for paradisa: gunshot
He aims the gun - it's his Taurus, his 9mm, his favourite - and it's familiar; it's home, it's welcome, it's normal -- the weight and the sheen and the cool feel against his hand haven't changed since he got here, no. He knows this gun. This gun knows him. It killed his shapeshifter-self and Max Miller and Madison; it's been through everything he has and he knows it. He knows it never jams, never lets him down -- almost like a friend. And why wouldn't it be? Dad gave him this gun.
His finger touches the trigger and that's when the feeling starts. It's not nausea, not quite -- it's a writhing feeling in the pit of his stomach that breathes hesitance into his veins, into his mind -- don't pull the trigger. Don't. But I want to, he tells himself, just barely managing to cock it, fighing back that feeling clenching at his heart and his guts. It's only a target, only a bottle on a wall -- he made this shot when he was six years old, why can't he do it now?
He remembers this feeling. He's felt it before, oh, yes; the very first time it was Dad behind him, shouting to him -- do it now, Dean, shoot! And he knew he was killing something evil and something bad but he was still killing something, and it was terrifying for someone who was only fifteen, sixteen years old. He never told Dad, of course, could never tell Dad -- Dad wanted Dean to be strong, to be a soldier, to be brave like Dad was back in the war.
So he's standing out there ridiculously, twenty-nine years old, pointing a gun at a bottle and looking like the hardest thing he's ever had - or will ever have - to do is shoot it and take away its little glass bottle-y life. His jaw is clenched and he's regripping the pistol in his sweaty palm, moments of almost did it passing by in small instances. Almost. Almost pulled the trigger, but didn't. Couldn't. Like something pulling him back.
And he can't do it. That feeling has encompassed his senses, curdled in his stomach, brought his heart to a pounding crescendo, brought weakness to his knees and his elbows and his arms. One last attempt is all he has the will for, but the gun drops to the ground with a thud, and Dean drops to his knees with a thud, and his heart thuds in his chest as he heaves the contents of his stomach onto the grass like a terrified four-year-old who hasn't yet been taught that monsters are real.
His finger touches the trigger and that's when the feeling starts. It's not nausea, not quite -- it's a writhing feeling in the pit of his stomach that breathes hesitance into his veins, into his mind -- don't pull the trigger. Don't. But I want to, he tells himself, just barely managing to cock it, fighing back that feeling clenching at his heart and his guts. It's only a target, only a bottle on a wall -- he made this shot when he was six years old, why can't he do it now?
He remembers this feeling. He's felt it before, oh, yes; the very first time it was Dad behind him, shouting to him -- do it now, Dean, shoot! And he knew he was killing something evil and something bad but he was still killing something, and it was terrifying for someone who was only fifteen, sixteen years old. He never told Dad, of course, could never tell Dad -- Dad wanted Dean to be strong, to be a soldier, to be brave like Dad was back in the war.
So he's standing out there ridiculously, twenty-nine years old, pointing a gun at a bottle and looking like the hardest thing he's ever had - or will ever have - to do is shoot it and take away its little glass bottle-y life. His jaw is clenched and he's regripping the pistol in his sweaty palm, moments of almost did it passing by in small instances. Almost. Almost pulled the trigger, but didn't. Couldn't. Like something pulling him back.
And he can't do it. That feeling has encompassed his senses, curdled in his stomach, brought his heart to a pounding crescendo, brought weakness to his knees and his elbows and his arms. One last attempt is all he has the will for, but the gun drops to the ground with a thud, and Dean drops to his knees with a thud, and his heart thuds in his chest as he heaves the contents of his stomach onto the grass like a terrified four-year-old who hasn't yet been taught that monsters are real.