Hi. This isn't anything too thought provoking or deep, just a way for me to unload some stress from real life. A short one-shot that hopefully will be mildly entertaining. I own nothing but I do like to make Dean suffer. Thanks to any who have a look.
The adrenaline pumps viciously through his veins, a painful journey that has him feeling like his heart is literally two beats away from making a grand and bloody entrance onto the outside of his chest.
His mind keeps racing and his legs keep moving. Just a little further. Can't slow down. Can't stop. Not until the bastard is dead. Hell, once he sees his brother in one piece then he won't give one little shit whether his heart gives out or not. But first he's gotta do his job. Protect Sammy. Save Sammy.
He arrives in the nick of time, doing what he considers is an awesome imitation of a baseball player sliding into home plate; he delivers a precision shot of silver right into the thing's heart as he skids along the moisture of the grass.
The bastard stops cold, its death instantaneous as it seems to freeze only inches away from carving a gruesome design into the tender canvas of his brother's flesh.
Huh, well what do you know, an easy kill. That's gotta be a first.
He lifts up to his knees and narrowly escapes the crush of falling limbs and teeth. He wants to say 'timber' as the fugly makes its rapid descent to the earth but the comment seems to die on his lips, the pain as he sucks in a breath taking away any pleasure he may have felt from voicing his sparkling wit.
He inches towards where his sibling lies and gives him the quick once over through an increased blur in his vision. When he's sure all the necessary limbs have remained attached and is satisfied that there is not an overly abundant amount of bodily fluids filtering out into the night, his body seems to take on the composition of a concrete block and he slams down face first into the dirt with such force that it takes his remaining breath away.
It's hard to breathe. If anything, his damn heart has ramped up its tempo, its nagging thump-thump deafening him as it climbs into his ears and drowns out all other sounds. His body feels like it's on fire, and not the 'ouch, I burned my finger on the toaster' kind but the 'Shit, I've been dipped in gasoline and lit up with a torch' kind.
He curls up on his side, the possibility of an actual heart explosion seeming more and more imminent. The pains change from a tolerable ebb and flow to a full-blown, all-consuming, and hard to function on any level torrent.
Hands roll him over and press along his stomach and shoulder, managing to do nothing but ignite a fresh wave of piercing agony that he didn't think was possible. He moans and hisses and tries to bat the offending appendage away.
Sam. Right, Sam is safe. Good. Mission accomplished.
"C'mon bro, stay with me here. Calm down your breathing."
He tries to focus but his eyes are throbbing, pulsating along with the beat that seems to have infiltrated every single cell in his body. Every single one is strumming along to the chorus his heart is singing. He wishes the thing would just shut up already.
"Shit. What were you thinking? Damn it, you ripped out your stitches."
He can hear the panic in his brother's voice but can't quite grasp what the hell he is trying to say. Stitches?
"Dammit Dean, you were supposed to stay put, I told you I would take care of it. I shouldn't have let you come out here in the first place."
He remembers now, how he got an up close and personal view of this bastard the night before. Ah hell, that probably would explain the raging fire and the blurred vision and the shortness of breath, but Sam should know better. He should understand that it goes against every fibre of his being and everything he has ever known to just sit back while his brother heads off to face a monster in the middle of the night. Besides, he needed to exact a little brand of Dean Winchester payback on the douchebag.
"S..somebody had to… save your ass S'mmy…"
One blink later and he has somehow been magically transported from the ground to his own two feet, although keeping upright has become much more of a challenge. He feels Sam's arm wrap around his shoulder and he doesn't have the strength to pull away or even try as they meander their way like a couple of drunks back to the car.
He is manhandled into the passenger seat and leans his head against the coolness of the window. The door closes and he tracks his gaze to his brother's face.
"Let's get you back to the room. I'll patch you up, again, and then we'll discuss how I actually had just shot the bastard right before you came charging in. Dumbass."
Huh. Well, that would explain why it was so easy.
Thanks for stopping by. :)