(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.

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[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.