(no subject)

[weary_head]

Dean missed his fucking car.

So goddamn beautiful, that sleek black exterior, holding Dean's weight night after night when he'd drink on her hood, big bench seat cradling him when he slept it off after. Even at rest, Dean thought she might be the best thing that ever happened to him, and he missed her as much as he missed any who'd come and gone on the island.

But she was gone, and now Dean had an emptying neighborhood and a rooftop covered in snow, a hut beneath him threatening to get emptier at any second. He had a parka that wasn't quite doing the trick and a fistful of whiskey bottle, an eyefull of the nighttime sky up above, and it wasn't like the real thing, it wasn't even close, but at the moment...at the moment.

It was what Dean had.

Comments

[one--song.livejournal.com]

"Naw, hold onto that," Roger said, producing his own blade from his pocket and then balancing Dean's forearm on Roger's bent knee. He took a look at the design -- Roger always had enough artistic skill to get by -- and thought better of it. He moved Dean's wrist to Dean's lap and scooted away a smidgen.

Somehow, even just pushing his sleeve up was enough in the weather to make him shiver once, and when the steel of his own knife was pressed beyond the border of freezing skin, the cold quite literally got inside of him. It wasn't long, though before he'd carved the outline of the sigil to his satisfaction, still angled away from Dean so as not to risk any of their blood crossing.

"Figured we shouldn't use the same knife."

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

"Jesus christ, Roger." Dean had picked himself up, one knee in the snow angled towards Roger and fingers flexing like they wanted to wrench that knife out of his skin. Couldn't do it, though, not without hurting Roger any worse than he was hurting himself, and all Dean could do was watch and glare.

And...blink back a sudden ache behind his eyes. It wouldn't work, he knew it, but the gesture was a powerful one, and he wouldn't toss it aside. His jaw trembled just the smallest bit, voice unsteady when he recited the same words Sam had used nearly three years ago.

"Redimio. Servo. Subsisto," Dean murmured, picked up his own knife, and began to cut.

[one--song.livejournal.com]

Since this was not a preempted action, Roger had nothing to sop up his toxic blood with, but Roger pulled the sleeve of his undershirt down. He would just make sure to wash the shirt really thoroughly and by hand so none of it got in the washer or whatever.

He didn't feel anything when Dean recited what he assumed was the accompanying incantation, but the look on Dean's face brought enough warmth within Roger to heat the entire fucking island.

"There," Roger said, "now you're stuck with me. Just be sure to cut that shit when I'm on my deathbed or whatever." He sorta laughed, but then just looked down. It was the kind of joke that wasn't at all, and he didn't know what he could do to ease Dean's suffering. He wanted to help but beyond what had just happened, he was clueless.