Dean Winchester hugs baby trees (withgunsdrawn) wrote in wariscoming, @ 2013-01-08 20:28:00 |
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Entry tags: | dean winchester |
Who? Dean!
What? Angst, wards, and booze.
Where? Old Winchester house!
When? Tonight, pre-drunkposting extravaganza.
Rating? Meh. Moderate? Boozing mentions, D:ean angst.
Dean had thought that after all this time - after having Mom back for so long - the house would have lost its... whatever it was that felt like he was choking on ice that was crawling up his spine, all kinds of bad vibes that put him on edge. He'd expected to be fine, being here. He'd hoped he could handle it - more than that, he'd hoped having it back in the family, it could be home again, someday.
So he'd thrown himself into putting the wards in place, demon-proofing and angel-proofing and lining the doorframes and the windows in sigils and iron and salt, everything he'd have to do if he wanted to ever stay there and feel safe.
The first day, he'd just wandered through. He'd meant to actually start working, then, but he hadn't been able to do more than walk the rooms, wondering what it would have been like to have actually grown up there. Last time he'd been in there - well, the last two times - he'd been distracted by other things. The case with the poltergeist, the first time, and Sam and his temporary insanity, the second time... both of them had been suitably distracting, kept him from thinking too much. The time he'd been there in the D'jinn's illusion, he wasn't sure if that even counted - but either way, Mom had been there, and Sam, and it had been alltogether too surreal to really get kicked in the face with all the memories, like this.
Plus there had always been other furniture in the place - now, though, it was empty, which just let him supply from his memory what is used to look like, which led straight into what it was like when the fire hapened - all of it through the fuzzy memory of a four year old boy, like looking through a warped windowpane.
He'd meant to have Sam come out here and help him with the place - but then when he'd tried to mention it to him - that he'd actually bought it, that he wasn't so sure he could do this after all - he'd just sort of.... not. How was he supposed to tell his brother about this? Yeah, you know that thing I was gonna do, that you said I should think about first? I didn't think about it first - yeah that would go over great.
So, he'd started on it himself. And he was almost done. It was just the one room left. Just this one, and then he could... do what? Tell Sam? Ask Jules and Ben if they wanted to live where all the ghosts in his life started from?
He'd wanted to do something good. He'd wanted to make this awesome.
This was pretty much exactly the opposite of awesome.
He wasn't sure when he'd started drinking, but he was pretty sure it was somewhere between half-done and the point where he was sitting on the floor looking at the ceiling and imagining a blood-stain where he knew - knew - there wasn't one, but he was pretty sure he'd just meant to have a little, to calm his nerves, but the one flask from his pocket was already empty, and the bottle from his bag was rapidly going down, and, yeah, okay. Sometimes he was an idiot.
Like now. Now was a really good example.