justprompts: Wrong way
http://veritasatis.files.wordpress.com/2008/04/wrong-way.jpg
Dean was standing still, upright and in the middle of the room, the heel of his palm pressed between his brows, above his nose, hard.
They'd take care of the body. Salt and burn another friend. Dammit. He had to call Bobby, tell him about Pamela (she deserves to be called her full name, not an abbreviation that makes her less than she is... was... fuck.). Maybe he'd know who else Pamela might have wanted to be told?
Tell that bastard Bobby Singer to go to hell for ever introducing me to you two in the first place.
His fist curled and his nails dug into his palm, hard. Taking a deep breath which was shaking, and he realized he was crying. Sam had been right. She didn't deserve this.
Dean spun around, and paced back across the room. It felt too small and closed-in; thinking of going anywhere and facing even more people (the daughter of that dude they'd talked with who though that he had angels watching over him? Angels. Like hell. Just two mortals who set the grim reaper back on his trail in the end) was even worse.
So he paced. Maybe it wasn't the best of ideas, and maybe he was making others even more nervous too. But there was... Every way was wrong way. (Every way he chose yesterday was wrong way. Try to deal with it in their meat suits. What they did. Succeeding. Failing. How could what they did be even called a success, set a freaking reaper free and out to kill those people?)
His eyes fell on the calendar and he growled under his breath, "merry fucking Christmas." Solstice night. Winter solstice. Not really Christmas for another couple of days, but close enough.
And the sound of his voice made him shut his eyes and dig his nails deeper into his palm. He'd come up with the plan. He'd brought her in. He'd talked her into it, for fuck's sake. Bobby had gotten them to her for his sake, to answer his stupid questions. (And now she's paying for it. Paid for it. Fuck.)
Every way he went was wrong way. Every way he saw was wrong way.
It was harder to sit still than to pace. It was harder to go out than stay in. And yet neither staying in, nor pacing, nor even breathing were easy.
Or felt right.
Every way was wrong way. And he couldn't go back.
Dean was standing still, upright and in the middle of the room, the heel of his palm pressed between his brows, above his nose, hard.
They'd take care of the body. Salt and burn another friend. Dammit. He had to call Bobby, tell him about Pamela (she deserves to be called her full name, not an abbreviation that makes her less than she is... was... fuck.). Maybe he'd know who else Pamela might have wanted to be told?
Tell that bastard Bobby Singer to go to hell for ever introducing me to you two in the first place.
His fist curled and his nails dug into his palm, hard. Taking a deep breath which was shaking, and he realized he was crying. Sam had been right. She didn't deserve this.
Dean spun around, and paced back across the room. It felt too small and closed-in; thinking of going anywhere and facing even more people (the daughter of that dude they'd talked with who though that he had angels watching over him? Angels. Like hell. Just two mortals who set the grim reaper back on his trail in the end) was even worse.
So he paced. Maybe it wasn't the best of ideas, and maybe he was making others even more nervous too. But there was... Every way was wrong way. (Every way he chose yesterday was wrong way. Try to deal with it in their meat suits. What they did. Succeeding. Failing. How could what they did be even called a success, set a freaking reaper free and out to kill those people?)
His eyes fell on the calendar and he growled under his breath, "merry fucking Christmas." Solstice night. Winter solstice. Not really Christmas for another couple of days, but close enough.
And the sound of his voice made him shut his eyes and dig his nails deeper into his palm. He'd come up with the plan. He'd brought her in. He'd talked her into it, for fuck's sake. Bobby had gotten them to her for his sake, to answer his stupid questions. (And now she's paying for it. Paid for it. Fuck.)
Every way he went was wrong way. Every way he saw was wrong way.
It was harder to sit still than to pace. It was harder to go out than stay in. And yet neither staying in, nor pacing, nor even breathing were easy.
Or felt right.
Every way was wrong way. And he couldn't go back.