SpN: Come The Night , 7/?
8/23/11 08:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTitle: Come The Night
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel, brief Dean/OFC
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 2994
Spoilers: oblique reference to events in s5
Summary: this is (now) an AU treatment of season five, where Sam doesn't escape his fate and Boy King means just that. Dean once again enters hell to save his brother—not entirely voluntarily. When he returns to the world, everything's changed. He's lost Sam, the new world is difficult to navigate, and he finds himself saddled with an angry young man who elects himself to be Dean's guide.
Notes/Warnings: rape, dubious consent, extreme power imbalance. Some scenes are graphic. Feel free to ask if you'd like more info.
one
two
three
four
five
six
icon by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
fragilecat
PART TWO: It Was Limbo
"Want me to take you to the shelter, old-timer?"
Dean wakes slowly, piece by shattered piece. His eyes haven't even opened and already he's desperately praying for death with all the might of his mind and soul, the fear of waking in hell making his lungs seize up. He gets it; he knows he's hyperventilating, panicking hard and about a hot minute from passing out again. Panic isn't helped by the sudden wash of anguished betrayal that curls him into a fetal ball and yeah, that's a reasonable response considering the state of him and Sam's life. He's pretty sure Cas…well, not Cas, but the angels, boned him and Sam good and hard. Again.
He blinks frantically, trying to clear his eyes while childhood training kicks into effect. Helps fight down the panic, and at last he can take a steady breath, look around and take stock. He's breathing, so that's a plus--but Sam. Sam…where the fuck was he?
"Fucking…SAM!" He shouts. Or tries to, what comes out isn't much more than a croaking gasp. "Sam, where the hell are you?" He can't smell gasoline, can't hear the sirens—and where the hell is his brother?
His eyes finally clear, he's on his back and looking up at miles of flat grey sky. His eyes drift; he sees a wall of scaling, sun-faded, clap board, bordered by dying beige grass struggling out of tan dirt. "Holy fuck…what the hell?" What the fuck happened to the gas station? Where the fuck was he—and where the fuck is Sam?
He pulls himself up and bites off a curse as bolts of hot pain rip through his ribs, his neck feels like rope burn times ten. His head's full of jagged lightning, like the worst fucking migraine in the world. It's a searing poker burning through his brain, spreading outward and washing over his skin like an acid bath—no way he can keep from screaming like a bitch. "FUCK! Fuck oh god, fuck me, oh fuck…"
"Shut up; be glad we didn’t just toss you out for the rag-pickers. Next time I see your ass, you owe me for a night's rent. Sleepin' unner my fuckin' pool table…" The guy leaning out of a doorway, elbow jamming a dilapidated screen door open, has a scowl on his faced like he just found Dean fucking his sister. "Take off, ya tard. Dry out." The scowl lessened; there might even have been an infinitesimal hint of fondness in the man's frown. "Don’t get killed," he tosses out before letting the door slam shut.
Dean's wondering what the fuck just happened. He inhales in confusion and then, the smell hits him—the one he was damn familiar with from before, when hell was the all night movie show in his head, and Sam was fucking a demon bitch—
The stink's coming from him--booze, the way it smells when it's steeped in the clothes, in the skin. He smells like he's a three day binge away from a shower, but. He's not drunk. Not so fucking ever. He's beyond sober. He's so beyond sober he probably couldn't get drunk if he tried.
Sun's bright overhead now, like Steven Spielberg bright, almost too perfect, little wispy white clouds floating past and leaching the grey out of the sky. Dean staggers to his feet, whirling around. This place…it's old. All the buildings were sun-faded and looked about to fall down. He was in what looked like some back street, a dirt paved road. The air smelled of piss and dust and burnt meat, sun's so damn bright it makes his eyes burn. Somehow it reminds him of Castiel, of the light that Lucifer put out right before hell tore loose---reminds him of Sam. The memories don't hurt this time—at least, not physically. But the torrent of horror that streams through his mind…something was wrong with Sam, whatever it was, Dean was sure it was something horribly, horribly, wrong….
"Oh no, no-fuck—Sam. No, s'dream--nightmare." In his head, Sam reaches out to him and—and—he--
When the rest of the world comes back again, he's on his knees, face in the dust, rocking back and forth, hands clawing each other over his head. This is, can't be, not real. He can't imagine Sam tearing his hand off like that--no. He clenches his hand—whole and unscarred. Has to be a false memory, something his mind twisted up from the truth.
He sees fiery holes staring at him from his brother's face. Feels Sam's hand rummage in his chest. But no, that's not real, it's a hell memory, one of Alistair's lies, he's sure of it…Dean screams his grief and confusion into the dirt. Wherever he is, it's some place he has no family close, no nothing. When shit blew up, Cas must have sent him…some place Sam wasn't but why?
Pain stabs at the back of his eyes. Doesn't matter. Never did. Wherever Sam is, Dean's going to find him. He's going to find him and get him back.
Dean drags himself up, and scrubs at his eyes, grimacing at the mud that leaves behind on his sleeve—he's even got the taste of it in his mouth. He must have inhaled a ton of dust laying in the road and crying like a bitch. He works up a thick glob of muddy saliva, spits it to the ground. Was fuckin' hard not to feel sorry for himself, a bit. And why the fuck not. He was alone, the way he'd always known deep down it would end up being.
Right. So, Cas has sent him to fuckin'…he peers around…Dodge City, looks like. Complete with clapboard sided buildings, and horse troughs and, and…maybe he'd ended up in one of those Wild West recreation things?
He pats at his reeking clothes, going through his pockets for ID, some kind of weapon—a clue as to what the fuck was going on. He's got nothing. He sighs, decides it could be worse. Okay dude…pick a direction and walk. Dean takes a step and pain screams up his legs. He drops to his knees, feels like he's had railroad spikes driven into them—and he knows exactly what that feels like. He swears, loud and long and foul. When he catches up with Sam again, he's going to kick his ass good for not sticking close—but the thought doesn't make him feel better or justified, it’s a kick to the middle of his chest is what it is, and his throat tightens with the aching pain. He's disgusted with himself as tears flow, raises his hands to wipe his face--and shouts.
He's got a fuckin' beard—not a manly scruff, it was a freakin' beard. ZZ fuckin' Top beard—
"HEY!" He staggers to the door the man had gone into—the place that must have been a bar. "Open up; let me in, god damn it!" How the fuck long has he been here? God fucking damn it--he's lost time, and that's happened to him before--but how much time, and what's been going on with him while he was out?
"Go home, crazy bastard!" Dean recognizes the voice—it's the big guy. "No demon conspiracy talk today, yahear? You did your bit--the war's over!"
Dean staggers back, falls on his ass. Demons. Fuck—he was stranded in some acid-laced Frontierland with nothing to protect himself—no gun, no salt, iron, nothing. He's unarmed and uninformed…could things possibly get worse? He curses, slaps a hand over his face for even thinking that shit! It's like begging for a lightning strike, for god's sake.
"Relax." A voice behind him made him jump. "Want me to take you to the shelter, old-timer?"
"Old-timer? What the fuck are you talking about?"
The girl smiled. "Come on, pops. Min an' Angel've probably been looking for you. Let's get you something hot to eat, maybe a shower, hunh?"
"I—I don't know what you're talking about. I—I'm—looking for my brother." Dean flinches at how wobbly his voice sounds, but this shit's all a bit much to process, plus he was starving and thirsty and needed a drink and fuck--so fucking tired it hurt. "My brother…"
"Brother?" She gets this look, kind of half embarrassed, half sad. "I'm sorry, got no idea where your brother is…come on, okay? How 'bout we look around, see if we find him."
Sure, she was talking to him like a wary parent promising a kid anything to head off a tantrum but right now, all he knows is someone wants to help him, and that just cuts right through his already rocky defenses. He clenches his jaw, hard. Swear to god, he'll jab his eyes out before he cries in front of a chick. He's done enough fucking crying for a lifetime.
She leads him down the street, chattering on about something. Not much of what she says makes sense to him, but he's more than happy to listen to the words, just enjoy the sound of her voice, light and lilting and wonderfully feminine without a hint of hidden meaning or threat.
The town might be faded and worn, but there are people all around, real people with real lives--the farther they walk the more people he sees and suddenly, it's all fucking overwhelming. He gets the feeling that he's been lonely, terribly alone. But this--living, breathing, people, god…an odd memory floats up out of the murky pit of his mind, something about vases full of flowers and how beautiful they were but these people, hustling about some business only they know, are more beautiful by far.
The girl has them cross over to a wider street, with one story, shot gun-style buildings on either side. The whole place still looks like Frontierland, but Dean supposes to each his own, what the hell. He takes note of an old fashioned looking grocery complete with crates of fruit displayed on the sidewalk. Good to know if he needs to snatch a quick breakfast. A few buildings down, a white building with a red cross painted on the side catches his eye—probably a country clinic. He's always preferred small places like that to the big hospitals. The care was always pretty decent and it was easier running insurance fraud on them. They pass a barbershop and Dean smirks at the rotating red and white wooden pole. Fingers the mat hanging off his face with distaste. Shit, breakfast he can steal or sweet talk his way into, but a haircut and shave, man—hard to sweet talk his way into that.
He's grumbling to himself, dragging his feet through the dust. The girl whose name he still doesn't know is making little pleased noises at the window of a clothing shop filled with obviously handmade clothes. Dean stops and stares, trying to put things together. The clothes aren't vintage copies, there's no national brand stuff at all…he shrugs and trots to catch up with the girl when she calls out to him.
She stops a little further down to call into the open doorway of a jewelry shop, a little more prosperous than the other buildings. The stuff in the window takes his attention away from the girl. There's not much gold jewelry but he recognizes silver—lots and lots of silver. Some of the stuff looks like iron. He studies the shapes of it, brows crinkling together. Circles, triangles, stars—
His throat feels too tight and he rubs his knuckles against it without thinking, and suddenly his eyes make sense of what he's seeing. Some of the jewelry in the window is just that: bracelets and pendants, clever decorative pieces worked into the shape of animals, flowers. Along one low shelf though, are protective sigils, old, old symbols and newer ones, too. The work is detailed, precise—he has a hard time looking away from an elaborately etched and enameled protective seal. It's familiar, in an inside out kind of way.
The girl comes back and has to jerk him away from the window. He shivers hard and trots after her. He should feel happier knowing that folks here seemed to know what was lurking in the dark. It's just that…most of what was in the window is good stuff, protective stuff, but a few of those pieces, it would only take a twist or two, an inversion, to make it not and he feels that that's something he didn't know before…whatever happened, happened. Somehow, the thought makes him miss Sam so crazily much, his heart is a burning, pulsing hole in his chest, makes him want to be back with his brother now, crawling across the floor to him…maybe, if he brought Sam a knife he'd would take him back….
Dean rocks under the sensation of falling from a height, gasps aloud at what's boiling in his head. He staggers, startling the girl. She gives him a narrow-eyed look, but apparently comes to the conclusion he's not about to totally lose his shit and drags him along a little faster. He's more than happy to run along with her. He wants away from the window and whatever the fuck that shit was in his head.
Eventually they're past the busy center of town and into a quieter, even shabbier, part. The girl pulls him past what looks like a lumberyard and into an alleyway behind it. For one wild second, Dean wonders if she's dragged him out all this way to kill him, and then they're in front of a long, low, building something like a Quonset hut. There's a sign over the door, Here Find Shelter. Dean shrugs. He's not a stranger to shelters and soup kitchens.
The girl opens the door. "You goin' in, old timer?"
Dean wishes she'd fucking stop with the old timer business—thirty two's not that fucking old, for god's sake. He stamps across the wide wooden porch and shoulders his way past her. "Thanks," he mutters, and she snorts, lets go of the door.
"Take care buddy, see ya next time."
Inside, it smells like soup and bleach and toilet cleaner. His nose filters out those smells and then he picks up a more pleasant smell of old paper; old wood…for a moment, comforting in their familiarity. About a dozen women and men of various ages are sitting at tables scattered around the dim room. Windows high in the unpainted wood wall try and let some of the bright sunlight in but the light's fighting a losing battle against the grime frosting the windows. Dean almost expects to see candles lighting the place, but there are lamps scattered here and there on the tables and a dying florescent fixture running down the center of the ceiling hums as it casts a weird, ghostly light. He walks slowly deeper into the room and some of the men lift their chins at him. "Hunter," they say, like it's a greeting, and no one seems surprised he doesn't answer. They look at him with narrow, knowing eyes, but only one or two show him any real interest. One old guy says, "Good day today, son? That's good, that's good." Dean walks past him without a word. He's not sure what to say to people who seem to know him when he has no idea who they are.
The kitchen at the end of the room catches his eye, becomes his goal. It's behind a half wall, and the wide shelf that tops it holds trays and utensils, glasses are neatly stacked opposite them. Dean's stomach lets out a loud growl. Feels like it's been a hell of a long time, and he's ready to eat whatever they've got cooking. An older woman pushes past him, a tray stacked with dirty dishes held in her hands. The tray looks heavy, so Dean says, "hey, let me grab that." She looks startled, but quickly gives him a pleased smile.
"Thanks. The boys are late today," she says, blowing stray wisps of graying hair out of her eyes. "I'm glad you're…" Dean catches the hesitation and her momentarily wavering expression—"feeling all right this morning." She's good at covering it but Dean has spent a lifetime--lifetimes--learning to read people, ferreting out clues subtle as a hitch in breathing, the flicker of an eyelid.
Reading this woman is like reading a blinking neon sign forty feet high. Dean can tell that she's glad he's steady, which means there must be times that he's fucked up—bad enough for everyone to know. He inhales, picks up the odor of stale booze again and it hits him…Fuck me, what--I'm the town drunk?
She's stopped and is staring at him warily, checking him out and looks ready to deck him if he jumps wrong, so Dean manages to force a pretty realistic smile at her and gets a weary smile in return. He balances the tray of rattling dishes stacked haphazardly, the sense memory of some distant temporary job guiding his hand, and follows the woman back to the kitchen. When he steps in the door the kitchen crew looks up. Some seem surprised to see him, a few try to surreptitiously hide the knives they're working with. He snorts. Guess he's not a welcome guest as far as these guys are concerned. Still, they don’t look frightened, really. Their expressions are pretty much like the woman's—an alert kind of wary. Dean shakes his head. Fabulous. So, he's either Town Drunk, or the town's resident Crazy. Damn it--Castiel was definitely going on his list of asses to be kicked, with prejudice. He sighs, sick and tired of trying to figure it all out. Wanting it all to be…the way it used to be.
Yeah, like that was fucking going to happen.
eight
Author: roxy
Pairings/Characters: Sam/Dean, Dean/Angel, brief Dean/OFC
Rating:NC-17
Word Count: 2994
Spoilers: oblique reference to events in s5
Summary: this is (now) an AU treatment of season five, where Sam doesn't escape his fate and Boy King means just that. Dean once again enters hell to save his brother—not entirely voluntarily. When he returns to the world, everything's changed. He's lost Sam, the new world is difficult to navigate, and he finds himself saddled with an angry young man who elects himself to be Dean's guide.
Notes/Warnings: rape, dubious consent, extreme power imbalance. Some scenes are graphic. Feel free to ask if you'd like more info.
one
two
three
four
five
six
icon by
fragilecatPART TWO: It Was Limbo
Dean wakes slowly, piece by shattered piece. His eyes haven't even opened and already he's desperately praying for death with all the might of his mind and soul, the fear of waking in hell making his lungs seize up. He gets it; he knows he's hyperventilating, panicking hard and about a hot minute from passing out again. Panic isn't helped by the sudden wash of anguished betrayal that curls him into a fetal ball and yeah, that's a reasonable response considering the state of him and Sam's life. He's pretty sure Cas…well, not Cas, but the angels, boned him and Sam good and hard. Again.
He blinks frantically, trying to clear his eyes while childhood training kicks into effect. Helps fight down the panic, and at last he can take a steady breath, look around and take stock. He's breathing, so that's a plus--but Sam. Sam…where the fuck was he?
"Fucking…SAM!" He shouts. Or tries to, what comes out isn't much more than a croaking gasp. "Sam, where the hell are you?" He can't smell gasoline, can't hear the sirens—and where the hell is his brother?
His eyes finally clear, he's on his back and looking up at miles of flat grey sky. His eyes drift; he sees a wall of scaling, sun-faded, clap board, bordered by dying beige grass struggling out of tan dirt. "Holy fuck…what the hell?" What the fuck happened to the gas station? Where the fuck was he—and where the fuck is Sam?
He pulls himself up and bites off a curse as bolts of hot pain rip through his ribs, his neck feels like rope burn times ten. His head's full of jagged lightning, like the worst fucking migraine in the world. It's a searing poker burning through his brain, spreading outward and washing over his skin like an acid bath—no way he can keep from screaming like a bitch. "FUCK! Fuck oh god, fuck me, oh fuck…"
"Shut up; be glad we didn’t just toss you out for the rag-pickers. Next time I see your ass, you owe me for a night's rent. Sleepin' unner my fuckin' pool table…" The guy leaning out of a doorway, elbow jamming a dilapidated screen door open, has a scowl on his faced like he just found Dean fucking his sister. "Take off, ya tard. Dry out." The scowl lessened; there might even have been an infinitesimal hint of fondness in the man's frown. "Don’t get killed," he tosses out before letting the door slam shut.
Dean's wondering what the fuck just happened. He inhales in confusion and then, the smell hits him—the one he was damn familiar with from before, when hell was the all night movie show in his head, and Sam was fucking a demon bitch—
The stink's coming from him--booze, the way it smells when it's steeped in the clothes, in the skin. He smells like he's a three day binge away from a shower, but. He's not drunk. Not so fucking ever. He's beyond sober. He's so beyond sober he probably couldn't get drunk if he tried.
Sun's bright overhead now, like Steven Spielberg bright, almost too perfect, little wispy white clouds floating past and leaching the grey out of the sky. Dean staggers to his feet, whirling around. This place…it's old. All the buildings were sun-faded and looked about to fall down. He was in what looked like some back street, a dirt paved road. The air smelled of piss and dust and burnt meat, sun's so damn bright it makes his eyes burn. Somehow it reminds him of Castiel, of the light that Lucifer put out right before hell tore loose---reminds him of Sam. The memories don't hurt this time—at least, not physically. But the torrent of horror that streams through his mind…something was wrong with Sam, whatever it was, Dean was sure it was something horribly, horribly, wrong….
"Oh no, no-fuck—Sam. No, s'dream--nightmare." In his head, Sam reaches out to him and—and—he--
When the rest of the world comes back again, he's on his knees, face in the dust, rocking back and forth, hands clawing each other over his head. This is, can't be, not real. He can't imagine Sam tearing his hand off like that--no. He clenches his hand—whole and unscarred. Has to be a false memory, something his mind twisted up from the truth.
He sees fiery holes staring at him from his brother's face. Feels Sam's hand rummage in his chest. But no, that's not real, it's a hell memory, one of Alistair's lies, he's sure of it…Dean screams his grief and confusion into the dirt. Wherever he is, it's some place he has no family close, no nothing. When shit blew up, Cas must have sent him…some place Sam wasn't but why?
Pain stabs at the back of his eyes. Doesn't matter. Never did. Wherever Sam is, Dean's going to find him. He's going to find him and get him back.
Dean drags himself up, and scrubs at his eyes, grimacing at the mud that leaves behind on his sleeve—he's even got the taste of it in his mouth. He must have inhaled a ton of dust laying in the road and crying like a bitch. He works up a thick glob of muddy saliva, spits it to the ground. Was fuckin' hard not to feel sorry for himself, a bit. And why the fuck not. He was alone, the way he'd always known deep down it would end up being.
Right. So, Cas has sent him to fuckin'…he peers around…Dodge City, looks like. Complete with clapboard sided buildings, and horse troughs and, and…maybe he'd ended up in one of those Wild West recreation things?
He pats at his reeking clothes, going through his pockets for ID, some kind of weapon—a clue as to what the fuck was going on. He's got nothing. He sighs, decides it could be worse. Okay dude…pick a direction and walk. Dean takes a step and pain screams up his legs. He drops to his knees, feels like he's had railroad spikes driven into them—and he knows exactly what that feels like. He swears, loud and long and foul. When he catches up with Sam again, he's going to kick his ass good for not sticking close—but the thought doesn't make him feel better or justified, it’s a kick to the middle of his chest is what it is, and his throat tightens with the aching pain. He's disgusted with himself as tears flow, raises his hands to wipe his face--and shouts.
He's got a fuckin' beard—not a manly scruff, it was a freakin' beard. ZZ fuckin' Top beard—
"HEY!" He staggers to the door the man had gone into—the place that must have been a bar. "Open up; let me in, god damn it!" How the fuck long has he been here? God fucking damn it--he's lost time, and that's happened to him before--but how much time, and what's been going on with him while he was out?
"Go home, crazy bastard!" Dean recognizes the voice—it's the big guy. "No demon conspiracy talk today, yahear? You did your bit--the war's over!"
Dean staggers back, falls on his ass. Demons. Fuck—he was stranded in some acid-laced Frontierland with nothing to protect himself—no gun, no salt, iron, nothing. He's unarmed and uninformed…could things possibly get worse? He curses, slaps a hand over his face for even thinking that shit! It's like begging for a lightning strike, for god's sake.
"Relax." A voice behind him made him jump. "Want me to take you to the shelter, old-timer?"
"Old-timer? What the fuck are you talking about?"
The girl smiled. "Come on, pops. Min an' Angel've probably been looking for you. Let's get you something hot to eat, maybe a shower, hunh?"
"I—I don't know what you're talking about. I—I'm—looking for my brother." Dean flinches at how wobbly his voice sounds, but this shit's all a bit much to process, plus he was starving and thirsty and needed a drink and fuck--so fucking tired it hurt. "My brother…"
"Brother?" She gets this look, kind of half embarrassed, half sad. "I'm sorry, got no idea where your brother is…come on, okay? How 'bout we look around, see if we find him."
Sure, she was talking to him like a wary parent promising a kid anything to head off a tantrum but right now, all he knows is someone wants to help him, and that just cuts right through his already rocky defenses. He clenches his jaw, hard. Swear to god, he'll jab his eyes out before he cries in front of a chick. He's done enough fucking crying for a lifetime.
She leads him down the street, chattering on about something. Not much of what she says makes sense to him, but he's more than happy to listen to the words, just enjoy the sound of her voice, light and lilting and wonderfully feminine without a hint of hidden meaning or threat.
The town might be faded and worn, but there are people all around, real people with real lives--the farther they walk the more people he sees and suddenly, it's all fucking overwhelming. He gets the feeling that he's been lonely, terribly alone. But this--living, breathing, people, god…an odd memory floats up out of the murky pit of his mind, something about vases full of flowers and how beautiful they were but these people, hustling about some business only they know, are more beautiful by far.
The girl has them cross over to a wider street, with one story, shot gun-style buildings on either side. The whole place still looks like Frontierland, but Dean supposes to each his own, what the hell. He takes note of an old fashioned looking grocery complete with crates of fruit displayed on the sidewalk. Good to know if he needs to snatch a quick breakfast. A few buildings down, a white building with a red cross painted on the side catches his eye—probably a country clinic. He's always preferred small places like that to the big hospitals. The care was always pretty decent and it was easier running insurance fraud on them. They pass a barbershop and Dean smirks at the rotating red and white wooden pole. Fingers the mat hanging off his face with distaste. Shit, breakfast he can steal or sweet talk his way into, but a haircut and shave, man—hard to sweet talk his way into that.
He's grumbling to himself, dragging his feet through the dust. The girl whose name he still doesn't know is making little pleased noises at the window of a clothing shop filled with obviously handmade clothes. Dean stops and stares, trying to put things together. The clothes aren't vintage copies, there's no national brand stuff at all…he shrugs and trots to catch up with the girl when she calls out to him.
She stops a little further down to call into the open doorway of a jewelry shop, a little more prosperous than the other buildings. The stuff in the window takes his attention away from the girl. There's not much gold jewelry but he recognizes silver—lots and lots of silver. Some of the stuff looks like iron. He studies the shapes of it, brows crinkling together. Circles, triangles, stars—
His throat feels too tight and he rubs his knuckles against it without thinking, and suddenly his eyes make sense of what he's seeing. Some of the jewelry in the window is just that: bracelets and pendants, clever decorative pieces worked into the shape of animals, flowers. Along one low shelf though, are protective sigils, old, old symbols and newer ones, too. The work is detailed, precise—he has a hard time looking away from an elaborately etched and enameled protective seal. It's familiar, in an inside out kind of way.
The girl comes back and has to jerk him away from the window. He shivers hard and trots after her. He should feel happier knowing that folks here seemed to know what was lurking in the dark. It's just that…most of what was in the window is good stuff, protective stuff, but a few of those pieces, it would only take a twist or two, an inversion, to make it not and he feels that that's something he didn't know before…whatever happened, happened. Somehow, the thought makes him miss Sam so crazily much, his heart is a burning, pulsing hole in his chest, makes him want to be back with his brother now, crawling across the floor to him…maybe, if he brought Sam a knife he'd would take him back….
Dean rocks under the sensation of falling from a height, gasps aloud at what's boiling in his head. He staggers, startling the girl. She gives him a narrow-eyed look, but apparently comes to the conclusion he's not about to totally lose his shit and drags him along a little faster. He's more than happy to run along with her. He wants away from the window and whatever the fuck that shit was in his head.
Eventually they're past the busy center of town and into a quieter, even shabbier, part. The girl pulls him past what looks like a lumberyard and into an alleyway behind it. For one wild second, Dean wonders if she's dragged him out all this way to kill him, and then they're in front of a long, low, building something like a Quonset hut. There's a sign over the door, Here Find Shelter. Dean shrugs. He's not a stranger to shelters and soup kitchens.
The girl opens the door. "You goin' in, old timer?"
Dean wishes she'd fucking stop with the old timer business—thirty two's not that fucking old, for god's sake. He stamps across the wide wooden porch and shoulders his way past her. "Thanks," he mutters, and she snorts, lets go of the door.
"Take care buddy, see ya next time."
Inside, it smells like soup and bleach and toilet cleaner. His nose filters out those smells and then he picks up a more pleasant smell of old paper; old wood…for a moment, comforting in their familiarity. About a dozen women and men of various ages are sitting at tables scattered around the dim room. Windows high in the unpainted wood wall try and let some of the bright sunlight in but the light's fighting a losing battle against the grime frosting the windows. Dean almost expects to see candles lighting the place, but there are lamps scattered here and there on the tables and a dying florescent fixture running down the center of the ceiling hums as it casts a weird, ghostly light. He walks slowly deeper into the room and some of the men lift their chins at him. "Hunter," they say, like it's a greeting, and no one seems surprised he doesn't answer. They look at him with narrow, knowing eyes, but only one or two show him any real interest. One old guy says, "Good day today, son? That's good, that's good." Dean walks past him without a word. He's not sure what to say to people who seem to know him when he has no idea who they are.
The kitchen at the end of the room catches his eye, becomes his goal. It's behind a half wall, and the wide shelf that tops it holds trays and utensils, glasses are neatly stacked opposite them. Dean's stomach lets out a loud growl. Feels like it's been a hell of a long time, and he's ready to eat whatever they've got cooking. An older woman pushes past him, a tray stacked with dirty dishes held in her hands. The tray looks heavy, so Dean says, "hey, let me grab that." She looks startled, but quickly gives him a pleased smile.
"Thanks. The boys are late today," she says, blowing stray wisps of graying hair out of her eyes. "I'm glad you're…" Dean catches the hesitation and her momentarily wavering expression—"feeling all right this morning." She's good at covering it but Dean has spent a lifetime--lifetimes--learning to read people, ferreting out clues subtle as a hitch in breathing, the flicker of an eyelid.
Reading this woman is like reading a blinking neon sign forty feet high. Dean can tell that she's glad he's steady, which means there must be times that he's fucked up—bad enough for everyone to know. He inhales, picks up the odor of stale booze again and it hits him…Fuck me, what--I'm the town drunk?
She's stopped and is staring at him warily, checking him out and looks ready to deck him if he jumps wrong, so Dean manages to force a pretty realistic smile at her and gets a weary smile in return. He balances the tray of rattling dishes stacked haphazardly, the sense memory of some distant temporary job guiding his hand, and follows the woman back to the kitchen. When he steps in the door the kitchen crew looks up. Some seem surprised to see him, a few try to surreptitiously hide the knives they're working with. He snorts. Guess he's not a welcome guest as far as these guys are concerned. Still, they don’t look frightened, really. Their expressions are pretty much like the woman's—an alert kind of wary. Dean shakes his head. Fabulous. So, he's either Town Drunk, or the town's resident Crazy. Damn it--Castiel was definitely going on his list of asses to be kicked, with prejudice. He sighs, sick and tired of trying to figure it all out. Wanting it all to be…the way it used to be.
Yeah, like that was fucking going to happen.
eight
Tags:
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
8/24/11 10:46 pm (UTC)