Ten

Jan 18, 2010 20:56

Drabble in the universe of Line of Demarcation. Season 4.

When Dean woke up in a pine box on September 18th, he was physically perfect.  For the most part, he considers this a good thing.

He can wear shorts now, for the first time since that black dog at age fifteen.  His feet and fingers no longer ache on cold mornings, and he'll never mind being rid of the reminder of Meg shooting him with Sam's body and gun, or of a dozen other hunts gone FUBAR.

Dean's never told a soul that the first time he tried to run on all ten toes, he fell flat on his face.

demarcation, dean owies, fic

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