you might lose your faith in jesus
[Locked to thenerdangel. Hell For Lovers!Verse.]
[He should know better by now, should know that when his feelings get the better of him, the answer is not to take a hunt on his own, no matter what's going down. And yet, here he is, facing off something he's never seen before, in a leaky old warehouse block in the middle of nowhere. On his own because Sam's off researching a seperate hunt and Dean is royally screwed.
The monster is large, dripping in a black kind of ooze he hasn't encountered and it squelches under his feet, makes him slip as the thing swipes for him. Long, crusting claws get stuck in the soft flesh of Dean's arm, and it burns unpleasantly under his skin. But that's the advantage Dean needs, because as it pulls him in, it exposes it's underbelly, leaving Dean free to stab forward, machete sliding into flesh.
The thing roars, lets dead go as it crashes down to the ground. Dean watches as smoke rises off it's smouldering, fastly decaying body until there's nothing left but a pile of ash and a smudge of grease. He pulls a face, inspects his arm as he moves to leave the warehouse. The Impala's parked a little further down the lane, and it shouldn't take him long to get there and patched up.
Only it doesn't work like that. The minute the air from outside hits his skin, Dean starts to feel queasy, a sick, shivery kind of cool settling over him. He touches his forehead as he walks, surprised by the sheen of clammy sweat breaking out. His legs feel like lead as he lifts his feet, clomps down heavily to his car. If he can just make it inside he knows he'll be fine. Wiping his sleeve over his trembling mouth, Dean reaches out, shaking fingers curling around the doorhandle, other hand shivering through his pockets for his keys.
His knees buckle before he can manage it, wounded noise kicked out of his side as he sinks down to the ground, hand still wrapped around the Impala door. Dean's whole body is trembling, like a rather bad flu has settled in and wrapped icy tendrils around him, before suffocating him in acrid heat, mouth too dry for anything.] Fuck.
[He should know better by now, should know that when his feelings get the better of him, the answer is not to take a hunt on his own, no matter what's going down. And yet, here he is, facing off something he's never seen before, in a leaky old warehouse block in the middle of nowhere. On his own because Sam's off researching a seperate hunt and Dean is royally screwed.
The monster is large, dripping in a black kind of ooze he hasn't encountered and it squelches under his feet, makes him slip as the thing swipes for him. Long, crusting claws get stuck in the soft flesh of Dean's arm, and it burns unpleasantly under his skin. But that's the advantage Dean needs, because as it pulls him in, it exposes it's underbelly, leaving Dean free to stab forward, machete sliding into flesh.
The thing roars, lets dead go as it crashes down to the ground. Dean watches as smoke rises off it's smouldering, fastly decaying body until there's nothing left but a pile of ash and a smudge of grease. He pulls a face, inspects his arm as he moves to leave the warehouse. The Impala's parked a little further down the lane, and it shouldn't take him long to get there and patched up.
Only it doesn't work like that. The minute the air from outside hits his skin, Dean starts to feel queasy, a sick, shivery kind of cool settling over him. He touches his forehead as he walks, surprised by the sheen of clammy sweat breaking out. His legs feel like lead as he lifts his feet, clomps down heavily to his car. If he can just make it inside he knows he'll be fine. Wiping his sleeve over his trembling mouth, Dean reaches out, shaking fingers curling around the doorhandle, other hand shivering through his pockets for his keys.
His knees buckle before he can manage it, wounded noise kicked out of his side as he sinks down to the ground, hand still wrapped around the Impala door. Dean's whole body is trembling, like a rather bad flu has settled in and wrapped icy tendrils around him, before suffocating him in acrid heat, mouth too dry for anything.] Fuck.