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May. 10th, 2009 02:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
liptonrm_backupOMG I've written something.
This is for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ghani_atreides who asked for Dean, rain, and boots. Set post 4x17 'It's A Terrible Life.'
It was raining, a tepid, continuous sprinkle that wasn’t so much a shower as it was a cloud of moisture soaking the world. Dean stared out at the gray world, drops of water occasionally dripping from the still-bare branches above him onto his head and down the back of his neck. Cold from the park bench bled through his jacket to the tensed muscles beneath as the landscape melted around him.
After waking back up into his own personal nightmare he’d driven south hell bent for leather. He wanted away from the cold and the lake and a life that had never been his and that he’d never wanted. Fucking dicks with wings yanking him around, trying to mold him into something he couldn’t be. It reminded him of an adolescence spent balancing father against brother, it reminded him of Hell.
He slumped further into the bench, legs stretched out and ankles crossed. His boots caught his eye, scratched and broken down. Dad used to lecture at length about the importance of dependable footwear. Even when his shirts had been falling apart at the seams and Sammy’s pants hadn’t covered his ankles their boots had always been top notch, sturdy and sound. Dad would’ve reamed him a new one for these worn excuses for appropriate gear that should’ve been thrown out months ago, that he never should’ve picked up in the first place.
But there were a lot of things that’d piss Dad off if he were watching. Boots were the least of the things that Dean’d done that’d disappoint his old man. Being a fuck-up was just something Dean was going to have to learn to live with.
A weight pressed down on his chest. It was hard to breathe but then it had never been easy to shoulder all the things he’d been asked to carry. The Apocalypse was a breeze compared to being John’s son or Sam’s brother.
“Hey,” Sam said from behind the bench, the monkey on Dean’s back. He’d finally finished whatever it was he’d been doing. Dean hadn’t asked and Sam hadn’t volunteered the nature of his errand. If Sam wanted to play with fire it was his problem. Dean was tired of carrying everyone’s burdens. “Ready to hit the road?”
“Yeah,” Dean grunted. He slowly pushed himself up off the bench, his joints stiff and sore. “Let’s go.”
Dean moved forward. It was the only thing he could do.
This is for
ghani_atreides who asked for Dean, rain, and boots. Set post 4x17 'It's A Terrible Life.'It was raining, a tepid, continuous sprinkle that wasn’t so much a shower as it was a cloud of moisture soaking the world. Dean stared out at the gray world, drops of water occasionally dripping from the still-bare branches above him onto his head and down the back of his neck. Cold from the park bench bled through his jacket to the tensed muscles beneath as the landscape melted around him.
After waking back up into his own personal nightmare he’d driven south hell bent for leather. He wanted away from the cold and the lake and a life that had never been his and that he’d never wanted. Fucking dicks with wings yanking him around, trying to mold him into something he couldn’t be. It reminded him of an adolescence spent balancing father against brother, it reminded him of Hell.
He slumped further into the bench, legs stretched out and ankles crossed. His boots caught his eye, scratched and broken down. Dad used to lecture at length about the importance of dependable footwear. Even when his shirts had been falling apart at the seams and Sammy’s pants hadn’t covered his ankles their boots had always been top notch, sturdy and sound. Dad would’ve reamed him a new one for these worn excuses for appropriate gear that should’ve been thrown out months ago, that he never should’ve picked up in the first place.
But there were a lot of things that’d piss Dad off if he were watching. Boots were the least of the things that Dean’d done that’d disappoint his old man. Being a fuck-up was just something Dean was going to have to learn to live with.
A weight pressed down on his chest. It was hard to breathe but then it had never been easy to shoulder all the things he’d been asked to carry. The Apocalypse was a breeze compared to being John’s son or Sam’s brother.
“Hey,” Sam said from behind the bench, the monkey on Dean’s back. He’d finally finished whatever it was he’d been doing. Dean hadn’t asked and Sam hadn’t volunteered the nature of his errand. If Sam wanted to play with fire it was his problem. Dean was tired of carrying everyone’s burdens. “Ready to hit the road?”
“Yeah,” Dean grunted. He slowly pushed himself up off the bench, his joints stiff and sore. “Let’s go.”
Dean moved forward. It was the only thing he could do.
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Date: 2009-05-10 09:19 pm (UTC)Visceral, I think, in it's portrayal of Dean's weariness, he's had it and this is why he doesn't care anymore that he's where he's at emotionally. If no one else seems to care, why should he? Right? If everyone else around him seems to think he can be pulled and pushed, lied to, in any way they see fit, why would he bother trying anymore? why would he bother caring?
Thank you so much!
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Date: 2009-05-11 03:29 pm (UTC)Oh, Dean. He probably never thought that coming back from Hell could quite possibly be even worse than Hell, in a way. Gah, it breaks me up just thinking about it.
But, again, thanks a million for both the excellent prompt and the wonderful comment. Winchesters, they hurt us so bad and yet we keep on coming back for more.
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Date: 2009-05-11 12:33 pm (UTC)xoxoxoxo
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Date: 2009-05-11 03:33 pm (UTC)And now I kinda want to write an emo little bit from Sam's POV. Because that kid's got issues on top of issues and it would be fun to play with those for a little bit as well. Hmmm *ponders*
xoxinfinity