Mr Durden, Sir. (waysides) wrote in longroadhome,
Mr Durden, Sir.
waysides
longroadhome

broken behind eyes

TITLE: Broken Behind Eyes
AUTHOR: waysides
WORD COUNT: 1,949
CHARACTERS: Dean
RATING: G


A/N: The result of a prompt from the lovely paxlux, which can be found at he end of this entry. I hope it turned out okay.

SUMMARY: Everything he’s lived shows in the way his hands wrap around his weapon


My fingers are stiff and rough, and they curl strong around the cool metal, safe warm there, because they belong. because the substance is cut away, shaped for me, for my hands perfectly; years and years of use, and my hands fit like the last puzzle piece. Maybe it’s in the way I hold it, tight but free, like a shield or a partner, protector, protected; pointing steady just above my shoulder level. This is from protecting two people; this is from Sam. From banishing years of lonely nothingness with preciseness and perfection, from going and going and going because sometimes it’s the only way to stay alive, this from needing and being needy, from never sleeping, not remembering how, because if I stopped looking I might miss something, miss Sam somehow, even when he was miles and miles away, living some other life, and I was a ghost breeze against the back of his neck, unnoticeable and unimportant. This is from when I was the extra jigsaw piece, bruised and jagged, rough and peeling around the edges, so bent and twisted I didn’t fit anywhere, even when my other half was at arm’s length. This is from making up for lost time, more lost time than one can make up for, years and years compressed into single moments, two figures side by side, indistinguishable, outlined in sharpie-defined silhouettes of smoke/ash/blood/pain/loss/salt.

Right index and middle through the handle, waiting, ready like a coiled live wire, fierce and stone cold, taught and crushing with bone white knuckles, the safety never never on, because there’s no point, no need, just action and solid proof that I can feel, proof that something is still real. And I know that this built by loss, by white hot licking flames and being too young to understand, and having no words because they lose meaning and hang dead in the air like lies; this is from being a pawn, a tradable commodity, one for another, no thought, just exchanging lives like baseball cards. This is from the broken whispered words that were never never meant for me, for things I cannot carry, knowledge that burns like acid and fear, this is from having no say or choice, from staring into blank eyes that should’ve been mine, from deals and summoning rituals, cold hospital rooms and Dad broken and gone so that I could stay. This is from Sam, bleeding and dead in my arms, from crossroads dirt and the words shaped like one year and selfishness and being shattered dead-alive.

One hand, pushed sideways away from me, surface-bound, fingers loose and careless. Because letting go is easier than it looks when it’s me doing the leaving, easier when it’s me, because he’s safe, Sam is safe and breathing is possible; this is because of sacrifice. This, this is because of tiny lies, from sliver truths, from swallowing stones and broken glass to keep him safe, of choking down fear because I have to, this is because of forfeiting cereal and time and love and worth, emotion and will, because true dedication only exists when a person loves something (someone, Sam) more than themselves; this is because of giving and giving and giving until there is nothing left, until there is only blank grey black, cloaked nothingness.
Fingers splayed, palm crushed semi-tight, muzzle pointed ground-wards, waiting, letting thought and reaction dominate, no movement except to end movement, stopped, frozen like a still frame carved with words and charcoal and dust. This is from closed-lip half-prayers to no one and nothing, from mumbled decisions; this is from too-tight embraces and exchanged looks that speak stronger than any words. This is from planning, and laughter and drunken banter, and that spark in Sam’s eyes and never never being alone anymore, because the passenger seat has contorted to fit his shape. I know that this is because of hope.

Fingers long, stretched out to cover more space than possible, too much space because the gun is too large and unsteady in my hand, not enough, never enough, trigger loose and far away. Uncertain grip molded by desperation, by needing needing needing, living for Sam, because Sam is more a part of me than I’ve ever been, because the seam between us cuts me hard sharp like razors, red thick, and I want to smooth it away, erode it like water; water, which is fluid and never stopping, taking form to fit the things around it, shapeless and flat on its own, foreign empty fake by itself. This, this must be shaped by dying and living in pieces, all of it to stave off the black solid nausea of the empty seat beside me; the too-loud sound of one pair footsteps through life, because I cannot pretend that it’s not like bleeding to death. And this is for carving out pieces of myself and shoving them in his face, whether he wants them or not, this is because I need Sam to be something different from the person I let myself believe I was, the man I forfeited and bled out my mouth and through my clothes and over my hands to become. This is shaped by the thousands of broken seconds, shaped by fear fear fear, by standing in freezing motel rooms and staring at eyes that should be green but burned yellow, and admitting that I won’t, I can’t, I’d rather die. It is carved by sliver-lies and half truths and bile at the back of my throat with agony until all I can taste is regret and sinking drowning pain, mine and mine only; this is spelled by self-obliteration, and the road whipping by at 95 miles an hour until I can’t even hear my own thoughts, by alcohol without end and throwing myself like a piece-offering in front of everything dangerous and deadly, because it’s only a matter of time, and because nothing matters, nothing; I’ll be gone soon anyway. It’s for suffocating in tiny rooms with no air and stale agony, with no words, just dead blank numb, for words that are too few and too late, for not being there in time and watching the light fade from Sam’s eyes (my eyes) and whispering broken promises and collapsing under his weight; it’s for last resorts and bargaining, and not enough time to make up for everything or anything, for gladly, easily letting words colored like yes slip from my lips, for sealing deals under false pretences like sacrifice because it’s not for Sam, never has been, it’s for me, and anything is better than trudging empty forward, ever onward, dead. It’s because of this, because of selfishness. And it’s because of the color green and the color yellow, my bother on one hand and the world on the other, it’s because of being unable to choose in the same breath and doesn’t that just say everything?

Left hand cramped tight, palm folding in, pressed sideways and levering up, two fingers, any two over my other hand like support or leverage, wrist turned up and flicked sideways to the right for better poise. My hands and fingers, twined, interlaced, too tight like hanging on for my life, Sam’s life, because that is what it is. My hands fit the metal close like this because of pain, because of the color we filter our lives through, and it tastes bitter, being unable to let go, it tastes like copper and bullets and facing Dad, who is not Dad and begging, begging because it’s agony, because he has to stop, because it’s Dad, and it’s shaped by slumping weak heavy to the ground drowning in and choking on blood, my blood, and asking Sam is Dad okay, and the look in his eyes as he says yes, and cannot meet mine because I’m bleeding my life out of my mouth and all over the floor. My hands fit the metal like this, twisted and tight and desperate because of dying and suddenly being more whole than I have any right to be, they fit like this because of Dad and deals and the name Tessa, because the people I love don’t live by their own mottoes, and what is dead should stay dead unless you name is spelled with a W; it’s because of my brother’s blood thick on my fingers an across my palms, because of cheap solutions, quick and dirty; the clock ticking, and midnight in ugly black numbers, of telling Sam what he needs to hear and dragging weak promises from his lips before the ripping piercing growls and just pain, only pain and pain and pain. It is because of all of this, and the things after. Because Damnation has a color, and it’s because of this color that my fingers stretch long across the metal, it is because of the color red.
You can tell where I’ve been by the way I hold my gun.

paxer's prompt: "You can tell where I've been by the way I hold my gun."

Tags: fic
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