Fic: 'I Was Just Lost' (Supernatural)
Rated: T
Pairings: Gen
Genre: Angst
Warnings: Spoilers for season 11 finale, Suicidal thoughts
Word Count: 600
Summary: „Now where’s Dean?“ she asked and suddenly, the pain was right there again. It had never been forgotten, would never be gone, but this foreign woman’s presence had distracted him for a little while.
But it only took one question to be reminded, for the smell of gunpowder, oil and sweat to be just as clear as when his brother had pulled him into a hug and Sam had buried his face in Dean’s shoulder like some goddamn kid. For a moment, the agony constricted his chest. He looked her straight in the eyes.
“Dead.”
.
"I always figured one of them finally got ya. I tried to think of what to do, you know, the next step to take. I was just lost."
.
„Now where’s Dean?“ she asked and suddenly, the pain was right there again. It had never been forgotten, would never be gone, but this foreign woman’s presence had distracted him for a little while.
But it only took one question to be reminded, for the smell of gunpowder, oil and sweat to be just as clear as when his brother had pulled him into a hug and Sam had buried his face in Dean’s shoulder like some goddamn kid. For a moment, the agony constricted his chest. He looked her straight in the eyes.
“Dead,” he answered, his voice cold, and he wished it was true. Dead would mean that there was a way to retrieve him, a loop way to get him back to Sam. Dean was gone. In the void, and fuck- he didn’t even know whether there was a body. Dean had wanted his ashes to be strewn across the cemetery and Sam couldn’t even do that. He was good for nothing. Couldn’t help his brother (if only you had listened to Dean, if only you had left the Mark on his arm none of this would have happened and he’d still be alive) and he couldn’t even grant his one last wish.
She was silent while he was lost in thought, her expression surprised, maybe even pitying; he didn’t care. He was just glad Cas was gone, hoped that she’d be off soon, too. He didn’t need the angel’s attempts to reassure him and he wasn’t in the mood of being reminded of all times he fucked up in life. Hopefully Dean had left some of that beer, he wanted to drink the next months or so away.
And his thoughts were back on his brother again.
“Listen Lady,” he started, forcing his voice to appear intimidating when all he wanted to do was crawl into hole and cry. “I don’t know who the hell you are or what the hell you want-“
He froze, stopping in his stride when the woman aimed the gun back at him again.
“Stop,” she ordered. She looked determined. He felt like scoffing.
“Put the gun down,” he ordered right back, although she was the one with firearm and with the upper hand in this situation. He didn’t care. She was standing on a little step and she was wearing heels. If she shot, the bullet could hit his chest. She seemed to be familiar with the gun she was holding; maybe (hopefully) she was a good shot, would hit his head. Her angle would be perfect.
“I said, stop.” Her voice was firm, commanding. She was a woman of letters, but clearly knew how to handle firearms. The little idea that had been forming in the back of his head since she had pulled her gun out suddenly became more than just a fleeting thought (a wish).
He took another step towards her because all he knew at that moment was that he was hurting. The pain was sitting on his chest like a heavy weight making it hard to breathe. So he kept on moving before the rational side of his brain could start acting up and convince him to endure. He wanted to be selfish. He just wanted it to stop hurting.
“You and I both know you are not going to pull the trigger.”
And in that one second before the bullet could pierce through his skin, he thought how provocative, how Dean that sentence had been.
And yet again, no matter how often the topic twisted and turned, it eventually always came back to Dean.
Pairings: Gen
Genre: Angst
Warnings: Spoilers for season 11 finale, Suicidal thoughts
Word Count: 600
Summary: „Now where’s Dean?“ she asked and suddenly, the pain was right there again. It had never been forgotten, would never be gone, but this foreign woman’s presence had distracted him for a little while.
But it only took one question to be reminded, for the smell of gunpowder, oil and sweat to be just as clear as when his brother had pulled him into a hug and Sam had buried his face in Dean’s shoulder like some goddamn kid. For a moment, the agony constricted his chest. He looked her straight in the eyes.
“Dead.”
.
"I always figured one of them finally got ya. I tried to think of what to do, you know, the next step to take. I was just lost."
.
„Now where’s Dean?“ she asked and suddenly, the pain was right there again. It had never been forgotten, would never be gone, but this foreign woman’s presence had distracted him for a little while.
But it only took one question to be reminded, for the smell of gunpowder, oil and sweat to be just as clear as when his brother had pulled him into a hug and Sam had buried his face in Dean’s shoulder like some goddamn kid. For a moment, the agony constricted his chest. He looked her straight in the eyes.
“Dead,” he answered, his voice cold, and he wished it was true. Dead would mean that there was a way to retrieve him, a loop way to get him back to Sam. Dean was gone. In the void, and fuck- he didn’t even know whether there was a body. Dean had wanted his ashes to be strewn across the cemetery and Sam couldn’t even do that. He was good for nothing. Couldn’t help his brother (if only you had listened to Dean, if only you had left the Mark on his arm none of this would have happened and he’d still be alive) and he couldn’t even grant his one last wish.
She was silent while he was lost in thought, her expression surprised, maybe even pitying; he didn’t care. He was just glad Cas was gone, hoped that she’d be off soon, too. He didn’t need the angel’s attempts to reassure him and he wasn’t in the mood of being reminded of all times he fucked up in life. Hopefully Dean had left some of that beer, he wanted to drink the next months or so away.
And his thoughts were back on his brother again.
“Listen Lady,” he started, forcing his voice to appear intimidating when all he wanted to do was crawl into hole and cry. “I don’t know who the hell you are or what the hell you want-“
He froze, stopping in his stride when the woman aimed the gun back at him again.
“Stop,” she ordered. She looked determined. He felt like scoffing.
“Put the gun down,” he ordered right back, although she was the one with firearm and with the upper hand in this situation. He didn’t care. She was standing on a little step and she was wearing heels. If she shot, the bullet could hit his chest. She seemed to be familiar with the gun she was holding; maybe (hopefully) she was a good shot, would hit his head. Her angle would be perfect.
“I said, stop.” Her voice was firm, commanding. She was a woman of letters, but clearly knew how to handle firearms. The little idea that had been forming in the back of his head since she had pulled her gun out suddenly became more than just a fleeting thought (a wish).
He took another step towards her because all he knew at that moment was that he was hurting. The pain was sitting on his chest like a heavy weight making it hard to breathe. So he kept on moving before the rational side of his brain could start acting up and convince him to endure. He wanted to be selfish. He just wanted it to stop hurting.
“You and I both know you are not going to pull the trigger.”
And in that one second before the bullet could pierce through his skin, he thought how provocative, how Dean that sentence had been.
And yet again, no matter how often the topic twisted and turned, it eventually always came back to Dean.