Day 10: Enter Sandyman Who: Dean Winchester & Sam Anders When: About 4pm What: Unceremonious Entry Where: Somewhere sandy Rating: PG-13ish Status: Complete
The light was creeping shyly over the windowsill, little by little. Dean sat facing the approaching dawn, eyes blank and unfocused, a bottle in one hand resting on the edge of the nightstand. The golden liquid was beginning to catch the sunlight as it ventured further upward. If one had come upon him sitting frozen in thought, one might have thought he had fallen asleep sitting up, eyes open. Stranger things had happened in this world and he knew that. But sleep had not touched him all night long. Even the pint of José Cuervo he’d ingested had done nothing to drown him onto the dreamless sleep he’d wanted.
It had been a week since she had crushed him. For all his clever thinking and sincere desire not to lie to her, he had not been able to convince her he was serious. It surprised him still how easily she had eviscerated him. He knew he had been in love with her. She was the only girl for whom he had ever seriously considered leaving the hunting behind and settling down to their allotted 2.5 kids and white picket fence.
Now he was nowhere and he was actually fine with that. If only he could numb the dull ache he was trying to pretend didn’t exist. And he would’ve been successful at ignoring it if it weren’t for the fact there was nothing to do at the moment. There were no leads on the voodoo priestess he was tracking. If he was honest, there might have been leads but he had probably missed them. He was getting morose and this deep introspection was giving him a headache.
The bottle of liquor slid from his fingers, falling across the nightstand and startling him to attention. Immediately, instinctively, Dean was in a defensive stance, fists raised, his weight forward on the balls of his feet. His body had reacted faster than his mind and in the next second when his mind had caught up, he relaxed and rubbed his eyes. Shaking his head, shoulders slumped forward he growled at himself, "You're losing it, dude. Get a grip."
Unknotting the towel from around his waist, he cleaned up the liquor on the nightstand and picked up the bottle. With a firm resolve he pushed the lingering chick-flick broken-heartedness from his mind and, standing naked in front of the window, toasted the sun with a long swallow from the bottle. "Time to move."
And indeed he did move. Though not in any direction he was truly figuring on going. It felt more like his navel had been sucked inward and he'd turned several somersaults through whipped cream or perhaps stardust? The last thought on his mind was to grab at the pair of jeans on the side of the bed.
Which turned out to be a very excellent idea, all things considered. Planted face down in the sand, Dean turned his head to the side and coughed, sputtering as water flew into his nostrils and mouth. He couldn't open his eyes as sand pelted him in a whirlwind-like fashion convincing him once and for all he had found a portal to hell inside a hotel room. Dad had been on to something making him and Sam stay in them by themselves when they were young. He'd been avoiding being sucked into one himself in the middle of the night. And no hell would take children, would it?
Releasing the bottle of Cuervo and his jeans, he wiped his eyes and sat up, feeling the harsh sand on his bare buttocks and cussing under his breath. Since when did hell have sand? Carefully opening his eyes beneath the shield of his hand, Dean took a look around. No. Definitely not hell. But it was damn well hellish. Not to mention creepy as all get out that he was here now when moments ago he'd been in the hotel room.
"Oh wait," Dean groaned. "I must've had more than I thought. I'm never drinking again... well not this much at least."
Reaching for his pants, he attempted a one-legged shuffle to shimmy into them before anyone found him naked in the middle of a hurricane. That would be one story he'd rather keep for himself and not savor for posterior - er posterity.