( better that he just go ahead and get it over with, because he won't ever be more ready than he is right now, in this very moment – a moment that stretches on endlessly in their little corner of private universe, squared away and briefly shielded from that which might have followed them from below.
dean knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt and more deeply than he would ever willingly admit that there is darkness in his soul; within, without, surrounding him in the shroud of his mistakes like a twisted little security blanket. mistakes, shortcomings, wrong paths taken and wrong decisions made, every turn he's ever made from the moment he was born to the moment he'd been dragged to hell as a hellhound's chewtoy. and he can feel it, somewhere deep within the shell that remains, when castiel begins to peel all of that away – when he sets to scrubbing away the dirt, grime, filth that has coated him like oil, slick and sickening, a wrench in his gut.
it hurts. it hurts more than he can think to put words to, more than he thinks anything has ever before, and he's been through it all. bullet wounds, monster bites, claw swipes and blade slashes, and none of it amounts to the gritting, grinding, cleansing pain that slices through him now as a hot knife through butter. if he were to try to put words to it, he might say it feels like he's being flayed alive, laid open and stripped of flesh that he currently is not possessed of, and if the waves that radiate from him are any indication, he could have screamed his throat raw, and it still wouldn't have been enough to soothe.
the worst has passed.
thank … thank god.
it's a thought that doesn't linger very long, just a tiny little thing in the forefront of his consciousness, perhaps not something that he fully believes in yet. god is something that sam has always busted his chops for not believing in, for not having faith in anything beyond the distance of a bullet or the sureness behind a blade, and really, he dares anyone to argue with him. there has never been any god in what they do, only luck and skill, and even finding himself in the presence of an angel of the lord still has him casting doubts.
( doubts that will, eventually, fade away. but for now … )
it's numbness that creeps over him once the actual healing process begins, the bites and pieces of his fractured soul being mended and stitched back together as though they had never been chipped away from him. truthfully, were anyone to ask him, he would say he doesn't remember the last time he'd felt whole – not even when he'd been younger, before the years had sullied him and left him as something undesirable beyond the long hours of the night in a strange bed, a warm body to satisfy. it's disorienting, above all else, and when that question comes, it's a small stretch of silence that serves as the initial answer.
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Date: 22 Dec 2015 03:17 (UTC)dean knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt and more deeply than he would ever willingly admit that there is darkness in his soul; within, without, surrounding him in the shroud of his mistakes like a twisted little security blanket. mistakes, shortcomings, wrong paths taken and wrong decisions made, every turn he's ever made from the moment he was born to the moment he'd been dragged to hell as a hellhound's chewtoy. and he can feel it, somewhere deep within the shell that remains, when castiel begins to peel all of that away – when he sets to scrubbing away the dirt, grime, filth that has coated him like oil, slick and sickening, a wrench in his gut.
it hurts. it hurts more than he can think to put words to, more than he thinks anything has ever before, and he's been through it all. bullet wounds, monster bites, claw swipes and blade slashes, and none of it amounts to the gritting, grinding, cleansing pain that slices through him now as a hot knife through butter. if he were to try to put words to it, he might say it feels like he's being flayed alive, laid open and stripped of flesh that he currently is not possessed of, and if the waves that radiate from him are any indication, he could have screamed his throat raw, and it still wouldn't have been enough to soothe.
the worst has passed.
thank … thank god.
it's a thought that doesn't linger very long, just a tiny little thing in the forefront of his consciousness, perhaps not something that he fully believes in yet. god is something that sam has always busted his chops for not believing in, for not having faith in anything beyond the distance of a bullet or the sureness behind a blade, and really, he dares anyone to argue with him. there has never been any god in what they do, only luck and skill, and even finding himself in the presence of an angel of the lord still has him casting doubts.
( doubts that will, eventually, fade away. but for now … )
it's numbness that creeps over him once the actual healing process begins, the bites and pieces of his fractured soul being mended and stitched back together as though they had never been chipped away from him. truthfully, were anyone to ask him, he would say he doesn't remember the last time he'd felt whole – not even when he'd been younger, before the years had sullied him and left him as something undesirable beyond the long hours of the night in a strange bed, a warm body to satisfy. it's disorienting, above all else, and when that question comes, it's a small stretch of silence that serves as the initial answer.
… dunno. uh.
another pause.
weird. kinda tingly. )