snarling. "You fucking trying to-"
Get him killed. Obviously. Because it was an evil goddamn paperweight, and he was a dumbass for letting himself forget that for even a moment.
Breathing out through his teeth, Dean pulled the machete from its sheath and moved towards the stairs. It was mostly to the top, slowed only by its unsteady gait. The head rolled back, staring up at Dean with one blank doll eye. It crooned, hands reaching towards him.
The machete connected with the thing's neck with a meaty 'thump' and... stuck, not even severing the muscle that held the head on. The machete had dulled; Dean hadn't stopped to sharpen it. Stupid mistake.
The thing twisted with more strength than it should have. With the options of letting go or being hauled out over a thirty foot drop, Dean let go of the machete. There were other knives and a gun in his bag.
Momentum ripped the machete out of the thing's throat. It joined the other weapons on the warehouse floor.
Dean, purred that voice. You know what you have to do.
"Shut up!" Dean said savagely, not tearing his eyes from the demon in front as he backed quickly up. Had to think, had to fucking think. There were other ways to get through this. There were other options if he could just-
The demon clumsily cleared the last step. It paused there, sniffing the air, smiling. That gave Dean crucial seconds to move towards his bag, bending to scoop it up by the strap. The hourglass was heavy as hell now, and getting too close to it made Dean's vision swim. He dug through the bag around it, feeling his cuts peel open as he touched the cool glass, feeling the exhaustion crowd in on the edges of his vision.
The voice whispered fondly, Do this and you can rest a while.
Dean found a knife, finally, and lowered the bag back to the floor. (Couldn't drop it, never drop it, never let it get out.) The bag hadn't quite touched the floor before the demon swiveled towards him and moved with fast, twisted spider-grace.
It was on him as he raised the knife. They both hit the floor. The demon's head jerked around, impossible jarring speed, as it gibbered and squealed. Its cool mouth pressed against Dean's cheek, his eye, his throat, kisses like sips of water before a meal. Dean snarled and drove the knife up into it, again, again, savaging its torso. Blood and wetter, heavier things ran between them, burning his hands where it flowed around the knife, and still the thing didn't stop.
Its teeth sank in on Dean's left shoulder, worrying at it like a dog tearing at a chunk of meat too big to swallow at once. A howl of rage and pain that Dean barely recognized as his own voice, he twisted, trying to wrench it off. The demon's grip slipped, torn off Dean's shoulder, teeth leaving furrows in Dean's skin. It slobbered a wet word, drooling into his wounds, and set on him again, teeth closing on Dean's collarbone.
There was a lot of blood, its and his. Dean felt the fight want to slip away, felt himself start to give in. Tired, dizzy with pain and whatever the hell the demon's blood and spit was doing to him to make him stop struggling, Dean felt his head thump against the floor. His eyes rolled back. His fingers, slippery, lost the knife in the mess of the demon's stomach.
No.
The demon tore something loose, leaned back to chew.
No.
Dean shoved it, body and power. He meant to shove it off and away from him, just enough to give him space to breathe. The power gave him more than that. The demon swung up and off him, hitting the far wall with a dull 'thump'. It snarled and slavered, twisting in his grip, helpless. Powerless.
The voice in his head purred.
Dean got up, glancing briefly at the damage done. His shoulder had a half-moon of teethmarks. His collarbone had been gnawed at, bone showing through in places, but the bone itself was intact. He flexed his fingers, testing the waters. His hand still worked.
He looked at the thing on the wall. His knife had fallen out on its path to the wall, so Dean retrieved the knife and sheathed it in his boot. Then he went to stand in front of the demon, still struggling to get free.
Hands settled on his shoulders, steadying Dean, a silent encouragement.
Dean looked at the demon, broken, ravaged. It'd be easier to behead it now. Hell, he could walk down and get a gun. But he didn't want to. He wanted it to hurt.
Yes, whispered that rough voice in his ear. Hurt it. Kill it. For me, for your mother. For Sam.
Dean shook his head, trying to clear it. If he reached, he could get to the exorcism he'd memorized. "Exorciso te-"
The demon got an arm free and swung out for Dean's face. It was a slap, barely felt, but Dean reacted. The demon hitched up another foot along the wall, leaving a long streak of blood. Once it was there, Dean kept pushing, watching it crawl along the wall and slither until it hit the ceiling. It should die there. Only right. A few drops of blood rained on his upturned face.
They burned on the ceiling.
Jess. His mother. They burned on the ceiling.
Stomachs cut, like this. Eyes on Dean, like this. Just like this.
Dean stared at the woman's borrowed, blank face. Her hair spread around her like a halo, her eyes wide and pleading, dancer body twisted and torn. Dean could feel the heat up there, the beginning of the power itching along his skin to be freed. The flames would spill over her like a tide.
The phantom voice in his ear whispered, You can fix it, Dean. We can kill every one of them. No more dead mothers. No more dead children. It could end here.
The demon's mouth moved, Dean's blood coating its chin, and he thought that maybe the demon was struggling to abandon its host. To leave her to suffer those last few seconds of pain and heat and hell. Like his mother had suffered.
Just tell me yes.
Dean felt his hands clench into fists, nails cutting into his palm. He met the woman's eyes, the human so close to the surface that she could see him to plead. He held her eyes, her not quite human eyes, and he thought about how easy it'd be to watch her burn.
And he let her drop the thirty feet to the floor.
A sharp 'crack'. Silence.
It's all right, soldier. You did what you had to. It needed to be done. Should've been man enough to carry it through, but it's a start.
Dean watched to be sure she stayed still. When there was no change, he turned his back on her and went to his bag. He touched the hourglass to move it aside, and felt its approval like a caress. His fingers found the cool metal of the gun.
Not much longer. Tomorrow night is the full moon, and the very gates to hell will open, just on the edge of Lawrence. Just where you need to be.
Dean picked the gun up and went back to the edge of the loft. He fired into the still body once, twice, three times, four, five. He watched, feeling the gun cool by degrees. She stayed still, dead, released.
Last shot.
He could do this. Could finally rest.
Not yet, soldier. Your job's not done yet, the voice said, harsh with something that sounded like desperation. Fear; the demon was afraid. And Dean felt the power of that like a chill.
Dean staggered over to a box, barely sat before his knees gave. The gun was warm, comfortable in his grip. He stared at it, noting the bloodstains, the worn spots on the grip where his fingers rested.
On your feet, son, the voice in his head barked. I gave you an order!
It continued speaking, raging, but Dean's focus narrowed to the weight of the gun.
One bullet left.
He could join Sam. Lay down his burdens at last. Didn't he deserve that much? To rest? He'd done what he could, hadn't he?
The grip felt odd, wrong when he reversed it, slid the barrel under his chin. One pull. That would be it. He'd never even hear the shot. He was starting to shiver, the gun sliding on the blood-slick skin of his throat.
Or maybe it was better to put it in the mouth? Isn't that how they did it on television? He looked at the barrel, grimacing at the bits of blood and flesh stuck to it. Pulled his tattered shirt out of his jeans- too easy, had lost more weight- and swiped at it, trying to clean it off a little.
The absurdity struck him then. Trying to clean the gun barrel off so it won't taste bad while you kill yourself. It was almost poetic. Or something. Hard to focus now. Something in the bite, maybe. It was burning like fire, and his vision was swimming.
The barrel still tasted like shit, the metallic tang of blood gagging him, making him nearly retch down the barrel. Dean wondered idly if it would still fire.
He closed his eyes, breathing shallow. Aimed the gun so it was tilted up in a kill-shot. Just like he'd done to- someone. Pretty girl, pointing a gun at... Dad. Oh god. His father. Dean focused on his memory of the girl, noting the loose clothes, the bulge of her stomach, felt the blind rage that she would dare to threaten his father, felt his finger tighten on the gun's trigger in memory and in the moment.
She deserved to die, the voice in his head said sharply.
He deserved to die. The things he'd done, no one could come back from. No one should come back from.
It's the venom, Dean! For fuck's sake-
Dean looked at the lightening sky outside the dusty windows. Another day, the world went on. It would still go on without him. He steadied his hand, closed his eyes.
I'm sorry Dad. Just couldn't wait any longer, he thought.
His thumb closed on the trigger, gentle pressure. It wouldn't take much. Not with this gun- Dean staggered, the gun sliding from his mouth as another memory swam to the surface.
Warm hands, so much bigger than his, curling around his fingers, showing him how to position them.
"Good. Now, this is a revolver. You could just fire by pulling the trigger, but that kills your accuracy."
"So, cock it first," his younger self said dryly, pulling the hammer back until it caught.
"You've got it," his father murmured, voice laced with approval. "Now, point it at the target, and hold it at eye level."
Dean complied, the gun heavy in his small hand.
"Now, take this hand," John murmured, moving Dean's other hand up, to cup around the base of the hand holding the gun.
"But you don't shoot like that," Dean protested.
"When your arms are more used to it, you won't need this, but for now, just try it this way," his father said, lips curled in an understanding smile. "Now, see the bump at the end of the barrel?"
"I put that right on what I'm aiming for?"
"Not exactly. You line it up between the notches right here," his father said, pointing to the back of the gun. Then, let them blur out in your sight, and focus on what you want to hit." He stepped back, and motioned towards the paper target. "Whenever you're ready, give it a try. Don't jerk the trigger, just squeeze it gently, because jerking it-"
"Will kill my aim," Dean finished. He took a deep breath, steadying his hands, and smoothly pulled the trigger, just like he'd seen his father do.
The paper target jerked, a small hole blooming near the center.
"I hit it!" Dean turned to grin up at his father, careful to keep the gun pointed away. "Look, I hit it, Dad!"
"I see. You're a natural, son. Go ahead, there's six rounds. See what you can do." His father's hand rested lightly on his shoulder as he quickly squeezed off all six.
When his father pulled in the target, six distinct holes clustered within a few inches of the center. His father had stared at it for a moment, an odd look on his face. Then, he knelt next to Dean, hugging him tightly. "You really are a natural, Dean. Man can shoot like that, he can do damn near anything."
The memory faded, and Dean laid his head on the barrel, his breath hitching.
His father believed in him. He had to finish this. There was no other option. He would walk into hell, and he would finish it. And then, maybe Dad would be proud of him again.
Boy, your father doesn't give a shit about you. Do you think he'd do this for you?
"No." Dean said hollowly, then pushed himself up and picked up the bag. "But that's not the point. And that, you son of a bitch, is why you lost."
With a heavy sigh, he went to collect the rest of his guns, and forced his shuddering body out into the new dawn.
Authors:
nilchance and beansideRating: Adult
Disclaimer: We make no claim of ownership on the Brothers and Daddy Winchester. No infringement is intended, no money is made.
Author Notes: Set after the episode "Devil's Trap."
WARNINGS: Character maiming, violence, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
Hands, callused fingers, ghosting over his skin, gentle touches that made him ache, somewhere deep inside. Then, sliding lower, and a new ache, a drowsy warmth that made his breath hitch, made his hips move against the touches.
This wasn't real, Dean thought, even as his breath quickened. He shuddered as teeth nipped at his shoulder, and he realized that he was on his stomach, bent over something. Wasn't real.
"Real as you make it, son," said the familiar voice, that rough, slick growl in his ear.
Fuck.
Dean started to fight, to squirm away, but the thing came with him, purring filth against his skin, its hands never still.
"No," Dean snarled, even as a hand slid down his spine, curling around his ass to-
Oh God.
The sharp clatter from below woke Dean.
He jerked upright, scrambling away, until his back touched the wall. Jesus. For a moment, he couldn't quite pull free of the nightmare into the real world, looking wildly around for something that wasn't there.
Then, his breath hissed out on a sigh, and he looked at the duffel bag that held the hourglass. "You son of a bitch."
No answer.
The noise from below came again, and he peered over the edge of the catwalk in the warehouse he'd chosen. It housed a variety of medical supplies, which came in handy when he'd stitched up the gash the rollover had left on his arm. It'd had a loft for stashing old things that had broken or expired, which Dean figured would give enough time and cover for him to sleep. It'd been that or passing out.
Nobody pulled over to offer him a ride. Hadn't for several hours of walking. Dean figured it had more to do with him having muttered conversations with the demon in his bag than with the signs telling people not to take on hitchhikers. Thank God zombies were relatively easy to outrun and fucking loud about breaking and entering.
Anyway. Demon. Downstairs. Christ, Dean's concentration had gone to hell.
Another sharp clanging, and the demon staggered around the corner. It was in the body of a woman again, a long-limbed one who might've been pretty before she'd been torn nearly open. Its stricken face rolled loosely on a broken neck, the bones grinding together with each of its awkward swinging steps. Its eyes were locked on the ceiling, which explained why it kept walking into things, but it took deep heavy sniffs of the air. Tracking Dean's scent.
Your fear. Dean had that brief warning just before there was a phantom touch, a hand on his back that wasn't really there. It doesn't see well from that far off, but it can drink your fear down and get straight to you. Goes faster the closer it gets to the source.
If Dean tilted his head and stopped thinking for a while, it almost felt familiar. With a little pain, memory let him see why: old hunting trips with his father, kneeling in high brush, learning by observation of the best hunter around. The man had been a master, when he didn't let the rage get the best of him.
Valuable lesson for somebody else, maybe. Dean was too deep now.
Watching the demon, Dean shrugged the phantom hand off and felt blindly for his shotgun. When his fingers touched metal, he silently eased it up off the catwalk and onto his lap. He aimed, but his aim wasn't as steady as it needed to be. Too much caffeine.
Then there were hands on his own, adding their quiet strength. Dean gritted his teeth and lived with that, because he couldn't make a kill-shot without that steadiness. He fired, and watched the demon's head snap back with the impact. It wavered on its long Barbie-doll legs, then steadied. Its head rolled in a slow arc around the neck, what was left of it coming around to lock eyes with Dean. With half a face, it smiled bloodily and staggered towards the stairs like a bad stop-motion nightmare.
Dean swore and pushed himself upright, glad for the adrenaline. He strode for his stash of guns, the smaller amount he'd been able to pull out of the truck and carry. He'd collapsed without cleaning half of them, he'd had to use ammo on the way here, so which ones were-
He had his hand on one of the barrels when the guns suddenly wrenched away. Dean let go before the force of it snapped his wrist, and the guns were thrown skittering across the floor of the loft by an invisible hand. There was one crystalline, sleep-deprived moment as the guns swung out into open air before they dropped and hit the floor.
"Motherfucking son of a bitch!" Dean turned on the hourglass, snarling. "You fucking trying to-"
Get him killed. Obviously. Because it was an evil goddamn paperweight, and he was a dumbass for letting himself forget that for even a moment.
Breathing out through his teeth, Dean pulled the machete from its sheath and moved towards the stairs. It was mostly to the top, slowed only by its unsteady gait. The head rolled back, staring up at Dean with one blank doll eye. It crooned, hands reaching towards him.
The machete connected with the thing's neck with a meaty 'thump' and... stuck, not even severing the muscle that held the head on. The machete had dulled; Dean hadn't stopped to sharpen it. Stupid mistake.
The thing twisted with more strength than it should have. With the options of letting go or being hauled out over a thirty foot drop, Dean let go of the machete. There were other knives and a gun in his bag.
Momentum ripped the machete out of the thing's throat. It joined the other weapons on the warehouse floor.
Dean, purred that voice. You know what you have to do.
"Shut up!" Dean said savagely, not tearing his eyes from the demon in front as he backed quickly up. Had to think, had to fucking think. There were other ways to get through this. There were other options if he could just-
The demon clumsily cleared the last step. It paused there, sniffing the air, smiling. That gave Dean crucial seconds to move towards his bag, bending to scoop it up by the strap. The hourglass was heavy as hell now, and getting too close to it made Dean's vision swim. He dug through the bag around it, feeling his cuts peel open as he touched the cool glass, feeling the exhaustion crowd in on the edges of his vision.
The voice whispered fondly, Do this and you can rest a while.
Dean found a knife, finally, and lowered the bag back to the floor. (Couldn't drop it, never drop it, never let it get out.) The bag hadn't quite touched the floor before the demon swiveled towards him and moved with fast, twisted spider-grace.
It was on him as he raised the knife. They both hit the floor. The demon's head jerked around, impossible jarring speed, as it gibbered and squealed. Its cool mouth pressed against Dean's cheek, his eye, his throat, kisses like sips of water before a meal. Dean snarled and drove the knife up into it, again, again, savaging its torso. Blood and wetter, heavier things ran between them, burning his hands where it flowed around the knife, and still the thing didn't stop.
Its teeth sank in on Dean's left shoulder, worrying at it like a dog tearing at a chunk of meat too big to swallow at once. A howl of rage and pain that Dean barely recognized as his own voice, he twisted, trying to wrench it off. The demon's grip slipped, torn off Dean's shoulder, teeth leaving furrows in Dean's skin. It slobbered a wet word, drooling into his wounds, and set on him again, teeth closing on Dean's collarbone.
There was a lot of blood, its and his. Dean felt the fight want to slip away, felt himself start to give in. Tired, dizzy with pain and whatever the hell the demon's blood and spit was doing to him to make him stop struggling, Dean felt his head thump against the floor. His eyes rolled back. His fingers, slippery, lost the knife in the mess of the demon's stomach.
No.
The demon tore something loose, leaned back to chew.
No.
Dean shoved it, body and power. He meant to shove it off and away from him, just enough to give him space to breathe. The power gave him more than that. The demon swung up and off him, hitting the far wall with a dull 'thump'. It snarled and slavered, twisting in his grip, helpless. Powerless.
The voice in his head purred.
Dean got up, glancing briefly at the damage done. His shoulder had a half-moon of teethmarks. His collarbone had been gnawed at, bone showing through in places, but the bone itself was intact. He flexed his fingers, testing the waters. His hand still worked.
He looked at the thing on the wall. His knife had fallen out on its path to the wall, so Dean retrieved the knife and sheathed it in his boot. Then he went to stand in front of the demon, still struggling to get free.
Hands settled on his shoulders, steadying Dean, a silent encouragement.
Dean looked at the demon, broken, ravaged. It'd be easier to behead it now. Hell, he could walk down and get a gun. But he didn't want to. He wanted it to hurt.
Yes, whispered that rough voice in his ear. Hurt it. Kill it. For me, for your mother. For Sam.
Dean shook his head, trying to clear it. If he reached, he could get to the exorcism he'd memorized. "Exorciso te-"
The demon got an arm free and swung out for Dean's face. It was a slap, barely felt, but Dean reacted. The demon hitched up another foot along the wall, leaving a long streak of blood. Once it was there, Dean kept pushing, watching it crawl along the wall and slither until it hit the ceiling. It should die there. Only right. A few drops of blood rained on his upturned face.
They burned on the ceiling.
Jess. His mother. They burned on the ceiling.
Stomachs cut, like this. Eyes on Dean, like this. Just like this.
Dean stared at the woman's borrowed, blank face. Her hair spread around her like a halo, her eyes wide and pleading, dancer body twisted and torn. Dean could feel the heat up there, the beginning of the power itching along his skin to be freed. The flames would spill over her like a tide.
The phantom voice in his ear whispered, You can fix it, Dean. We can kill every one of them. No more dead mothers. No more dead children. It could end here.
The demon's mouth moved, Dean's blood coating its chin, and he thought that maybe the demon was struggling to abandon its host. To leave her to suffer those last few seconds of pain and heat and hell. Like his mother had suffered.
Just tell me yes.
Dean felt his hands clench into fists, nails cutting into his palm. He met the woman's eyes, the human so close to the surface that she could see him to plead. He held her eyes, her not quite human eyes, and he thought about how easy it'd be to watch her burn.
And he let her drop the thirty feet to the floor.
A sharp 'crack'. Silence.
It's all right, soldier. You did what you had to. It needed to be done. Should've been man enough to carry it through, but it's a start.
Dean watched to be sure she stayed still. When there was no change, he turned his back on her and went to his bag. He touched the hourglass to move it aside, and felt its approval like a caress. His fingers found the cool metal of the gun.
Not much longer. Tomorrow night is the full moon, and the very gates to hell will open, just on the edge of Lawrence. Just where you need to be.
Dean picked the gun up and went back to the edge of the loft. He fired into the still body once, twice, three times, four, five. He watched, feeling the gun cool by degrees. She stayed still, dead, released.
Last shot.
He could do this. Could finally rest.
Not yet, soldier. Your job's not done yet, the voice said, harsh with something that sounded like desperation. Fear; the demon was afraid. And Dean felt the power of that like a chill.
Dean staggered over to a box, barely sat before his knees gave. The gun was warm, comfortable in his grip. He stared at it, noting the bloodstains, the worn spots on the grip where his fingers rested.
On your feet, son, the voice in his head barked. I gave you an order!
It continued speaking, raging, but Dean's focus narrowed to the weight of the gun.
One bullet left.
He could join Sam. Lay down his burdens at last. Didn't he deserve that much? To rest? He'd done what he could, hadn't he?
The grip felt odd, wrong when he reversed it, slid the barrel under his chin. One pull. That would be it. He'd never even hear the shot. He was starting to shiver, the gun sliding on the blood-slick skin of his throat.
Or maybe it was better to put it in the mouth? Isn't that how they did it on television? He looked at the barrel, grimacing at the bits of blood and flesh stuck to it. Pulled his tattered shirt out of his jeans- too easy, had lost more weight- and swiped at it, trying to clean it off a little.
The absurdity struck him then. Trying to clean the gun barrel off so it won't taste bad while you kill yourself. It was almost poetic. Or something. Hard to focus now. Something in the bite, maybe. It was burning like fire, and his vision was swimming.
The barrel still tasted like shit, the metallic tang of blood gagging him, making him nearly retch down the barrel. Dean wondered idly if it would still fire.
He closed his eyes, breathing shallow. Aimed the gun so it was tilted up in a kill-shot. Just like he'd done to- someone. Pretty girl, pointing a gun at... Dad. Oh god. His father. Dean focused on his memory of the girl, noting the loose clothes, the bulge of her stomach, felt the blind rage that she would dare to threaten his father, felt his finger tighten on the gun's trigger in memory and in the moment.
She deserved to die, the voice in his head said sharply.
He deserved to die. The things he'd done, no one could come back from. No one should come back from.
It's the venom, Dean! For fuck's sake-
Dean looked at the lightening sky outside the dusty windows. Another day, the world went on. It would still go on without him. He steadied his hand, closed his eyes.
I'm sorry Dad. Just couldn't wait any longer, he thought.
His thumb closed on the trigger, gentle pressure. It wouldn't take much. Not with this gun- Dean staggered, the gun sliding from his mouth as another memory swam to the surface.
Warm hands, so much bigger than his, curling around his fingers, showing him how to position them.
"Good. Now, this is a revolver. You could just fire by pulling the trigger, but that kills your accuracy."
"So, cock it first," his younger self said dryly, pulling the hammer back until it caught.
"You've got it," his father murmured, voice laced with approval. "Now, point it at the target, and hold it at eye level."
Dean complied, the gun heavy in his small hand.
"Now, take this hand," John murmured, moving Dean's other hand up, to cup around the base of the hand holding the gun.
"But you don't shoot like that," Dean protested.
"When your arms are more used to it, you won't need this, but for now, just try it this way," his father said, lips curled in an understanding smile. "Now, see the bump at the end of the barrel?"
"I put that right on what I'm aiming for?"
"Not exactly. You line it up between the notches right here," his father said, pointing to the back of the gun. Then, let them blur out in your sight, and focus on what you want to hit." He stepped back, and motioned towards the paper target. "Whenever you're ready, give it a try. Don't jerk the trigger, just squeeze it gently, because jerking it-"
"Will kill my aim," Dean finished. He took a deep breath, steadying his hands, and smoothly pulled the trigger, just like he'd seen his father do.
The paper target jerked, a small hole blooming near the center.
"I hit it!" Dean turned to grin up at his father, careful to keep the gun pointed away. "Look, I hit it, Dad!"
"I see. You're a natural, son. Go ahead, there's six rounds. See what you can do." His father's hand rested lightly on his shoulder as he quickly squeezed off all six.
When his father pulled in the target, six distinct holes clustered within a few inches of the center. His father had stared at it for a moment, an odd look on his face. Then, he knelt next to Dean, hugging him tightly. "You really are a natural, Dean. Man can shoot like that, he can do damn near anything."
The memory faded, and Dean laid his head on the barrel, his breath hitching.
His father believed in him. He had to finish this. There was no other option. He would walk into hell, and he would finish it. And then, maybe Dad would be proud of him again.
Boy, your father doesn't give a shit about you. Do you think he'd do this for you?
"No." Dean said hollowly, then pushed himself up and picked up the bag. "But that's not the point. And that, you son of a bitch, is why you lost."
With a heavy sigh, he went to collect the rest of his guns, and forced his shuddering body out into the new dawn.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2006-05-29 09:35 pm (UTC)And that, you son of a bitch, is why you lost.
TESTIFY. Dean, you rock my damn WORLD, and no matter what happens, that'll never change.
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Date: 2006-05-30 06:22 pm (UTC)I'm glad it's still working for you!
Thank you for the kind words!
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Date: 2006-05-29 09:38 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-29 10:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-29 10:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-29 10:27 pm (UTC)We've been getting some complaints that he's out of character, but that seems to be mostly from people who consider him a horrible, abusive father/hate Jeffrey Dean Morgan's portrayal.
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Date: 2006-05-29 10:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-29 09:46 pm (UTC)That's my boy! Dean's got an intrinsic honor that somehow doesn't get sullied; maybe because every evil thing he's done he's forced into by something even more evil. His armor gets dented sometimes, but somehow it remains intact.
I loved Sam and John's showdown. They both have treated Dean so abominably in the past. I hope they catch up with him soon so the poor boy can rest and they can fall all over themselves trying to make it up to him.
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Date: 2006-05-30 06:25 pm (UTC)*laugh* The question is, will they catch up in time to still have their Dean left to fall all over themselves for. *grin*
Thanks so much for the kind words!
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Date: 2006-05-29 09:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-30 06:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-29 09:57 pm (UTC)Boy, your father doesn't give a shit about you. Do you think he'd do this for you?
"No." Dean said hollowly aww man :( but then "is why you lost," fuck yeah dean :D but NO not a new dawn, STAY and wait for your brother and John because dude, your bone is showing :|
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Date: 2006-05-30 06:28 pm (UTC)I'm glad you're enjoying it! Thanks!
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Date: 2006-05-29 10:11 pm (UTC)Boy, your father doesn't give a shit about you. Do you think he'd do this for you?
"No." Dean said hollowly, then pushed himself up and picked up the bag. "But that's not the point. And that, you son of a bitch, is why you lost."
*loud CRACK*
that, is the sound of my heart breaking. Dean doesn't think John would do the same thing for him, yet Dean continues because he's believes that his dad will be proud of him if after this is over...*shakes head* I'll be over here mending my heart until the next chapter is up
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Date: 2006-05-30 06:29 pm (UTC)*hands over the tape*
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Date: 2006-06-01 04:17 pm (UTC)OH! you manage to get more chapters up before I've even had time to respond to the comment *wipes away tear* I'm so happy!
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Date: 2006-05-29 10:25 pm (UTC)And then my heart breaks for Dean because he thinks Sam is dead, and John truely wouldn't care whether or not he lived or died. *sighs* You need to put me back together now.
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Date: 2006-05-30 06:30 pm (UTC)I'm glad it's still working for you, though.
Thanks!
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Date: 2006-05-29 10:39 pm (UTC)>>Boy, your father doesn't give a shit about you. Do you think he'd do this for you?
>>"No." Dean said hollowly, then pushed himself up and picked up the bag. "But that's not the point. And that, you son of a bitch, is why you lost."
>>With a heavy sigh, he went to collect the rest of his guns, and forced his shuddering body out into the new dawn.
Hugs him tight..umm..but not too tight 'cause of his collarbone *eek*.. Another good chapter :-)
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Date: 2006-05-30 06:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-29 10:51 pm (UTC)*flails at Sam and John* FIND HIM AND HELP HIM, YOU DORKS!
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Date: 2006-05-30 06:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-30 12:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-30 06:34 pm (UTC)I'm glad you're enjoying it! Thanks!
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Date: 2006-05-30 12:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-30 06:37 pm (UTC)*grin* Plenty more to come!
Thanks for the kind words!
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Date: 2006-06-01 02:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-30 12:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-30 06:39 pm (UTC)I'm glad you're enjoying it, though! Thanks!
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Date: 2006-05-30 02:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-30 06:43 pm (UTC)*grin* Thanks so much for the kind words.
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Date: 2006-05-30 03:19 am (UTC)Eww, zombies!
::okay, not entirely speechless::
That was quite nerve-wracking and action-intense and ... as slimy as a zombie is, the demon and it's insidious Dark Side of the Force seduction techniques are far far slimier.
I want to take a shower.
So, like, are these zombies like the zombies in those zombie movies, where the bite is infectious and they're really obviously ghouls not zombies, and now Dean is infected? Or is he just in severe danger of sepsis and demon seduction, but not about to zombify himself? Not to mention all the descriptions of what proximity to the demon's little carrying glass kinda reminds me of radiation damage....
Now I've totally grossed myself out. And reached all-new levels of worry and panic about Dean. And he sounds pretty badly injured, too. And he's neglecting his weapons. That he left those knives in the hydra a couple chapters back was bad enough, but not cleaning guns that'd been fired and all the rest...
Oh no!
John and Sam better shift themselves into high gear and catch up with Dean, that's all I'm sayin'.
eek
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Date: 2006-05-30 06:47 pm (UTC)I'm glad you're enjoying it! Thank you for the kind words.
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Date: 2006-05-30 03:41 am (UTC)By the way, I am enjoying the hell out of this series! It's just nerve wracking for me because Dean needs to be reunited with Sam in the worse way! It's so sad because I believe in the back of his mind, he thinks Sam is dead and he now only cares about killing the demon. I get the feeling Dean doesn't care at all about himself anymore.
Am I thinking this correctly?
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Date: 2006-05-30 06:49 pm (UTC)Thank you so much!
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Date: 2006-05-30 10:07 am (UTC)And still 14 chapters to go?! I suddenly wonder how much of Dean will be left by then? Just some phalanges? Or maybe some ribs? I don't really want to know!
Great work! Looking forward to more!
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Date: 2006-05-30 06:54 pm (UTC)Yup, 14 chapters, but to be honest, most of it comes after they find each other again.
Thank you for the kind words!
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Date: 2006-05-31 01:42 am (UTC)faaabulous chapter, again, as always.