The Angel and The Devil, Heavy On Your Shoulders [8/22] Sam/Dean, R
MASTER POST for warnings, author's notes, and link to art
Part II. Things Are Looking Pretty Bad.
--Chapter Two--
Thing about the veil is, once it’s been pierced, it don’t come back together so easy. The hallucinations were another little party favor from the Pit.
Dean can feel sweat coat his face-his body pushes out hot waves, even though it’s air conditioned in the two-bit drug store. He focuses with numbing force on not reaching out to grab a handful of knotted, stringy hair and slam the worm-eaten face in front of him into the counter. It’s going against every instinct he has. The hallucinations could be why he feels like his grip on things is strongest when he’s hunting. Those times, he can be pretty sure that whatever he’s about to gank is actually evil.
As it is, this is just some poor high school chick wasting away her summer in front of a register. Probably. He glances over at the customers behind him, who look blank, preoccupied, even bored--but not in fear for their mortal lives. So the gray-skinned, rotten-mouthed, red-eyed thing in front of him is most likely just a girl. He keeps checking the line, just in case they catch a glimpse of what he sees.
He’s gotten used to using other people as a barometer for reality, since his doesn’t seem to totally match up anymore. When he’s on his own, though...he’s got no choice but to assume the worst.
Dean stares at her name tag (Chrissy) which probably comes off creepy as hell, but it helps him. And if she finds him skeevy, then fan-fucking-tastic. Means she'll step up her slug-slow pace and he can be on his way that much faster. Dean’s never worked as a-well, as anything requiring an application, but he’s pretty sure it’s not friggin’ rocket science.
“Listen, kid, don’t suppose we could get this wrapped up this century?” Dean says. He doesn’t mean it nasty--just a joking, desperate prod. In response, the decaying face splits open into a black, silent shriek.
“That’s just awesome,” Dean mutters. Eventually, a receipt is passed his way and he tosses a twenty on the counter and he’s gone. The gas station attendant on the way home looks human. Dean counts his blessings. It doesn’t take long.
They aren’t so bad, the hallucinations…alright, they’re god-awful and hideous and he hates them, but, hey, they could be worse. The only ones that really get under his skin anymore is when he’s with Sam.
When Dean walks in, he sets a brown paper bag on the table and throws the plastic bag on Sam’s bed, and the kid jerks awake. A yellow-gold glow bursts between Sam’s lashes as his eyes open. His lips part and a thick, heavy voice like hot metal slides out, saying things Dean can’t understand because they run together and slip over him like melted glass. Sam’s staring up at him, his brows furrowed over a gaze that’s clawing over Dean’s face. Dean backs away, until the corner of the small desk stabs the small of his back. He knows it’s not real. He knows he has nothing to run from. Still, looking at Sam like that-can’t help but make Dean wonder, every time, if their future has finally caught up to him.
“Dean-hey, Dean!”
Sam’s hands are on Dean’s shoulders, all of a sudden, gripping him so tight Dean's expecting another handprint to match the one he's got. He breaks Sam’s hold and mutters about a headache--it’s true enough. There wasn’t anything more than a ghost left of the pain that was once tearin' up his skull, but there's a throb that threatens a sudden resurrection.
He mutters an apology and crosses the room, slides into the bathroom. Sam doesn’t have a chance to ask why it took Dean all damn day to buy some friggin’ peroxide. He twists the lock and leans against the door for a moment, breathing like he'd just outrun Death. Again. Growing up, Dean and Sam had never locked the doors between them. Hell, it’d never even occured to them.
Seems to Dean that the veils might be thinner, but the walls around him were thicker than they'd ever been in his whole lousy life.
-part II.three-
Part II. Things Are Looking Pretty Bad.
--Chapter Two--
Thing about the veil is, once it’s been pierced, it don’t come back together so easy. The hallucinations were another little party favor from the Pit.
Dean can feel sweat coat his face-his body pushes out hot waves, even though it’s air conditioned in the two-bit drug store. He focuses with numbing force on not reaching out to grab a handful of knotted, stringy hair and slam the worm-eaten face in front of him into the counter. It’s going against every instinct he has. The hallucinations could be why he feels like his grip on things is strongest when he’s hunting. Those times, he can be pretty sure that whatever he’s about to gank is actually evil.
As it is, this is just some poor high school chick wasting away her summer in front of a register. Probably. He glances over at the customers behind him, who look blank, preoccupied, even bored--but not in fear for their mortal lives. So the gray-skinned, rotten-mouthed, red-eyed thing in front of him is most likely just a girl. He keeps checking the line, just in case they catch a glimpse of what he sees.
He’s gotten used to using other people as a barometer for reality, since his doesn’t seem to totally match up anymore. When he’s on his own, though...he’s got no choice but to assume the worst.
Dean stares at her name tag (Chrissy) which probably comes off creepy as hell, but it helps him. And if she finds him skeevy, then fan-fucking-tastic. Means she'll step up her slug-slow pace and he can be on his way that much faster. Dean’s never worked as a-well, as anything requiring an application, but he’s pretty sure it’s not friggin’ rocket science.
“Listen, kid, don’t suppose we could get this wrapped up this century?” Dean says. He doesn’t mean it nasty--just a joking, desperate prod. In response, the decaying face splits open into a black, silent shriek.
“That’s just awesome,” Dean mutters. Eventually, a receipt is passed his way and he tosses a twenty on the counter and he’s gone. The gas station attendant on the way home looks human. Dean counts his blessings. It doesn’t take long.
They aren’t so bad, the hallucinations…alright, they’re god-awful and hideous and he hates them, but, hey, they could be worse. The only ones that really get under his skin anymore is when he’s with Sam.
When Dean walks in, he sets a brown paper bag on the table and throws the plastic bag on Sam’s bed, and the kid jerks awake. A yellow-gold glow bursts between Sam’s lashes as his eyes open. His lips part and a thick, heavy voice like hot metal slides out, saying things Dean can’t understand because they run together and slip over him like melted glass. Sam’s staring up at him, his brows furrowed over a gaze that’s clawing over Dean’s face. Dean backs away, until the corner of the small desk stabs the small of his back. He knows it’s not real. He knows he has nothing to run from. Still, looking at Sam like that-can’t help but make Dean wonder, every time, if their future has finally caught up to him.
“Dean-hey, Dean!”
Sam’s hands are on Dean’s shoulders, all of a sudden, gripping him so tight Dean's expecting another handprint to match the one he's got. He breaks Sam’s hold and mutters about a headache--it’s true enough. There wasn’t anything more than a ghost left of the pain that was once tearin' up his skull, but there's a throb that threatens a sudden resurrection.
He mutters an apology and crosses the room, slides into the bathroom. Sam doesn’t have a chance to ask why it took Dean all damn day to buy some friggin’ peroxide. He twists the lock and leans against the door for a moment, breathing like he'd just outrun Death. Again. Growing up, Dean and Sam had never locked the doors between them. Hell, it’d never even occured to them.
Seems to Dean that the veils might be thinner, but the walls around him were thicker than they'd ever been in his whole lousy life.
-part II.three-