SPN Fic: Sister Morphine (1/1)
Title: Sister Morphine
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean, Sam (Gen)
Spoilers: Through 4.16.
Notes: 434 words. A quick and dirty coda (or missing scene, depending on your view) for 4.16.
Summary: “They say dying's hard, but it's a lie. A damned lie.”
They say dying's hard, but it's a lie. A damned lie.
Dean stared at the cracked white stucco ceiling of the hospital room, clean white sheets clenched in his hand. It hurt to talk -- no, hurt to breathe. Every labored rasp through the cannula shoved him back into the damp, cold room in the meat packing plant, into the unforgiving thrust of Alistair's hand against his throat as gravity insisted No, really. Come back down.
It could have been so easy. No fight left in his limbs, his eyes would have rolled back into his skull as the final, ragged breaths oozed out of his lungs. Back to the Pit? Maybe. But even Hell was better than this - a doomed chess piece on a red-stained board.
Sam sat on the hard plastic chair next to Dean's bed, fiddling with his fingers, eyes downcast. Foot on his knee, tapping absentmindedly the way it did when he was wired, glancing every five seconds at the steadily beeping monitors. He finally twisted in his chair and took to fingering the cool rail of Dean's bed. "Y'gonna tell me what happened?"
"Nope." The word escaped from Dean's cracked lips, broken and soft.
"The Holy Douchebag is about as useful as boobs on a man." Sam waited for a chuckle. No takers.
The scrape of the plastic chair against the tile made Dean flinch. Sam's mouth twisted as he slammed something down on the bedside table. "They pulled this off you when I brought you in. Put it in a little ziplock bag and handed it to me. How many more times am I gonna give this back to you?"
Dean didn't need to look. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply into the cannula.
An audible scoff sounded from next to the bed. "I need some coffee." Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall.
Dean reached out to the table, hand searching for the familiar round trinket on the leather cord. He grasped it, held it in his hand until he thought it would break. Wanted it to break. Stared at it, as if it would offer an answer to the relentless Why me? that ricocheted against the walls of his skull. He flung the amulet as far as he could. It pittered across the blankets before arching onto the cold tile floor with a shrill clatter.
Lies. Damned lies. They say that dying's hard, but sometimes living's harder. Dean bit his lip and yanked the cannula from his face, wrapping the cord twice around his neck and pulling hard as he hit the call button.
Checkmate.
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Dean, Sam (Gen)
Spoilers: Through 4.16.
Notes: 434 words. A quick and dirty coda (or missing scene, depending on your view) for 4.16.
Summary: “They say dying's hard, but it's a lie. A damned lie.”
They say dying's hard, but it's a lie. A damned lie.
Dean stared at the cracked white stucco ceiling of the hospital room, clean white sheets clenched in his hand. It hurt to talk -- no, hurt to breathe. Every labored rasp through the cannula shoved him back into the damp, cold room in the meat packing plant, into the unforgiving thrust of Alistair's hand against his throat as gravity insisted No, really. Come back down.
It could have been so easy. No fight left in his limbs, his eyes would have rolled back into his skull as the final, ragged breaths oozed out of his lungs. Back to the Pit? Maybe. But even Hell was better than this - a doomed chess piece on a red-stained board.
Sam sat on the hard plastic chair next to Dean's bed, fiddling with his fingers, eyes downcast. Foot on his knee, tapping absentmindedly the way it did when he was wired, glancing every five seconds at the steadily beeping monitors. He finally twisted in his chair and took to fingering the cool rail of Dean's bed. "Y'gonna tell me what happened?"
"Nope." The word escaped from Dean's cracked lips, broken and soft.
"The Holy Douchebag is about as useful as boobs on a man." Sam waited for a chuckle. No takers.
The scrape of the plastic chair against the tile made Dean flinch. Sam's mouth twisted as he slammed something down on the bedside table. "They pulled this off you when I brought you in. Put it in a little ziplock bag and handed it to me. How many more times am I gonna give this back to you?"
Dean didn't need to look. He closed his eyes, breathing deeply into the cannula.
An audible scoff sounded from next to the bed. "I need some coffee." Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall.
Dean reached out to the table, hand searching for the familiar round trinket on the leather cord. He grasped it, held it in his hand until he thought it would break. Wanted it to break. Stared at it, as if it would offer an answer to the relentless Why me? that ricocheted against the walls of his skull. He flung the amulet as far as he could. It pittered across the blankets before arching onto the cold tile floor with a shrill clatter.
Lies. Damned lies. They say that dying's hard, but sometimes living's harder. Dean bit his lip and yanked the cannula from his face, wrapping the cord twice around his neck and pulling hard as he hit the call button.
Checkmate.