Disclaimer: I do not own or lay claim to anything relating to Supernatural.
A/N: I have been bored all morning, and I believe I'm at my wit's end with my SN withdrawals. So I started writing and kind of just went with it for about five minutes, and this is what I came up with; Dean's inner monologue during the end of Devil's Trap. Rated for language.
By Spectral Scribe
There's all this black haze swimming in and out of the world, though I think that's just my consciousness getting fucked over, and all I can think about is that ripping pain in my chest. God damn. That frickin' hurts.
I knew it was bad when Sam leaned over me with those tentative, outstretched hands… all like, not knowing how to touch me, or if to touch me, because he thought one poke and I'd just fall apart at the seams. He acts stupid and delicate like that, yeah, but I could tell it was bad. Plus, the world had fallen horizontal when I wasn't paying attention, and there was this horrible fire eating away at my insides. Which is ironic, I guess, because I actually wasn't on fire.
Somehow, I got to the car. I'm really not sure how. Everything was kind of going fuzzy for a while, and then bam, I'm hunched over in the back seat of the Impala. Not even shotgun—relegated to the backseat in my own damn car. And why was I in the backseat anyway? I should have been driving. Sam's a sucky driver, I gotta say. I mean, it's hard to trust a guy with your car after he drives it into a house. That took up a good portion of our spare credit cards, let me say.
But anyway, I was in the backseat, and then I realized that I wasn't shotgun because Dad was shotgun, and when the hell did he get here?
Oh, right. Never mind.
So I guess that's why I'm in the backseat, so the two of them can duke it out up there. I don't hear screaming yet, which is a good sign I guess, but everything is kind of fucked up anyway, and sounds kind of fade in and out like the blackness in my vision. So maybe they are screaming, but I just can't hear it.
There's a moment where Sam's looking at me through the rearview mirror, and I swear there should be something I understand in that look, something significant, but I can't for the life of me think of anything but how my whole body feels heavy and like it's on fire, and then I wonder how I'd know that, because I've never been on fire before, really.
I think maybe there should be some epiphany to have about now, like Oh would you look at that, I'm dying. But there isn't really anything. I mean, I think I might be dying, but it's hard to say, really, because everything is so fucking jumbled up like somebody knocked a recently completed puzzle loose and all the pieces went tumbling to the floor. But I'm not one to use metaphors. Or was that a simile? I always get them confused. Sam would know. I'll have to ask him when I get the hang of working my tongue around my teeth again.
Speaking of Sam, I can tell he's talking, but I'm having trouble figuring out what he's saying. Dad's there too, talking to Sam. Wait, when did Dad get here? I thought he was missing.
Oh, wait. Right. God, do I feel fucked up right now or what.
I feel like maybe I should be thinking about what Dad said in that cabin, something about… well, I can't really think about it right now, and that may be because my brain is having a weirdly tough time remembering simple things, or it may be because I just really don't want to think about it right now. I can't. I won't.
Holy hell, Sam better pull the fuck over, because there's this big-ass truck coming at us. Do either of them see it coming? Maybe if they'd stop arguing and watch the damn road, they could see.
Well, I'm pretty sure it's going to hit us, unless hallucination is another wonderful part of this whole fucked-upness going on in my head right now. But I don't think it is. Those headlights are pretty bright.
Hey, wouldn't it suck if all three Winchesters were wiped out by a goddamn semi? Wouldn't it be ironic?
I think it would. I think I might laugh, if my chest didn't hurt so much. Fuck, those headlights are downright blinding.