9.13
Pardon the mistakes, written in like five minutes. Not a happy thing. I mean it.
Three in the morning, and Dean is still up. Drinking. Staring up at the ceiling of his dark bedroom, Sam can hear the occasional clinging of glass, the poisoned breath-swallow after.
Another hour passes, and then he gets up, tired and half blind, makes his way into the kitchen that Dean’s been occupying for the last few days, not sleeping, not hurt, drinking away his nonexistent sorrow.
He doesn’t break easy. But if there is one thing that can make him stumble and trip, crash, it’s Sam. It’s family.
He is still where Sam left him, several hours ago, one empty bottle sitting at his elbow, another one, half-empty already, right before his eyes. He’s resting his chin on the table, eyeing the amber liquid in front of him, eyes heavy, red-rimmed.
“Planning to stop any time soon?” Sam asks, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest.
“What do you care?” It’s not a voice, just a grunt really. Thick. Smooth, like a sandpaper. He stands up, using the table to keep himself upright, his first step unsure, the next ones even more wobbly. He walks up to Sam, looking even smaller than he truly is, both younger and really old, oddly fragile. “You know, Sammy, you were right. I’m a selfish asshole… But know what else? I’m done. You wanna die?” He shrugs, negligent, cold, but the wannabe careless tone of his voice somehow break the tears in his eyes, the dry, dirty traces of them on his cheeks. The pain, raw, naked. The betrayal. “Die. I don’t care.”
A few minutes later, Sam hears the Impala starting, her fast, angry growl as he takes off from the bunker.
He finds her in the morning, at dawn, parked at the side of the road, headlights on, snow falling in their blaze. Dean’s gun is clenched in tight fingers, ivory and silver, pale pink of his skin. A dried trickle of blood copies the contours of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, taints the collar of his shirt.
Three in the morning, and Dean is still up. Drinking. Staring up at the ceiling of his dark bedroom, Sam can hear the occasional clinging of glass, the poisoned breath-swallow after.
Another hour passes, and then he gets up, tired and half blind, makes his way into the kitchen that Dean’s been occupying for the last few days, not sleeping, not hurt, drinking away his nonexistent sorrow.
He doesn’t break easy. But if there is one thing that can make him stumble and trip, crash, it’s Sam. It’s family.
He is still where Sam left him, several hours ago, one empty bottle sitting at his elbow, another one, half-empty already, right before his eyes. He’s resting his chin on the table, eyeing the amber liquid in front of him, eyes heavy, red-rimmed.
“Planning to stop any time soon?” Sam asks, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest.
“What do you care?” It’s not a voice, just a grunt really. Thick. Smooth, like a sandpaper. He stands up, using the table to keep himself upright, his first step unsure, the next ones even more wobbly. He walks up to Sam, looking even smaller than he truly is, both younger and really old, oddly fragile. “You know, Sammy, you were right. I’m a selfish asshole… But know what else? I’m done. You wanna die?” He shrugs, negligent, cold, but the wannabe careless tone of his voice somehow break the tears in his eyes, the dry, dirty traces of them on his cheeks. The pain, raw, naked. The betrayal. “Die. I don’t care.”
A few minutes later, Sam hears the Impala starting, her fast, angry growl as he takes off from the bunker.
He finds her in the morning, at dawn, parked at the side of the road, headlights on, snow falling in their blaze. Dean’s gun is clenched in tight fingers, ivory and silver, pale pink of his skin. A dried trickle of blood copies the contours of his face, the sharp line of his jaw, taints the collar of his shirt.