by the family business » Tue Apr 05, 2016 1:44 pm
After placing his toothbrush back into its home in his bag of toiletries, Dean splashed a handful of cold water onto his face. Feeling a refreshed wave wash through him, he stared back at his reflection in the cracked mirror, an array of mysterious stains scattered the surface. Tiny light freckles dotted his nose and the tops of his cheeks, and Dean contemplated shaving the stubble that had grown in the previous day or so. Unable to carry on looking at the shell of a man he had become, Dean wiped the droplets of water from his face and pushed the patched up towel back into his rucksack. A black shirt hugged the muscles in his arms, shoulders, back and stomach, the result of running from a past he was so desperate to keep hidden.
Dean winced in pain as he brushed his lower abdomen against the side of the sink. Pulling up his shirt slightly, Dean examined the stitches keeping the seeping wound together. Sighing, Dean grabbed his bag of toiletries and shoved the bathroom door open, making his way into the deserted car park of an even more deserted gas station. Dean hadn't seen anyone in days, not anyone that hadn't attempted to rip the flesh and muscles from his bones anyway. Dean chuckled to himself as he pulled a bloodstained jacket on, and made his way to his blacked out jeep. "A zombie outbreak," he mimicked the TV presenter's voice, "one bullet to the brain and it'll be dead again." It was no surprise that he hadn't seen a human in days, everyone had been stupid and naive and now they were all dead. This wasn't a zombie outbreak, it wasn't something that prepubescent boys hoped for, it was much, much worse.
Words. Words were used for everything, to show love, to show anger, to show sadness, to show deep and raw emotions that only words could begin to describe. Words were like delicate butterflies that were said so carelessly and ruthlessly. Harmless. Now think about the words that aren't said aloud, the deep, dark thoughts that festered in the shadows of your mind. No one would ever imagine that these words were living creatures. Left to decay and rot. Left to become a weeping sore or a gory wound. Left to gnaw and poison the blood of the soul that refused to set them free. That's why when something went wrong and the festered demons escaped from their vessel's captivity, people were confused; unable to rid of these demons that looked so much like themselves. Because who could put a bullet in their own brain? Even if people did manage to shoot their demons, that wouldn't stop them. If anything it made them bigger, stronger, growing off the fear oozing out of their vessel. You had to simply speak your unspoken words, tell your friend you don't like the way she treats you, tell your wife you've been cheating, no matter what you had to say, all you had to do was simply set them free. And that's what made it so hard.
Dean was the first person to realise how to get rid of the demons that circulated his vessel, which would attempt to pinch and poke at him until he became nothing but a dead body. However, he was still running, still running further and further from his past and the truth. His demons took different forms at first, a shadow in the corner of his eye, red eyes underneath his bed, familiar faces, dead relatives. They'd even taken the form of his mother, reminding him how she'd passed away because she'd given birth to him - that it was all his fault, this had caught him off guard and the demon had pierced it's claws into him, wounding him. But the demons came in phases, gradually getting more and more malevolent as he met them, each in their own twisted and haunting form. He'd counted how many times he'd seen them, and he knew the next time would be his last.
Dean rolled his jeep to a stop at the side of the road, large trees on either side watching his every move. Eyes glazed over and the last drop of beer rolling down his throat, Dean scanned the area for his next and final demon, shoving out of his car angrily when he couldn't spot it. "I know you're here," Dean shouted, his voice hoarse and rugged. He looked out to the wild and unruly forest opposite him, attempting to make out a shape or a silhouette, anything. "Come and get me you coward!" Dean screamed, his voice shattering the unnerving silence. A single tear rolled down his freckled cheek, guilt and fear overflowing the dark pit of his stomach as he felt the reality of this all crashing around him. There would always be more rotting, festering words left unspoken. There would always be more demons and more pain and more suffering. And although Dean had tried so hard to convince himself that he could overcome this, find people who had done the same thing, and live a normal life again, he knew the truth now and he knew no one was getting out of this alive. With whatever strength he had left, Dean made his way back to the jeep. If he couldn't fight it, he would keep running from it for as long as he could. Dean pushed down the shadows of self-loathing that loomed over him, he pushed down the idea of giving up without a fight. He fastened his hands around the steering wheel, catching a glance of his reflection in the mirror as he leant down to get another beer. His reflection stared back at him, eyes dead and cold, lips upturned to form a malicious smirk.
"Hello, Dean."
✉ This isn't actually about Dean Winchester, or affiliated with Supernatural in any way....I just like the name Dean and imagine every male I write about to look like Jensen Ackles, sorry not sorry.
