Dean Winchester (gunsandpie) wrote in nemetonlog, @ 2014-05-14 07:43:00 |
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Entry tags: | dean winchester |
Dean; Nightmares and bad memories
Early AM hours, Wednesday, May 13, 2014; Dean's apartment
PG-13 (dark themes, mention of hell/torture); Complete
Anything to drown out the memories, just for awhile.
Things hadn't exactly been...normal since Dean had emerged from Hell. He still wasn't exactly sure how he had gotten out. Maybe Sammy knew, he was from the future or something, right? Maybe he had all the answers they'd been searching for, for so long, too. Who knew, at this point.
The days were hard. Faking his way through like everything was fine. And it was even harder now, because he didn't have the job to jump straight back into in this place. Here, he was just a guy, with nothing to do and nowhere to go. He was stuck. Stuck in this town, stuck with the memories he just couldn't shake.
The nights were harder, though. That's when he didn't have a chance of forgetting, of focusing on something else long enough to push the memories back, at least for awhile. His dreams were plagued with the cold edge of a knife against his skin, the slick sound that was made as the knife dug into him, the trickle of blood running down his chest. It was enough to make him toss and turn all night.
What was worse was when it shifted. The blink of an eye and he was the one behind the knife. He wasn't proud of it, he'd do anything to take it back, but thirty years. Thirty years of being sliced into and carved like a damn Thanksgiving turkey had been all he could take. He just had to make it stop. One way or another, it had to stop. And there was only one way to make it stop. The only way was to be the one to carve into other souls, to twist them into something so far from human that they wouldn't have even recognized themselves anymore. And finally, after three decades of telling Alastair to shove it, Dean just...couldn't take it anymore. He'd had enough, gave into the deal and he switched places with some other poor soul.
For ten years, Dean carved into so many souls that he lost count. Twisted these people into something they weren't. How many of them didn't even deserve this? Had made deals they weren't aware of, collected like stamps, thrown into hell and forced to suffer. To suffer at his hand and oh, Alastair had taken such a liking to him, complimented him on his technique and creativity, told him how much potential he had. It was enough to turn Dean's stomach.
Every night since he'd arrived in Beacon Hills, it was the same dream, over and over again. The familiar stench of Hellfire all around him, the screams, God, the screams they just pierced right through him. And he had caused that. Dean had caused those screams for a decade himself. Every night, he woke in a hot, sweaty mess and it was rare he managed to get back to sleep afterward. Instead, he'd take a ridiculously long shower or zone out on some late night infomercial. Anything to just drown out the memories, just for awhile.