SDC #18
Supernatural
::as requested by katie__pillar and helenmia::
Dean yawns, and swings himself out of bed to switch off the TV, the remote having been hurled into the trash with a muttered “frigging piece of crap” as it determinedly refused to alter the volume level. He’s tired and aching, and feels about a million years old. A quick glance at the twin bed on the other side of the room shows Sam sleeping - for once - peacefully, and Dean’s mouth twitches up appreciatively at that fact. He flicks off the TV, and stumbles back into bed.
What Women Want. Sugar-loaded crap, as far as Dean is concerned. And Mel Gibson? Not what he was, dude. Still, being able to know exactly what women wanted? It could have its moments. Dean knows his way about a woman, pretty much always has done (“he’s gifted,” John Winchester had once said to Pastor Jim, a shit-eating grin on his face, for once at leisure to sit about with his family and his friend, but now they’re dead and Dean doesn’t think about them), but their minds are a mystery to him, always have been. Huh. Knowing what someone wanted. He rolls over, makes out the faint, dark outline of Sam. Knowing what Sam wanted. Dean rolls back over, because he knows what Sammy wants. To kill the demon that killed their parents. And have a normal life.
Dean wonders what people would see in his head, if they could look (if there was anyone who cared, but there isn’t, except maybe Sam, and maybe not him, and Dean doesn’t think about that). He wants Sam to be safe, that’s a given. After that? Dean’s not sure. He shifts in the bed, and thinks of something. He wants to sleep in a bed that hasn’t had a million people doing god knows what in it. He wants sheets and pillows that smell like home (like his mother, but Dean doesn’t think about that), not cheap fabric softener. He wants a goddamn double bed. One hand slips under his pillow as he rolls onto his front, and Dean thinks of something. He wants to be able to sleep without a knife under his head wherever he goes. He doesn’t want to know, when he reads a newspaper, which people have probably died from causes more supernatural than otherwise. He doesn’t want to know that he might have been able to save them. He doesn’t want to know that he will never be able to tell a child, for honest, for real, that there aren’t monsters under the bed, or in the closet. He doesn’t want to know that the odds of him being a father one day are beyond slim.
Dean wants… Dean falls asleep, knowing that it doesn’t matter what he wants. He has responsibilities. He has a job to do. He has Sam to protect. Anything else… it doesn’t matter. It makes life simple.
::as requested by katie__pillar and helenmia::
Dean yawns, and swings himself out of bed to switch off the TV, the remote having been hurled into the trash with a muttered “frigging piece of crap” as it determinedly refused to alter the volume level. He’s tired and aching, and feels about a million years old. A quick glance at the twin bed on the other side of the room shows Sam sleeping - for once - peacefully, and Dean’s mouth twitches up appreciatively at that fact. He flicks off the TV, and stumbles back into bed.
What Women Want. Sugar-loaded crap, as far as Dean is concerned. And Mel Gibson? Not what he was, dude. Still, being able to know exactly what women wanted? It could have its moments. Dean knows his way about a woman, pretty much always has done (“he’s gifted,” John Winchester had once said to Pastor Jim, a shit-eating grin on his face, for once at leisure to sit about with his family and his friend, but now they’re dead and Dean doesn’t think about them), but their minds are a mystery to him, always have been. Huh. Knowing what someone wanted. He rolls over, makes out the faint, dark outline of Sam. Knowing what Sam wanted. Dean rolls back over, because he knows what Sammy wants. To kill the demon that killed their parents. And have a normal life.
Dean wonders what people would see in his head, if they could look (if there was anyone who cared, but there isn’t, except maybe Sam, and maybe not him, and Dean doesn’t think about that). He wants Sam to be safe, that’s a given. After that? Dean’s not sure. He shifts in the bed, and thinks of something. He wants to sleep in a bed that hasn’t had a million people doing god knows what in it. He wants sheets and pillows that smell like home (like his mother, but Dean doesn’t think about that), not cheap fabric softener. He wants a goddamn double bed. One hand slips under his pillow as he rolls onto his front, and Dean thinks of something. He wants to be able to sleep without a knife under his head wherever he goes. He doesn’t want to know, when he reads a newspaper, which people have probably died from causes more supernatural than otherwise. He doesn’t want to know that he might have been able to save them. He doesn’t want to know that he will never be able to tell a child, for honest, for real, that there aren’t monsters under the bed, or in the closet. He doesn’t want to know that the odds of him being a father one day are beyond slim.
Dean wants… Dean falls asleep, knowing that it doesn’t matter what he wants. He has responsibilities. He has a job to do. He has Sam to protect. Anything else… it doesn’t matter. It makes life simple.