Dean Winchester

Wed, 23 Dec 2015 17:43:50 GMT

DEAN WINCHESTER
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Thu, 29 May 2014 04:17:25 GMT

Castiel's mouth drops open, desperate to make some sort of apology but they are gone before they can manage.

He turns back to Dean, nodding as tears spill over, mixing with both their blood. "I remember everything," he croaks. "I remember what they had me do. All of it. They are out of my head, Dean..." he trails off, throat tight as he fights the onslaught of grief and terror of what just happened.

"Good," says Dean, eyes drifting closed, and it will have to be enough that he can hear and feel Castiel, exhaustion heavy in every part of him, even his eyelids. "'Cause I'm not sure how many times I can pull off dying before my chips are good and cashed."

He smiles as he says it, tugging Castiel down with him in the dirt, where at least he won't have to reach so far to thumb those tears away. "Are you okay?"

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Fri, 02 May 2014 17:55:18 GMT

It isn't quiet in the aftermath.

Dean's blood is pounding in his ears, almost a perfect doubletime to the frantic barks coming from the bathroom. Wind whips through the broken windows, scattering the remnants of what would have been dinner, and Dean lies in the heap he'd fallen in, blood beginning to tack where his hand still rests against the sigil.

He needs help.

He needs to help Cas.

Dean rolls onto his back with a ragged breath, broken ribs too sharp against his insides, and manages to extract his phone from his pocket.

His fingers won't cooperate, but after three tries, he gets close enough.

nd hlp my apt pls hurry

Text sent, Dean exhales, concentrating on the pain to keep from sliding into unconsciousness.

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Thu, 07 Nov 2013 04:22:13 GMT

For something as unstable as a bomb, the vial is comfortably warm against his chest, nestled beneath Dean's shirt from a cord knotted around his throat. It's glowing fit to rival the sun, too, even through several layers of cotton, and Dean ignores the curious glances of passersby.

Standing on the sidewalk, he's only got eyes for one thing, her shape familiar enough to squeeze around his heart, even under her tarp. Reaching, Dean pulls it off, revealing inch after inch of shiny black.

He's not ready to drive her. But for the first time, Dean feels like he might could look after her again. "Change her oil, at least," Dean murmurs to himself, fingers resting in the air over the hood of the Impala.

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Tue, 15 Oct 2013 03:18:49 GMT

[from here]

( cut for n a u g h t y )

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Wed, 18 Sep 2013 03:27:15 GMT

Dean's on his ass in the alley and dizzy with pain before he's willing to admit he's made a mistake.

It was just a short trip to the park. He's been making them daily since Castiel went back to work, short stints in the sunshine to get him out of the apartment. He'd even been thinking, as he walked, that he might be up to bringing Annie next time.

He'd thought nothing of using the alley. It's the shortest route home, and he's made it dozens of times. He's a well built man who looks like he can handle himself, and nothing's eveer been dumb enough to jump him here - no vampires, no demons...not even a wandering spirit.

Dean had wondered, when the first boot connected with his face, when it was he stopped seeing humans as a potential threat.

"Your phone, too," grunts the man standing over him, his and his buddy's meaty palms pawing at Dean's open wallet.

"Eat shit," Dean replies through the blood in his mouth, and is rewarded with another kick, this one to his chest. He coughs and goes back to clutching at his side. He could have taken them, he thinks, or at least lasted longer in the scuffle, if one of them hadn't landed a punch directly to his gunshot wound.

It's not bleeding. Dean will thank heaven for small mercies at a more opportune time, say, when he's not staring down two hundred pounds of doughfaced mugger.

"I'm gonna ask you again," says the man, waving Dean's wallet. "Your phone, too, or we keep working you over. Trust me, we got all day."

"No," says Dean, and it's taken an age to reach the knife in his boot, but he's finally got his fingers wrapped around the hilt. "I don't think you do."

Quicker than death, he shoves the knife through the man's shoe and straight to the flesh beyond, past skin and bone to the concrete beneath it. The man rears back with a howl, and as Dean expected, both his attackers are too freaked out by the sight of their own blood to linger. He listens to the sounds of their hurried retreat and curses silently to himself.

"That was my secondbest knife."

But he still has his phone. Fumbling it from his pocket, Dean draws a labored breath, but there's no putting this off. He's not getting up again under his own power.

So he sucks it up, and he texts Castiel.

i fucked up. in Annie's fav pissing alley by the park.

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Mon, 09 Sep 2013 21:03:15 GMT

There's no way he's getting across town.

He's healed up enough for the walk, however exhausting it might prove, but the chances of losing Castiel long enough to get to Ishiah's and getting away with it, even if Cas doesn't see him in action, are slim to none.

Idling down the hallway outside his apartment, Dean grimaces. This isn't a conversation he wants to have over the phone, and part of him's not convinced it even needs having at all. Dean might be stubborn, but so is Cas, and if Cas really wants to reclaim his grace there will be little Dean can do about it. Maybe he should talk to Robin instead - if anyone knows the tricks to dealing with one's resident angel, it will be him.

Nodding to himself, Dean takes the stairs up to Robin's floor, sweating but triumphant when he finally arrives in front of his door and knocks.

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Sun, 28 Jul 2013 22:56:38 GMT

Dean wakes up feeling odd. Nothing hurts, and he isn't sick. There's nothing coming up beyond the usual hunts, no powerful demons or nests of vamps to take out. Cas is all but well, if still human, and Dean doesn't have work today. He just feels odd.

It takes him most of the morning to realize he feels kind of good.

He sits with the feeling for a while, not quite sure what to do with it. Back home, in what feels like someone else's life now, he thinks he might have taken a drive, not for a hunt, but just because. To a diner, maybe, or somewhere else with pie. Dean realizes with a start that he wants to drive right now, and to eat, and he doesn't want the passenger seat to be empty.

"Cas," he says, turning from where he's been seated for ages at the end of the bed. "Cas, wake up."

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Wed, 17 Jul 2013 03:11:19 GMT

It's the most settled Dean has felt in months.

It's been a rough time, even by his standards. Since the tentative relief of living through a demonic possession, Dean's lost his brother, Castiel has lost his grace, and for a time, Dean couldn't quite hold on to any happiness long enough to keep it.

But it feels like they've broken through something together now, something that's wrecked them both in different ways, but walking through the park with Annie, Dean feels as close to whole as he's felt in a long while. His back is a mess of stripes, red and purple and just beginning to yellow at the edges, welts pulling as tight as Annie's leash everytime she tugs, and all Dean can think of through every flash of pain is Castiel, easing him through. As much as Dean hates that his return to Obsidian upsets Castiel, he has to believe it's worth it.

At his feet, Annie yips, and Dean smiles faintly and bends carefully to let her off her leash. He expects her to bound straight for the open grass, but when he straightens with a wince, he sees her running straight for a familiar face.

Dean raises a hand, nodding at Derek across the path.

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Thu, 04 Jul 2013 03:27:02 GMT

It'd taken him less than five minutes to lose Cas.

They'll have to work on that when Dean gets back. Cas is more vulnerable than ever, newly human and frankly, pretty fucking terrible at it. Given their lives to date, Dean has no reason to believe that every evil creature in Darrow won't be gunning for them both, and if Castiel is going to survive this place, he needs to shape up, and fast.

Doing a final weapons check outside the dilapidated building, Dean makes a mental note to start Castiel's training, and then he breathes out and steels himself.

There are, at minimum, twelve vampires inside. For a nest, it's huge, but it's also high noon, and Dean has it on good authority that a few of them haven't eaten in days. They'll be desperate, but stupid, too, and if it turns into a rough fight, well...these days, Dean will welcome that.

Squaring his shoulders, Dean lets himself in quietly through the rotted door. The first kill is swift and silent, as is the second, but the third...

Dean flies through the wall as easily as a hammer through wet cardboard, but he keeps a hand on his machete, up on his feet and ready for the fourth vampire when it comes for him. His expression doesn't change as he parts another head from its body, but the other vamps are up and closing in, snarling as they form a half circle around him.

Hesitating. Dean quirks a grin he almost feels and wipes his blade on the untorn leg of his jeans. "Did you need an invitation?" he asks, dragging the edge of the blade against his forearm. It's a narrow cut, but the blood weals up, rich and red, and the nest goes mad.

With the sounds pouring out the broken windows, anyone would be insane to come inside.

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Sat, 15 Jun 2013 04:49:28 GMT

It helps to know the place is there.

Dean's been standing outside of it for the better part of an hour. Not close, and not where anyone who might recognize him might see him. Just near enough to see the small, nearly invisible sign, hanging there for only willing eyes to notice.

He won't go in. But it helps to know that if he had to, if he really needed to, he could.

Shuffling deeper into his jacket despite the warm night air, Dean looks down at his boots, tongues at the blankness between his ears, the cotton stuffing up his chest. He can stay here, still and quiet, and not think.

It only lasts a moment more before he hears feet beating hard against the pavement, turning the corner and moving fast.

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Fri, 14 Jun 2013 04:17:33 GMT

A day later, and Dean doesn't let himself hesitate. He takes out his phone and fires a quick text.

got something for you. meet up when you can.

Then he heads outside, head bent against the humid summer air and intent on finding the nearest bar. He's got a few hours before Cas wakes up from his midday nap, and he's sick of trying to drink with that too wide, heavy gaze on him.

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Thu, 13 Jun 2013 04:55:45 GMT

He's listed as his next of kin.

It's this, more than anything, that gets under Dean's skin while he cleans out the apartment, the memory of that tinny voice down the line, saying that he had three hours to clear the place or lose everything in it forever.

He almost doesn't go.

But the Impala's there, and even if it's a place Dean doesn't feel he can go back to anymore, she's still home.

She rumbles when he drives her, purrs that vibrate through the soles of Dean's boots, lift the hairs on his arms. Rattle his teeth. He parks her around the corner from his own apartment, gets out, and doesn't let himself look back. There's a whole life stuffed into the trunk of her, memories of another crammed between the seats and in the ashtrays, and the key hangs heavy in his fingers.

He lets himself into the apartment without a sound and slips the key deep into the bookshelf, nestled between a pair of faded photographs. Then he sits at the table with a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue and his phone.

There are precious few numbers there, and the few he thinks of calling are all but strangers, vetted for one purpose only. And Dean doesn't dare.

So he sits, and he drinks, and he does his level best to think of nothing at all.

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Thu, 23 May 2013 04:38:23 GMT

( continued )

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Mon, 29 Apr 2013 03:19:32 GMT

Dean feels unaccountably nervous when he walks the few feet to Castiel's door. He's been home a week now, and for the first time, finally feels past the need to sleep all day long. It'd been nice to do nothing but lie there and watch every season of Dr. Sexy from his bed, but Dean's sick of his plain white walls, sick of his sickbed. Sick of endless bowls of soup, too, however hilarious it is to make Cas do airplane over and over. Dean wants to see the sky, wants to eat a real meal again, and he wants to maybe make a few things right between them as he does it.

He shifts from foot to foot outside Castiel's door. His belt is set to a slot it hasn't seen in years, and Dean knows it only makes him look skinnier, but he tucks in his shirt, smoothing his hair for the third time since he combed it over. "Well," he says, "M'not getting any prettier," and knocks.

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Mon, 22 Apr 2013 00:51:25 GMT

It's a few days before he's allowed visitors. A few days, but Dean is barely aware of them, drifting under a pile of blankets and the steady drip of drugs. Castiel flies in a few times, always with Annie, and she makes Dean feel more like himself than any amount of healing ever could. He must look absolutely wretched the first time the nurses catch her in his bed, because they only smile and let her stay. One even volunteers to take her downstairs whenever she needs a walk, and Dean gives her the shadow of a smile he hasn't worn in years, smiling even wider when she blushes.

It's strange to think that after everything, half-dead in a hospital bed is the place Dean begins to feel alive again.

He's mostly asleep, Annie's head lifting with every rise of his chest, when Nurse Howard peeks in, letting him know he has his first 'official' visitor.

[ooc: open post, if you wanted to tag Dean recovering (Ashley >:E), here's the place!]

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Mon, 15 Apr 2013 20:57:26 GMT

The chapel is small. Built for mourners on the edge of the dead, its walls are clean and white, sturdy, meant for shelter. Wood and brick, not meant to contain the darkness now held within them, twitching in the form of the body strapped prone to a hasty trap made of splintered pews.

It's quiet inside, removed enough from the city that the only sounds are rattling breaths from the body in chains, snatches of anxious voices and the occasional rumble of the floor, creaking and groaning from unseen onslaught, but holding.

There's an energy in the air, an electricity that raises hackles along with hairs, pouring from the ravaged body in an angry throb, but within the trap it can't do more than rattle walls, beneath the chains that smoke its skin, it can't do more than hiss curses on borrowed breath, and promise agonies yet to come.

In the center of the trap, the thing wearing Dean Winchester bares its teeth, blinking black towards any with stomach left to look at him.

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Wed, 06 Mar 2013 05:28:41 GMT

There's so much blood.

He wakes up soaked in it, not just blood but stringy sinew, can still feel bones cracking sharp enough to cut beneath his wringing fingers. It's slippery, coats right up to his elbows and Dean can't get it off, seizes sheets damp with sweat and rubs at his arms, but it won't come off.

There's howling, shrill and high and scraping at Dean's ear.

For a moment, it fits, it's hell and it makes sense, and then it doesn't. It's not just blood on his hands.

It's fur.

Dean's heart stops.

He blinks, sucks down a breath to scream, and it's gone. It's just a nightmare, and it's gone. But the howling hasn't.

"Annie!" Dean shouts, falling out of bed in his haste to find her. There's no blood on his hands when he levers himself up, no fur, no nothing, but Annie's howls have turned to growls, and he can't find her, can hear her, but she's not under the bed, not on her own, not in the closet or the kitchen or anywhere that he can think of, and his pulse is so loud in his ears that by the time Dean wrenches his front door open, everything is a dull roar.

"Cas!" he shouts, pounding hard on the wall all the way to his door.

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Tue, 23 Oct 2012 02:15:07 GMT

He can't breathe.

Too much fluid in his lungs, body pulled too high and too tight to dangle where Dean hangs over the streets of Darrow.

He's waiting. For a long, dizzy moment, Dean doesn't know why, but then he remembers - falling into thin, iron arms, the scrape of a stubbled jaw against his cheek when Alistair embraced him, the bloom of pathetic gratitude in Dean's gut when the demon had handed him the first hook.

It's the one in his wrist, pushed there under Dean's own strength. Too weak after, Alistair had done the others for him, shoulder, side, and knee, lifted him from the ground and left him there to wait.

Right where we belong, dear one, he'd said and Dean had smiled.

Suffering will come without end, but all he has to do now is take it. He's done.

He's finally done.

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Sun, 21 Oct 2012 00:35:37 GMT

He's lost his knife.

The bullets had been the first to go, then the one grenade he'd had on hand. He'd lost his sword to a vampire, and the last of his holy water is gone.

His angel is gone, ripped away from him so many times over the last two weeks that Dean's lost track, and he has a feeling in his gut that he won't find him again.

Dean acknowledges the thought with more despair then he'd thought himself capable of - after weeks of endless fighting for his life, he'd thought he might be beyond more pain.

But he isn't.

Dean knows that for certain when he turns a corner in the shadowed park and sees him standing among the roses. He's clad in white, hair smoothed back and hands familiar where they brush against a cluster of red blooms.

It's not his brother, but Dean can't help it. He can't go any further alone.

"Sammy?"

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Sat, 13 Oct 2012 21:52:38 GMT

Seven.

Backed onto a dumpster at the darkest end of the alley, Dean picks off a woman with dark, matted hair and bloody fingernails - six - slaps his coat as their hands rock the metal beneath him and accepts it. He's down to his last magazine.

Lifting his gun arm, he fires again, catches a Croat in the shoulder and in the head.

Five, four.

There's at least eight of them now, gathered around the dumpster and reaching for him, and it's only a matter of time before they realize they can climb one another to get to him. He has his sword, but Dean's not a fool. After four straight days of fighting, it's over. He's not making out of this alley alive, and if he did, it'd only be delaying the inevitable.

Firing again - three, two - Dean looks at the cracked blood on his arm, the wound beneath it still open, flesh torn open by teeth, and knows that the blood isn't all his own. He's infected, and the only reason to stay alive is to take as many with him as he can. He's expects to feel fear and anger, and Dean does - he's been dreading this moment for a long time. He just hadn't expected it to come with such bone deep relief.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, Dean pulls out the grenade pin with his teeth and lobs it as near as he dares, blinking through the sudden thunder of sound and the explosion of bodies torn apart. For one blissful moment the alley is still but for twitching limbs and settling dust.

Dean sits down, watching with resignation as new Croats spill from the mouth of the alley to take the place of the dead.

He looks down at his gun.

One.

Swallowing, Dean lifts it, but it's a moment more before he puts it to his head.

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silent hill

Fri, 12 Oct 2012 03:20:09 GMT

It's been too long since he saw a Croat.

The sun's been down an hour, Dean should have seen them by the tens and dozens, but the streets are quiet, and it isn't like the eery, ashen quiet of day. The silence is palpable, a dark and malevolent thing that pushes at his ears, promises to break at any moment. This isn't quiet so much as an absence of screams, not amity but armistice, and it sets Dean's teeth on edge.

"C'mon," he mutters, hefting his machete. He's not out of bullets, but god knows the damn things are always the first to go, and he won't waste them on anything close range.

He walks and walks, and at the end of an alley, a boy is crouched, body bent over his plaything. He lifts his head, and Dean sees hollow eyes and white teeth stained red, the limp body of some poor bastard of an alley rat pulled to pieces between his little fingers. At the sight of Dean, he screams and rushes forward, and from the alley walls peel three more to join him.

Machete a solid weight in his hand, Dean marches forward into another night of slaughter.

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Mon, 03 Sep 2012 21:50:21 GMT

It's not the first time Dean's been to Sam's apartment. Ocean View is across town from his own residence, and Dean's stood in front of its salt worn walls many times, has even made it down Sam's hallway and to his door.

This is the first time he's knocked.

Knuckles tingling with the strange kinetic energy of something other than a punch, Dean braces both hands against the door frame and waits, heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his forehead, in his throat. Maybe Dean's not the man people want him to be, but the thing is, he's not been wrong about being wrong. He fucked up, and he lost Sam, but a universe exists where Dean came back for him, and Dean can handle being sideways if it means he might get this.

"Sam," he calls, voice hoarse, and knocks again. "Sammy?"

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Tue, 22 May 2012 20:05:55 GMT

Dean can't remember every soul he ever tortured in hell. After thirty years of waiting, he'd climbed down from the rack and cut into as many creatures as were brought before him, spent the next decade soaked in other people's agony and blood, and he can't remember them all, but he remembers the first.

He'd expected the blood of the soul on that rack to be black, to smoke, to curl in eddies, but it had flowed, thick and red and sweet. And ordinary.

Later, he would learn demons bled just as red topside as they did Below.

Ruby is like all the ones that came before her. Naked. Red in streaks and white in others where Dean's flayed down to bone. Past screaming and into choked begging, tied in salted chains to a pentagram the reaches halfway to the ceiling. She's just like all the rest, but Dean hates her more than any of them.

He's been at it for nearly an hour now. Dragging the holy water soaked edge of his dullest blade down the length of her thigh, Dean wishes he had days. Months. God knows she's earned more than one hour of pain, however much Dean's tried to make it count.

But time is up. There's a shadow in the doorway that will soon materialize as his brother. The time for foreplay is done.

Lifting the IV line stretched between Ruby's veins and a bag of holy water, Dean releases a fresh wave into her bloodstream, his face impassive through the ensuing screams.

"Come in, Sam."

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Thu, 03 May 2012 20:50:19 GMT

It’s still dark when Dean opens his eyes. He’s been drifting since Jane rolled off of him, content to lie next to another warm body, even if he finds no rest. She doesn’t stir when he does, and through the moonlight filtering through the cabin window, Dean retrieves his shirt and jeans from the floor.

Putting them on takes more time than he’d like. His exertions in bed have torn the stitches in his side, and Dean gives up on being careful, tugging his t-shirt over his head with only a grimace. He needs rest, and food, maybe another visit to the camp doctor, but he grabs the bottle of whiskey on Jane’s nightstand instead, tucking it under his arm on his way out the door.

Outside, the camp is still and quiet. Dean checks with the sentries on his way to his own cabin, shares some small talk and a few swallows from the bottle in his hands. Watching for Croats, whiskey settles the nerves, and every man on the wall has proven himself a good shot, inebriated or otherwise. Dean wouldn’t have put them there if they weren’t.

Perimeter check complete, Dean finds himself heading not home, but to the junkyard. Beneath the far corner trees, the Impala doesn’t rise up in the moonlight. It should hurt him to see her swallowed up by shadows, but Dean lost far worse to the darkness long ago. He looks at her, drinks his whiskey, and listens to himself breathe.

Cas would call it meditation, Dean thinks, the way he watches her decay. There are leaves on her roof. Rust on her door handle. It’s been years since he opened the hood, but he knows he’d find more inside. The leather on the seats is cracking. Dean never comes any closer than this, but tonight a glint of light against something in the mantle has him step forward. The i-Pod jack. Of all the stupid things to hang onto. The i-Pod itself is long gone, taking all of his brother’s music with it. The amulet is buried. The photographs are burnt.

He should wrench it out, should open the back door and pull out the army man that rests in the ashtray, too.

Maybe he will, when he finally puts that consecrated bullet in his brother’s heart.

Dizzy, Dean steps forward, spreading a steadying hand against the cool black roof. He shakes his head, but it doesn’t go away. Fucking stitches. He touches his side and finds it wet - he’s losing more blood than he thought. “Dammit.”

He turns for home, but it comes up like a wave, a blackness that crushes Dean against the Impala’s side. He’s falling, and he can’t make it stop. Dean’s own mumbled curse is the last thing he hears.

It feels like minutes later when he wakes, it feels like years.

Dean expects cool, wet grass beneath him, but finds cold concrete instead. The trees are gone, replaced by towering skyscrapers, but the shadow rising over him is the same.

Amazed, Dean touches fingers to the shiny gloss of the Impala door. “The fuck?”

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