Short!fic - Souvenir
Title: Souvenir
Author: Ry (curseangel / dreamsforlease)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Very dark. Character death. Suicidal ideation. Injury. ...not for kids.
Characters/Pairings: Dean Winchester.
Summary: Another set in the Sacrifice!verse. Dean's first hunt without Sam, and the aftermath thereof.
It's hard to get back into hunting. Finding something to go after is easy, even if he does sink to using a library computer while Sam's laptop sits unused in the trunk, hidden under clothes he doesn't wear anymore, pushed behind the weapons chest where it's out of the way and he doesn't even have to think about it anymore, not that it really does much to stop him.
But his first hunt after Sam dies almost ends with him joining him. It's a near miss, the result of reflexes that are used to having someone to back him up, used to being able to hand off tasks, maybe have some direction other than what he himself gave. There, he has neither, and it almost costs him the life that has no meaning to it anymore but what value they had given it by sacrificing themselves to save him.
The cut ends up stretching halfway up his back, a jagged stitched-up line that hurts for weeks and doesn't heal easily. It doesn't help, probably, that he refuses to go to the hospital; he finally caves and gets stitches, but it's Ellen who ends up doing it, giving him that Look he knows way too well by now, but she offers free, strong whiskey and he'd be an idiot to pass it up feeling like he does. The liquor makes the hurt go down, but it burns like a bitch, long mark winding its way up his back like a brand, a tattoo.
It leaves a scar, ugly and jarringly pale, disparate with the skin around it. He doesn't care - hell, he cares more about the shirt that got cut up than he does about the flesh. It's just another pain in the ass, a distraction that he almost appreciates, given what it's distracting from.
It doesn't stop him. He's pretty sure nothing can, anymore. If he stops before he's dead, it's defeat, it's downtime, it's thinking about it. He can't do that. It'll kill whatever's left of him in their absence.
So he keeps going, keeps hunting. He adjusts for the absence of another, the empty space in the passenger's seat. His scar is a souvenir of a call too close, or just short of close enough, depending on what time of day it is and how much he's had to drink.
He doesn't move on, trapped in the inevitable aftermath, the stasis that is the hunt, the never-stopping. The movement from one day to the next, the same thing over and over.
The injuries stand out. It's because he's not sure he doesn't want them.
Author: Ry (curseangel / dreamsforlease)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Very dark. Character death. Suicidal ideation. Injury. ...not for kids.
Characters/Pairings: Dean Winchester.
Summary: Another set in the Sacrifice!verse. Dean's first hunt without Sam, and the aftermath thereof.
It's hard to get back into hunting. Finding something to go after is easy, even if he does sink to using a library computer while Sam's laptop sits unused in the trunk, hidden under clothes he doesn't wear anymore, pushed behind the weapons chest where it's out of the way and he doesn't even have to think about it anymore, not that it really does much to stop him.
But his first hunt after Sam dies almost ends with him joining him. It's a near miss, the result of reflexes that are used to having someone to back him up, used to being able to hand off tasks, maybe have some direction other than what he himself gave. There, he has neither, and it almost costs him the life that has no meaning to it anymore but what value they had given it by sacrificing themselves to save him.
The cut ends up stretching halfway up his back, a jagged stitched-up line that hurts for weeks and doesn't heal easily. It doesn't help, probably, that he refuses to go to the hospital; he finally caves and gets stitches, but it's Ellen who ends up doing it, giving him that Look he knows way too well by now, but she offers free, strong whiskey and he'd be an idiot to pass it up feeling like he does. The liquor makes the hurt go down, but it burns like a bitch, long mark winding its way up his back like a brand, a tattoo.
It leaves a scar, ugly and jarringly pale, disparate with the skin around it. He doesn't care - hell, he cares more about the shirt that got cut up than he does about the flesh. It's just another pain in the ass, a distraction that he almost appreciates, given what it's distracting from.
It doesn't stop him. He's pretty sure nothing can, anymore. If he stops before he's dead, it's defeat, it's downtime, it's thinking about it. He can't do that. It'll kill whatever's left of him in their absence.
So he keeps going, keeps hunting. He adjusts for the absence of another, the empty space in the passenger's seat. His scar is a souvenir of a call too close, or just short of close enough, depending on what time of day it is and how much he's had to drink.
He doesn't move on, trapped in the inevitable aftermath, the stasis that is the hunt, the never-stopping. The movement from one day to the next, the same thing over and over.
The injuries stand out. It's because he's not sure he doesn't want them.