Just a musing about Dean:- wouldn't go away 'til I wrote it down-

Don't own the copyright, not written for profit yada. . yada. .

Quiet spaces

It was worst in the quiet spaces. In all of those little pockets of silence where your thoughts were freed to follow their own path.


Just you in a dangerous, terrible place, where thoughts could be more terrifying than any spirit or demon.

No protection.

Dean had learnt at an early age not to linger there, had learnt that there was nothing there for him because his thoughts did not like him, full of recrimination, fear of failure, and inadequacy, because his soul demanded that he be perfect and he was not perfect, far from it.

He screwed up; he failed; sometimes he could not be what those around him needed him to be. His father, his brother, total strangers, all demanding that he be something for them and there wasn't enough of him to give to them and keep anything for himself, and yet, he knew that he would give it anyway. Most of them wouldn't even notice as his soul bled away into the grass, certainly not the strangers, not his father, not even his brother, but that was OK. Dean didn't want them to see, didn't need them to see.

Because the thoughts in his head whispered that this was what he deserved.

As he had grown older, as his understanding of his own failings had grown; mortality, lack of omniscience, sometimes not quick enough, most times not smart enough, he had built up his defences. The principal of which was not to linger in those dark places in his mind where his feelings about himself would betray him. Where he would have to admit that he could never be what he needed to be, because, although he did his best, sometimes he failed, and one of these days that failure was going to cost more dearly than his soul could pay.

So he found ways to avoid the quiet, TV and cartoons, heavy rock, smoky bars and friendly girls. Even his car rumbled-satisfyingly filling the quiet empty spaces of the day.

So he wouldn't have to go there, wouldn't have to stay there.

It was OK when he was hunting. The hunt took his focus, filled his mind. Gave his life a meaning and purpose that defended him from his thoughts like armour. There was no quiet on a hunt, no emptiness; there was always something there to fill his thoughts, to help get him through. Hunting kept him sane.

But when the hunt was over. . .

The quiet spaces were there again, waiting.

He had learned to avoid them with skill..