Short, short, short fic: The Edge of a Burning Light
This is a fic that was written a while ago - yet it is just set up beautifully for spn_30snapshots, so I'm using it for prompt 19. blood.
So, wheee. I'm back; well, at least until the next big catastrophe. RL hates me, and I hate RL. I'm going to go ahead and say: I am a horrible person, and I am sorry for the projects I signed up for and couldn't complete by the deadlines. Hopefully, the crises have abated (please to be stopping, ty). But, I dunno :( It's been a long, long time so I decided to try my hand at writing again (IMH is on indefinite hiatus, for anyone who cares to know. That thing is dead kittens and puppies. Bad). FYI: spell 'short' enough times and it looks really weird. And wrong. Now, for tradition's sake, it's time for--
warnings before reading: gen, Dean-POV, lots and lots of commas, angst, and spoilery for the whole fourth season. Just so's you know.
Oh! Also, REVIEWREVIEWREVIEW. Okay, now that's all.
The Edge of a Burning Light
It’s dry, he thinks. It’s dry and tight when the sweat is wicked away, moisture stale and gone, leaving traces of salt behind. He wonders if that’s how burn victims feel, after they’re healed. Skin shiny and new and stretched taut over bone. He can't say, the mark on his shoulder is skin-deep, planted by something outside of flameheatfear. The time he thought he’d know fire was filled instead with hooks and blood and screams, and a warmth he had hated and clung to.
SAMMY!
But the sounds that haunt him aren’t his own. He knows that. A million different faces, a million different tones that meant only one thing-nostoppleaseidon’tknowwhy-but it wasn’t enough. Nothing could ever be. Not in that place; not when he could convince himself that each slice, each pound of flesh, could be his escape. To redemption--
--to Sam.
It doesn’t stop his fingers from twitching, though, or from his hands raising up, trying to sketch the lines, contours, of faces he can remember. Validation, and it's Sammy's voice. Clear, distinct--almost enough to throw his attention to the other bed, to count the breaths. But he knows they'll be steady and even. He knows because countless nights have taught him that his brother sleeps peacefully, now. Because of Ruby, but it's a murmur, and he pushes it away, lowers his arms and presses their weight into the bed. He's done worse than Sam, and gained an angel's notice. He won't judge, he can't, because he doesn't have the right-- he'd lost it a long time ago.
Make it right, son.
But he doesn't know how. All he has is empty air, and shadowy glimpses of frightened eyes, stark cheekbones, mouths opening into dark pits. He has their blood, but no one to see. Only he would know, and he has his guilt. Has counted his sins. He knows.
Sam, he imagines saying, feels the words edge together, building in his throat. Sam, help me.
fin
So, wheee. I'm back; well, at least until the next big catastrophe. RL hates me, and I hate RL. I'm going to go ahead and say: I am a horrible person, and I am sorry for the projects I signed up for and couldn't complete by the deadlines. Hopefully, the crises have abated (please to be stopping, ty). But, I dunno :( It's been a long, long time so I decided to try my hand at writing again (IMH is on indefinite hiatus, for anyone who cares to know. That thing is dead kittens and puppies. Bad). FYI: spell 'short' enough times and it looks really weird. And wrong. Now, for tradition's sake, it's time for--
warnings before reading: gen, Dean-POV, lots and lots of commas, angst, and spoilery for the whole fourth season. Just so's you know.
Oh! Also, REVIEWREVIEWREVIEW. Okay, now that's all.
The Edge of a Burning Light
It’s dry, he thinks. It’s dry and tight when the sweat is wicked away, moisture stale and gone, leaving traces of salt behind. He wonders if that’s how burn victims feel, after they’re healed. Skin shiny and new and stretched taut over bone. He can't say, the mark on his shoulder is skin-deep, planted by something outside of flameheatfear. The time he thought he’d know fire was filled instead with hooks and blood and screams, and a warmth he had hated and clung to.
SAMMY!
But the sounds that haunt him aren’t his own. He knows that. A million different faces, a million different tones that meant only one thing-nostoppleaseidon’tknowwhy-but it wasn’t enough. Nothing could ever be. Not in that place; not when he could convince himself that each slice, each pound of flesh, could be his escape. To redemption--
--to Sam.
It doesn’t stop his fingers from twitching, though, or from his hands raising up, trying to sketch the lines, contours, of faces he can remember. Validation, and it's Sammy's voice. Clear, distinct--almost enough to throw his attention to the other bed, to count the breaths. But he knows they'll be steady and even. He knows because countless nights have taught him that his brother sleeps peacefully, now. Because of Ruby, but it's a murmur, and he pushes it away, lowers his arms and presses their weight into the bed. He's done worse than Sam, and gained an angel's notice. He won't judge, he can't, because he doesn't have the right-- he'd lost it a long time ago.
Make it right, son.
But he doesn't know how. All he has is empty air, and shadowy glimpses of frightened eyes, stark cheekbones, mouths opening into dark pits. He has their blood, but no one to see. Only he would know, and he has his guilt. Has counted his sins. He knows.
Sam, he imagines saying, feels the words edge together, building in his throat. Sam, help me.
fin