alexseanchai: quill, ink bottle, and calligraphy (Default)
From: [personal profile] alexseanchai
The gravel of the parking lot of Ben's soccer field isn't all that stable. Dean's weight lands wrong; he goes down hard, taking the skin off both palms and a knee.

Glasses are slippery when they're soapy and wet. Dean drops one and fishes all the shards out of the sink, then washes the blood off his hands. The water stings.

Dean holds a nail in place to drive it into the skeleton of a McMansion and swings the hammer. He misses; the finger's not broken but it's a near thing.

Dean overhears a remark in a bar and strolls over to the speaker and his buddies. "My brother is, as you so politely put it, a cocksucker," Dean informs him. It might not be literally true, Sam didn't go into details about what happened when Brady got stoned while Sam was around, but it doesn't much matter. "In related news, my brother's dead." Then he slams his fist into the jackass's face. Three of the jackasses end up in the hospital and Dean refuses treatment.

Dean was chopping veggies for dinner—got to contribute to Lisa's household somehow—and got distracted remembering Sam chattering about the nutritive properties of zucchini, one of the few times when Sam was a kid that they could afford fresh food to cook and a kitchen to cook it in. There was a bright sharp pain at his fingertip and he was home, the blood and the emptiness as familiar as his own skin, Sam's absence proof that Sam was safe on earth or above it. Lisa made noise, distracting him, but he'd needed the reminder. Hunting on his own would be another way to say suicide and he'd promised Sam he wouldn't, but thirty years with pain and without Sam, he'd done that. He could do that.

That first time, it was accidental.
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