& fic
"Jo?"
Dean wishes she’d come back. To finish the job, or just be. Maybe he should be afraid that he can’t tell which one he wants. He isn’t.
The stove's still on, but if he hadn't seen Jo turn the knob, he wouldn't have known otherwise. He hasn't been able to smell anything but wood-char and gasoline since the barn. It would be easy...
Dean closes his eyes, and he's back outside that hardware store. If he wasn't half lit, he'd probably be hugging the toilet, bile in his throat. Sure as hell wouldn't be the first - or last - time. The scotch makes everything just fuzzy enough that the memory's not as sharp as it could be. Has been.
The weight's there behind his ribs, the tugging pull that wakes him sometimes in the middle of the night, hand to his heart. Dean's gotten used to it. Jo might think he carries too much, but he doesn't know anything else. As long as he's breathing, he's fucked up. It's something Dean's learned to work around.
His boots crunch over the salt line. He should turn off the stove. He will. In a minute. Dean reaches down, picks up the lighter. Brushes off the salt sticking to the sides. The metal is cold in his hand, feels heavier than it did in his pocket a few minutes ago. His thumb rubs over the grooves of the flint-wheel. He hasn't been this close in a while; it's almost like the year he spent waiting for the crossroads to claim him. Almost.
One flick and he'd finally be done. No Cas to drag him back, and he doubts God would bother springing him another time. How many times has it been now? Dean's lost count.
Sam wouldn't know he'd gotten to Osiris in time. It’d be just another hunter’s death. At least this time there isn’t a demon ready to become the monkey on his brother’s back. No Lucifer, except in memories. Sam might be okay.
He snaps the lighter shut, catches the tender web of skin between his thumb and finger in the hinge. Dean swears. Stares down at the thin line of red seeping under his skin, and can’t help thinking of the still-healing gash across his brother’s palm. This is real. This right here.
He hefts the lighter. Once, twice. Hurls it out the broken window of their room before he can change his mind.
- end