No Place Like Home
Title: No Place Like Home
Character: Dean
Genre: Gen, episode tag
Rating: PG
Word count: 753
Summary: The bunker used to be a sanctuary.
A/N: Episode tag to 10.11
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction. I do not own the characters and no profit is being made.
There’s no place like home. Dean contorts in his sleep as Kevin falls, incinerated eyes still staring accusingly.
There’s no place like home. A soft growl crawls from his throat as the Blade slashes and blue light radiates from Gadreel’s chest.
There’s no place like home. An axe splinters a heavy wooden door. A hammer smashes through drywall, only luck that the ragged crater it leaves isn’t decorating Sam’s skull instead.
Dean jerks awake, swallowing his scream, gaze wild as he stares into eyes bisected by the crack across his mirror. Mary’s picture’s still in place, but it’s turned to the wall. His mother can’t see him like this. Memory foam, such an amazing concept a few months ago, now only remembers that he was dead, that he became a demon within these four walls. The walls themselves are bare, anything sharp, blunt or able to fire a projectile safely locked up beyond his reach.
It’s a good precaution. Smart, but also useless. Dean’s a lethal weapon all on his own, has been for decades. He can shatter bone, pulverize flesh, rip the beating hearts out of those who love him and chew them to bloody shreds. They should lock him up and throw away the key. He wonders what atrocity he’ll have to commit to make that happen. What he’s already done should be more than enough.
There’s no place like home. Funny how he’d set up shop here right away, decorating his room like a damned teenage girl- like he really thought he deserved someplace to call his own. Like it was something he could actually keep.
There’s no place like home. Dean stumbles to the door and stops with his hand on the knob. It’s not like it’ll be any better out there. There’s no part of this sanctuary he hasn’t corrupted. Still, he’s up now and a piss and drink would definitely make it easier to get back to sleep.
There’s no place like home. He wanders hallways (not the one where Charlie’s sacked out in a drugged slumber, not the one where Sam’s probably lying awake, hand on a gun beneath his pillow and definitely not the one where spackle and paint can’t hide the fact that Dean was this close to killing his brother) and the bunker closes in around him. Dean can feel its disapproval. It would expel his malignancy out into the night if only it had the power.
He ends up at the front entrance, grips the handle as he rests his burning forehead against the cool metal. It would be so easy to slip out, to vanish without a trace. For a while anyway. He’d surface again eventually, leaving a trail of bodies breadcrumbs that Sam could follow blindfolded. Back in the library a bottle of Jack and a handful of pills numb the ache a little, but they’re never enough. The Mark swallows them down and any comfort they might allow him swirls endlessly into its depths. His depths.
It helps if he keeps moving, so that’s what he does, wending his unsteady way to the garage. His baby’s there, beautiful, gleaming obsidian in the overhead lights. He stays well back, not wanting to sully her with his presence. She’s spotless; inside and out, atonement for what he did; how he’d made her less than nothing, another loved one he’d contaminated with his filth. The bottle leaves his hand before he can think twice, raining glass shards and whiskey around the antique tool chest.
There’s no place like home. The bunker. The Impala. Sam. Charlie, Lisa, Bobby, Dad. He’s fucked up everything that ever offered him comfort, destroyed everyone who ever extended a helping hand. He’s adrift, floating away on a tide of violence with nowhere to drop anchor. Sam’s here, but he shouldn’t be. Might not be next time Dean loses himself. Might not be able to bring him back. Might not be able to fight him off. Might not be able to stay alive. It’s not safe here. It’s not safe anywhere Dean is.
There’s no place like home. He should go to the dungeon, lock himself in, chain himself down. Sam won’t leave him here by himself and Sam can’t take him out into the world. It’s the best solution for everyone. He just needs to remember Kevin and Gadreel, Lester and Randy, Charlie and Sam. He needs to remember.
There’s no place like home. No. Wrong. There’s no place that’s home.
Character: Dean
Genre: Gen, episode tag
Rating: PG
Word count: 753
Summary: The bunker used to be a sanctuary.
A/N: Episode tag to 10.11
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction. I do not own the characters and no profit is being made.
There’s no place like home. Dean contorts in his sleep as Kevin falls, incinerated eyes still staring accusingly.
There’s no place like home. A soft growl crawls from his throat as the Blade slashes and blue light radiates from Gadreel’s chest.
There’s no place like home. An axe splinters a heavy wooden door. A hammer smashes through drywall, only luck that the ragged crater it leaves isn’t decorating Sam’s skull instead.
Dean jerks awake, swallowing his scream, gaze wild as he stares into eyes bisected by the crack across his mirror. Mary’s picture’s still in place, but it’s turned to the wall. His mother can’t see him like this. Memory foam, such an amazing concept a few months ago, now only remembers that he was dead, that he became a demon within these four walls. The walls themselves are bare, anything sharp, blunt or able to fire a projectile safely locked up beyond his reach.
It’s a good precaution. Smart, but also useless. Dean’s a lethal weapon all on his own, has been for decades. He can shatter bone, pulverize flesh, rip the beating hearts out of those who love him and chew them to bloody shreds. They should lock him up and throw away the key. He wonders what atrocity he’ll have to commit to make that happen. What he’s already done should be more than enough.
There’s no place like home. Funny how he’d set up shop here right away, decorating his room like a damned teenage girl- like he really thought he deserved someplace to call his own. Like it was something he could actually keep.
There’s no place like home. Dean stumbles to the door and stops with his hand on the knob. It’s not like it’ll be any better out there. There’s no part of this sanctuary he hasn’t corrupted. Still, he’s up now and a piss and drink would definitely make it easier to get back to sleep.
There’s no place like home. He wanders hallways (not the one where Charlie’s sacked out in a drugged slumber, not the one where Sam’s probably lying awake, hand on a gun beneath his pillow and definitely not the one where spackle and paint can’t hide the fact that Dean was this close to killing his brother) and the bunker closes in around him. Dean can feel its disapproval. It would expel his malignancy out into the night if only it had the power.
He ends up at the front entrance, grips the handle as he rests his burning forehead against the cool metal. It would be so easy to slip out, to vanish without a trace. For a while anyway. He’d surface again eventually, leaving a trail of bodies breadcrumbs that Sam could follow blindfolded. Back in the library a bottle of Jack and a handful of pills numb the ache a little, but they’re never enough. The Mark swallows them down and any comfort they might allow him swirls endlessly into its depths. His depths.
It helps if he keeps moving, so that’s what he does, wending his unsteady way to the garage. His baby’s there, beautiful, gleaming obsidian in the overhead lights. He stays well back, not wanting to sully her with his presence. She’s spotless; inside and out, atonement for what he did; how he’d made her less than nothing, another loved one he’d contaminated with his filth. The bottle leaves his hand before he can think twice, raining glass shards and whiskey around the antique tool chest.
There’s no place like home. The bunker. The Impala. Sam. Charlie, Lisa, Bobby, Dad. He’s fucked up everything that ever offered him comfort, destroyed everyone who ever extended a helping hand. He’s adrift, floating away on a tide of violence with nowhere to drop anchor. Sam’s here, but he shouldn’t be. Might not be next time Dean loses himself. Might not be able to bring him back. Might not be able to fight him off. Might not be able to stay alive. It’s not safe here. It’s not safe anywhere Dean is.
There’s no place like home. He should go to the dungeon, lock himself in, chain himself down. Sam won’t leave him here by himself and Sam can’t take him out into the world. It’s the best solution for everyone. He just needs to remember Kevin and Gadreel, Lester and Randy, Charlie and Sam. He needs to remember.
There’s no place like home. No. Wrong. There’s no place that’s home.