Short chapters it is, then.
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From that point, everything flows in slow motion; Dean considers his options. The first one being--
Oh, fuck it.
"Woah!" Sam jerks back just as the eye of a gun suddenly connects with his forehead, Dean's useful gun clip disengaging the weapon without a fuss. Dean is suddenly breathing hard, fury curdling his blood, pupils dilating, a choked grip around the neck. He pulls the safety off the gun slowly, hesitant for some reason, although he has the perfect shot, a disgusting target. He can't say what's keeping him from pulling the trigger.
"Dean." Sam swallows, surrenders his palms slowly. "Dean, what are you doing?"
"How'd you get out?" They put Alistair's sorry ass back in Hell for sure, they saw the whole thing, saw the ground swallow him whole, felt the earth quake beneath their feet.... This shouldn't be possible.
"Now, Dean. Let's not get hasty. Why don't you put the gun down and we can talk mono y mono--"
"Shut up! How did you get out?" Sam flinches back. What the Hell is Dean talking about? He licks his lips nervously and tries to keep his breathing calm. Is this how he'll die? By the hands of his own brother?
Cas, quit whatever you're doing right now. Get your ass back to the motel. Now. A simple prayer is usually all it takes, but Sam stumbles over his words in his head, switching back and forth from answering Dean's questions and sending out a cry for help through telepathic messages he's not even sure the angel can hear. One second turns into two, two multiplying into four, the barrel of the gun quivering in a weakened grip, but still under enough pressure to leave a mark on Sam's forehead. Castiel should have arrived by now.
"I should kill you. I can kill you right now." Dean mutters hysterically. He remembers all the pain and suffering he went through under Alistair's hands. Being hooked and chained, gagged, beaten, stabbed then burned--he swallows back a surge of bile. The safety is off. Just...just kill him. But he's breathing hard. The gun slips between his shaky fingers more than once, the stubbed grips on the neck as lubricated as the inside of his swelling throat. Dean's limbs are trembling. "What are you doing to me?" Why can't I shoot you?
A swarm of black and white moths fly from Alistair's mouth, Dean swats at them helplessly as they nick and bite at his skin, like tiny drops of acid raining from all directions. "S-stop! Stop!"
"What? Cat got your tongue? I thought you were gonna kill me, Dean." A rather large moth lashes it's spiked tongue around his wrist occupying the gun; Dean drops it with a curse.
His hunter's knife is the next to be sheathed, but it gets knocked out of his hand. Dean drops to the ground amidst the moths just as Alistair sweeps his legs from underneath the hunter, sending him to the ground rather pathetically. The black and white moths blind him, nothing but black and white, bites and burns, a constant wave of claustrophobic mass that it leaves Dean gasping for breath.
Suddenly, everything goes red.
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One week later, nobody has uttered a word about the incident, per a certain someone's request. Instead, Sam, Dean, and their faithful angel, Castiel, have continued to work on the case nonstop, pulling more and more clues about the mysterious monster murders plaguing Oklahoma City, deciding to ignore to two large bruises decorating Dean's check and chin where Castiel had manhandled him. They haven't faded, not yet; still tender and still raw. Sam takes the case files home, Dean marks them on the map, talking with Bobby over the phone. Castiel makes trips round the city to pick up supplies that they need, such as food and water or aspirin for Dean's increasing headaches. Eventually, even heavy duty sleeping syrup had to be purchased as well; he's been getting angrier, more irritable. Less hungry. Puking his guts up and then rejecting sustenance to replace the lost body fluids.
By midweek, Dean has lost ten pounds and his hunting jacket no longer fits snuggly over his shoulders. Sam says he should stay in the motel, let him and Bobby figure everything out while Castiel keeps him company. Surprisingly, the green eyed hunter stands down.
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This is Our Design
Short StoryA book of short stories requested by anyone who follows or just wants something new to read.
