I immediately regret writing human!Cas getting his anti-possession tattoo. I’ve missed out on a fucking GEM.
I swear to God, as soon as Bongon’s birthday check clears, I’m finally buying this fucking game for our house.
I’m posting this here and on AO3 because I can and I felt like it. Even as a stand alone, I’m pretty damned pleased with this piece, so enjoy.
Summary: Dean Winchester has had a hard life, and as much as he’d like to, he hasn’t just got God to blame for it. Now he’s found himself in a place where he hasn’t got much choice that to look at his life and what he’s done with it, and he isn’t so sure he can deal with what he sees, which happens to include his dead little brother. In some small supply of luck, he at least is under the compassionate care of Nurse Castiel Milton, and maybe with some time (and some medication), he can find his way back out of the maze of his mind.
Notes: A great big heap of warnings before I start this this: This story deals with suicide, depression, alcoholism, broken homes, death, hallucinations, and being institutionalized. If any of that bothers or triggers you, back out now and go watch videos of cats on YouTube and make yourself a glass of chocolate milk. That’s probably what I should have done, I’m writing this story out of a place I probably shouldn’t poke in the eye, but I’m stubborn and such. For those of you who do read on, be aware that it will likely be a while before it continues, as I’ll shoot to finish The Right Thing before I continue with this one, but this first part just sort of grabbed me and these things comes like babies; when they’re ready. Also, the more you know, 4th Battalion is (decidedly sexist) military jargon for someone who’s weak/can’t cut it.
Even living in it, he didn’t know where to start. The first sessions had been laborious and exhausting, hard long looks through a weird telescope at the places he’d been in his life that had gotten him here. How to explain it. How to justify. He couldn’t. He’d tried, there were bandages wrapped thick and stitches underneath that tugged when he tried to jerk off in the shower, even with a nurse standing outside the make sure he didn’t try to drown himself or whatever, but how did one really tell a story they were still living in?
“Mom got sick when I saw eight. She hardly lasted a year and that tore dad up pretty bad. Shit happens, you know, like I miss her, but more, I wish dad hadn’t gone looking for her by trying to beat it out of us. Me, mostly. He was easy on Sam, with his belt, anyway, but I think Sammy could have taken a punch better than the shit dad gave him. He rode us both pretty hard. Sam was soft, you know? Not soft, I guess. He was a tough kid, a good kid, but maybe me being older watching mom wither away like that, he just didn’t have the stuff to listen to dad’s constant cloud of disappointment. I guess looking back, I must not have either, because I started drinking heavy when I was maybe seventeen. I’d been doing house parties and stuff for about two years before that, and I got my GED and started working at my Uncle Bobby’s body shop because school wasn’t really for me. It was all right, I mean, it was normal for us, at least, by then.”
He was stalling, sitting in an ass killer of a chair in the thin cotton worn to steel wool in industrial washers, the color indistinguishable anymore. No laces on his shoes, lord knows what he’d have done with that. Plastic forks and knives at meal times. Bars on the windows. How had he gotten in this mess? Oh, right…
★destiel ★destiel fic ★dean/cas ★fanfiction ★spn ★i did the thing ★i was drunk when i did the thing which i'm pretty sure says a lot about the thing itself and me
★boner ★i support hunter!cas ★but lord ill miss the smiting
B O N E R
Max. 24. Boy. Audio engineer. अहिंसा. Pagan. Writer. Queer. Photographer. Fan of: メリー, MUCC, Dir en grey, Kiyoharu, cali≠gari, Poppy Z. Brite. Loves: music, tea, nature, yoga, wit, art, Doctor Who, Supernatural. Not so fond of: trivial bullshit. Past: fog of clinical depression, crippling anxiety, no self-worth. Present: transitive power of the universe. Future: completely fucking liberated. Follow if you like, unfollow if you don't. Sometimes NSFW (*＾ω＾*)ノ☆
inquire writing house special square 1 archive