Nightmares and dreamscapes
Jul. 7th, 2021 05:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
has_a_phd_in_teddybearJust an introspective inspired by the image on the July writing prompts for the Nexus. Just a check-in, seeing where my boy's head be at. (Hint: nowhere good). This ended up being way more than I thought it was going to be.
Warnings for a lot of blood mentions, horror imagery, mentions of alcohol and drugs.
If he didn't have to actually sleep, that would be great. It's been a cycle of passing out, nightmares, and jolting awake to a shot of adrenaline through his system for a few years now. Four hours. His body got real used to running on about four hours every night, but it was a burn of near-constant exhaustion. He'd be so glad if he didn't actually need to sleep to feel refreshed and ready to go, because that just doesn't seem to happen... but then, that wouldn't be a good sign either. Being on that near-constant buzz of energy, not needing to sleep, it was one of the earlier signs that he didn't know he was looking for. Stabbing the red headed bitch had been like snorting a month's worth of coke and chasing it with a year's worth of caffeine, and had been impossible to turn off. It had been insatiable, it had been unstoppable, and it had felt awesome. And that. That is what terrified him. He knew what it was doing to him, could feel the difference and hear the shit coming out of his mouth. It wasn't like a possession, in that he was consciously making those decisions, they just weren't the things he would normally choose to do or say. Not while he had any form of conscience, anyway.
And then there was The recent conversation with Zack that had dregded up a whole load of shit that he normally kept on lockdown.
"You lost your hiding place?"
Dean had simplified the answer to that question, when he answered in the affirmative. Simplified it a lot. Tonight wasn't one of those nights where the mark pushed him with nigh-prophetic dreams of violence that needed fulfilling, though admittedly here it's not the nameless faceless bodies that haunt his dreams that scatter around him, it's the creatures out in the wilds and he can be thankful for at least that. It hasn't escaped his notice they end up falling to the same wounds in the dreams. For all he keeps up appearances, it's feeling more and more like all he can do is point himself in the semi-right direction and hope for the best. No, tonight was not one of those nights, it was one of those nights where his mind desperately struggles for the modicum of peace that it used to have with alcohol and benzo-pushed sleep. This used to be his quiet spot, where he would put up on the pier and stare out at the still lake, fishing line in the water small boat floating out in the water to the side. Not for the fish, but more for the peace and the meditation that the hobby could bring. Fishing was the one real activity he and his dad had done that could be construed as a leisure activity, and he'd always enjoyed it. He still found peace in the activity, all unforced quiet and escaping from life for a few hours. It was like yoga, but something still died at the end, and it was the one thing he had done that was actually a way to switch off properly. And it seemed his brain had held onto that feeling for dear life when he just needed a place to escape all the shit.
Well. It was what he used to use as his escape. Now the still waters ran red, and he knew without dipping his anything in that it would be thick and viscous. He didn't need to scent the copper on the air, marring the secret fishing spot. A good hunter knows blood when he sees it, but you didn't even need to be good to know what was staining the landscape.
The boat now floats out in the middle of the lake, and all he can do is stare out at it with a feeling of dread knotted in his stomach as he does. He needs that boat. But he can't get to it without swimming.
The fold-out chair still sits at the end of the pier, tauntingly normal. Come. Sit. Enjoy the view. Look at what it is you do. A hand scrapes through his hair, as revulsion fills his throat. "No." The water level around the pilings has risen, and he knows why. Knows it won't be long before blood swallows the landscape, and before he's drowning in it. But while his feet are dry, he needs to keep going.
You know you're going to swim eventually. It's who you are. It sounds like Sam. But then, a lot of things do recently. Look like him. Sure, Dean visits back home, but then he can barely stand to be there either, feeling the pull of the mark and the restlessness of the reluctance to hunt alongside Sam due to the cold grip of rememberance as he thought about what would have happened had Cas not happened to turn up. He wasn't ever going to be ready to hunt with his brother, and honestly? He was relying on the AVF around the Nexus and the busy routines he had got himself into at this point to keep him going on as normal. Try and keep his mind busy and off the near-constant baying for blood that hummed through his veins.
You should just quit lying to yourself at this point. No, not Sam. Familiar. So very familiar. It's whether or not you can make it to the boat. He knows that voice. The voice that wants him to head into the water that he just can't stop staring at. But you'll fight. Keep backing away. Because who are we if we don't go out without a fight? He knew it was him. He finally tears his eyes away from the undisturbed lake of blood, to see himself, with a smirk. He backs up a step, foot nearly missing the edge of the pier.
"No."
It was a plea. The bit of fight he has left in him for everyone else's sake rallying against this god forsaken trip down subconscious Lane. "Hey now, I told you years ago, didn't I?"
"Shut up."
"Well, wasn't quite the way we imagined it but it was always gonna come to this. Still is."
"I said, shut up." He takes a step forward, closing a little of the distance.
"You figured out the co-ordinates to see if that little gadget you've got to send you there, yet? I know you've been thinking about it. They're already dead, what can it hurt, maybe you'll find Benny… you just want endless thing to cut down that you don't feel bad about." The thing of his subconscious shrugs, the cold smile still not moving. "That's what it comes down to, right?"
"I ain't-"
"Warning me again?" Amusement plays into his- it's face as it opens it's hands to the sides of itself. An open invitation, the way it did to Cole. The way he did to Cole. The eyebrows quirk and the amusement only grows more pronounced. "Ahh. There it is."
Dean lashes out, throwing a right hook and kicking the thing, which falls back off the pier. There's no splash, no bubbles, no indication the bloody lake had been disturbed at all. And Dean should just walk away. He knows he should. But he can't just not look. He scrubs a hand over his chin, looking back towards the forest, away from the almost endless expanse of red, and then back to the once clear lake. "...Don't do it, Dean." He can't leave it like that. He runs a hand over his chin, rolling his eyes at himself. "Don't fucking do it." He's unable to stop himself though, the still pool of blood is just fucking calling to him, and he can't not look and see where the asshole went. He walks to the edge where he dropped in and Dean sees… nothing but red. It's just a dream, it doesn't matter where the hell he went, just go. And with that thought, he turns away from the edge.
No hands breach the surface, nothing grabs his leg, nothing drags him under the bloody surface. No horror movie moment whatsoever, despite what he was expecting. It is one hundred percent all Dean as he slowly turns his head back to the forbidden sirens' song of the pool. What the fuck is wrong with him? Scratch that, he knows. He's enjoyed the fighting and the violence longer than just having the Mark. Even longer than purgatory, really, although that's where he truly learned to embrace it. The idea of going in and losing his PINpoint and just going full native is tempting, oh so tempting, now that it's an option... but he knows he has Zack here relying on him, as well as a couple of people he thinks might miss him? Tay would miss her booty call, if nothing else. Doesn't mean they're not better off without him, this entire fucking place would be, but since when has he ever done the smart thing. He's been pacing the dock as he thinks, and his feet find him at the end, next to the fold-up chair. Heaven's not even worth thinking about. Hell had been an eye-opener on the worst of himself, but again… even before then he couldn't say he didn't like the violence of the job.
This was who he was, always was, and always would be. Life has not left him unchanged, especially after certain monumental events. But it also seems that the more things change, the more they stay the same, just bringing out the worst in him, but the worst just kept reaching new lows.
No. It was never a question of whether he was going to swim. It was always a question of whether he could get to the boat.
So, he sits himself and stares at the lake of blood. It's an idle thought, as to whether there was actually fish in the lake normally, and what's happened to them now. It's as he contemplates the thought as he feels the thin line around his neck. The skin starts to bresk under the thin line, gasping for air as his fingers scramble for the line but he's gasping for breath and using what he has on airless curses and-
He jolts wake, mind scrambling to catch up between there and here. His arm is burning, his pulse is racing and he's covered in a cold sweat. He pushes his hand back through his hair as he tries to let everything settle. "Water's warm." He mutters quietly to himself.
Warnings for a lot of blood mentions, horror imagery, mentions of alcohol and drugs.
If he didn't have to actually sleep, that would be great. It's been a cycle of passing out, nightmares, and jolting awake to a shot of adrenaline through his system for a few years now. Four hours. His body got real used to running on about four hours every night, but it was a burn of near-constant exhaustion. He'd be so glad if he didn't actually need to sleep to feel refreshed and ready to go, because that just doesn't seem to happen... but then, that wouldn't be a good sign either. Being on that near-constant buzz of energy, not needing to sleep, it was one of the earlier signs that he didn't know he was looking for. Stabbing the red headed bitch had been like snorting a month's worth of coke and chasing it with a year's worth of caffeine, and had been impossible to turn off. It had been insatiable, it had been unstoppable, and it had felt awesome. And that. That is what terrified him. He knew what it was doing to him, could feel the difference and hear the shit coming out of his mouth. It wasn't like a possession, in that he was consciously making those decisions, they just weren't the things he would normally choose to do or say. Not while he had any form of conscience, anyway.
And then there was The recent conversation with Zack that had dregded up a whole load of shit that he normally kept on lockdown.
"You lost your hiding place?"
Dean had simplified the answer to that question, when he answered in the affirmative. Simplified it a lot. Tonight wasn't one of those nights where the mark pushed him with nigh-prophetic dreams of violence that needed fulfilling, though admittedly here it's not the nameless faceless bodies that haunt his dreams that scatter around him, it's the creatures out in the wilds and he can be thankful for at least that. It hasn't escaped his notice they end up falling to the same wounds in the dreams. For all he keeps up appearances, it's feeling more and more like all he can do is point himself in the semi-right direction and hope for the best. No, tonight was not one of those nights, it was one of those nights where his mind desperately struggles for the modicum of peace that it used to have with alcohol and benzo-pushed sleep. This used to be his quiet spot, where he would put up on the pier and stare out at the still lake, fishing line in the water small boat floating out in the water to the side. Not for the fish, but more for the peace and the meditation that the hobby could bring. Fishing was the one real activity he and his dad had done that could be construed as a leisure activity, and he'd always enjoyed it. He still found peace in the activity, all unforced quiet and escaping from life for a few hours. It was like yoga, but something still died at the end, and it was the one thing he had done that was actually a way to switch off properly. And it seemed his brain had held onto that feeling for dear life when he just needed a place to escape all the shit.
Well. It was what he used to use as his escape. Now the still waters ran red, and he knew without dipping his anything in that it would be thick and viscous. He didn't need to scent the copper on the air, marring the secret fishing spot. A good hunter knows blood when he sees it, but you didn't even need to be good to know what was staining the landscape.
The boat now floats out in the middle of the lake, and all he can do is stare out at it with a feeling of dread knotted in his stomach as he does. He needs that boat. But he can't get to it without swimming.
The fold-out chair still sits at the end of the pier, tauntingly normal. Come. Sit. Enjoy the view. Look at what it is you do. A hand scrapes through his hair, as revulsion fills his throat. "No." The water level around the pilings has risen, and he knows why. Knows it won't be long before blood swallows the landscape, and before he's drowning in it. But while his feet are dry, he needs to keep going.
You know you're going to swim eventually. It's who you are. It sounds like Sam. But then, a lot of things do recently. Look like him. Sure, Dean visits back home, but then he can barely stand to be there either, feeling the pull of the mark and the restlessness of the reluctance to hunt alongside Sam due to the cold grip of rememberance as he thought about what would have happened had Cas not happened to turn up. He wasn't ever going to be ready to hunt with his brother, and honestly? He was relying on the AVF around the Nexus and the busy routines he had got himself into at this point to keep him going on as normal. Try and keep his mind busy and off the near-constant baying for blood that hummed through his veins.
You should just quit lying to yourself at this point. No, not Sam. Familiar. So very familiar. It's whether or not you can make it to the boat. He knows that voice. The voice that wants him to head into the water that he just can't stop staring at. But you'll fight. Keep backing away. Because who are we if we don't go out without a fight? He knew it was him. He finally tears his eyes away from the undisturbed lake of blood, to see himself, with a smirk. He backs up a step, foot nearly missing the edge of the pier.
"No."
It was a plea. The bit of fight he has left in him for everyone else's sake rallying against this god forsaken trip down subconscious Lane. "Hey now, I told you years ago, didn't I?"
"Shut up."
"Well, wasn't quite the way we imagined it but it was always gonna come to this. Still is."
"I said, shut up." He takes a step forward, closing a little of the distance.
"You figured out the co-ordinates to see if that little gadget you've got to send you there, yet? I know you've been thinking about it. They're already dead, what can it hurt, maybe you'll find Benny… you just want endless thing to cut down that you don't feel bad about." The thing of his subconscious shrugs, the cold smile still not moving. "That's what it comes down to, right?"
"I ain't-"
"Warning me again?" Amusement plays into his- it's face as it opens it's hands to the sides of itself. An open invitation, the way it did to Cole. The way he did to Cole. The eyebrows quirk and the amusement only grows more pronounced. "Ahh. There it is."
Dean lashes out, throwing a right hook and kicking the thing, which falls back off the pier. There's no splash, no bubbles, no indication the bloody lake had been disturbed at all. And Dean should just walk away. He knows he should. But he can't just not look. He scrubs a hand over his chin, looking back towards the forest, away from the almost endless expanse of red, and then back to the once clear lake. "...Don't do it, Dean." He can't leave it like that. He runs a hand over his chin, rolling his eyes at himself. "Don't fucking do it." He's unable to stop himself though, the still pool of blood is just fucking calling to him, and he can't not look and see where the asshole went. He walks to the edge where he dropped in and Dean sees… nothing but red. It's just a dream, it doesn't matter where the hell he went, just go. And with that thought, he turns away from the edge.
No hands breach the surface, nothing grabs his leg, nothing drags him under the bloody surface. No horror movie moment whatsoever, despite what he was expecting. It is one hundred percent all Dean as he slowly turns his head back to the forbidden sirens' song of the pool. What the fuck is wrong with him? Scratch that, he knows. He's enjoyed the fighting and the violence longer than just having the Mark. Even longer than purgatory, really, although that's where he truly learned to embrace it. The idea of going in and losing his PINpoint and just going full native is tempting, oh so tempting, now that it's an option... but he knows he has Zack here relying on him, as well as a couple of people he thinks might miss him? Tay would miss her booty call, if nothing else. Doesn't mean they're not better off without him, this entire fucking place would be, but since when has he ever done the smart thing. He's been pacing the dock as he thinks, and his feet find him at the end, next to the fold-up chair. Heaven's not even worth thinking about. Hell had been an eye-opener on the worst of himself, but again… even before then he couldn't say he didn't like the violence of the job.
This was who he was, always was, and always would be. Life has not left him unchanged, especially after certain monumental events. But it also seems that the more things change, the more they stay the same, just bringing out the worst in him, but the worst just kept reaching new lows.
No. It was never a question of whether he was going to swim. It was always a question of whether he could get to the boat.
So, he sits himself and stares at the lake of blood. It's an idle thought, as to whether there was actually fish in the lake normally, and what's happened to them now. It's as he contemplates the thought as he feels the thin line around his neck. The skin starts to bresk under the thin line, gasping for air as his fingers scramble for the line but he's gasping for breath and using what he has on airless curses and-
He jolts wake, mind scrambling to catch up between there and here. His arm is burning, his pulse is racing and he's covered in a cold sweat. He pushes his hand back through his hair as he tries to let everything settle. "Water's warm." He mutters quietly to himself.
