duranie * lfc fan * grammar nazi * vamp hag * classic movie lover * francophone * francophile * gene kelly adorer * too old to be tumblin * brit * trainee sci-fi geek * accomplished nerd * budding photographer (in my dreams) * inveterately fickle slave to a succession of hot celebs * learning swedish * newbie minion
Dean/Castiel, Mature (abuse/assault)
Dean Winchester doesn’t have a bed.
What he has is a shitty, worn-out folding couch thing that his dad bought him because his old man figured it’d impress girls or something. The loft in the cushions lasted about two weeks, and now it sleeps like two pine boxes covered in a blanket. It’s a little less bad since he added the cushion from a neighbor’s broken papasan chair, but the frame still digs into him where the cushion is thin, and the springs are starting to come loose.
He’d throw it out, but he knows his dad’ll pitch a fit because the thing cost money, and when that happens Dean knows he’ll just shoot back with something like ‘yeah, so does all your fucking bourbon,’ and then his dad’ll take a shot at him with his belt or a fist, and Sammy doesn’t need to be around that shit. Sammy’s a good kid.
At least the pool is open again.
You made me cry, you bastard…
For a long time after he leaves the bunker, Dean doesn’t think. Couldn’t, even if he tried. He follows instructions, moves on auto pilot, and isn’t even sure of who the voice barking orders belongs to.
He sees the world through the inside of his own eyelids, tinged with red, a film of flesh and blood that separates him from reality. It’s nearly a month before it peels back, as if being torn away with fingernails, and he blinks against the natural view of the world to find himself alive, or something close to it.
He also finds Crowley, waiting. Watching him. A smirking face in the center of his vision, standing with a hand rested casually on the flank of a hellhound whose shoulders reach his own.
Dean can see it, its raised hackles, its gaping maw, can feel the churning filth of Hell bubbling in his veins, and innately he knows exactly what he is. He looks at the hellhound and he can see beyond what’s there. He can see where it’s been. What it’s been eating.
Not too long ago, the smell of congealed blood, the sight of gristle hanging from the hellhound’s jaw would have had him fighting back memories of Indiana; of the cold, sick feeling of his organs spilling out between his fingers. Now he looks and sees and doesn’t care. Is unmoved by the memory of twitching, slurping, thrashing red that rolls off the hound’s matted fur like vapor. Unshaken by the slick-drip splatter that glints from its paws, tinged sickly yellow in the evening lamplight.
“Wondered when you’d check back in,” Crowley says, removing his hand from the hound’s flank and shoving it into the pocket of his overcoat before he turns and walks toward a nearby building. He glances back over his shoulder and whistles. The hound follows him.
So does Dean.
"How do you feel about not going to comic-con 2014?"
"Are you sure cause-"