#hellvive

oh, this feels familiar. this time it is not the warmth of her blood that coats her hands, nor the jagged hitch of her own breath that spills free from pale brims; this time it is not the eerie truth of her demise that rests in her hands, guts spilling free like slippery ropes that she cannot keep ahold of. no, this time she is holding him, that jagged other half of herself that she desperately tried to file down so that they couldn't fit perfectly against one another. tried to find some way to prove to herself that they will never be what she wanted, and he is her ruination; not her salvation.

but as he sits there now, she can't help the way that hot tears lick at her lower lash line as she presses against his side, hissing at sam to run to get the car, yelling at the sky for trying to take another one from her. her brows knit together before pulling skywards in the middle, evidence that her own steely demeanor is cracking at the edges, slipping away the longer they wait here and wait to be saved. it's dean winchester, he is supposed to be saved. over and over again, he is supposed to find breath back in his lungs, be able to crawl out from his grave with dirt and blood underneath his fingernails and teeth. he is supposed to outlive her, time and time again; he is supposed to be better than all of this.

at his rough timbre, it breaks her resolve all the more, having to ease dean down into a sitting position, upright against a wall to allow him to catch his breath; but she is already mentally ready to hoist him back up, throw his arm around her shoulder, and fight tooth and nail through her own pain to get him to salvation. don't leave, please; he says it to her like she has a choice. like as if every time they part ways, some piece of him lingers behind. it's never something physical, but it feels intangible as her holding him now; feels as real as the tears streak down along her cheeks to mark uncharted paths along her features.

"i hate you," she murmurs out, and it rides on the coattails of a sob. it cracks in her timbre long before she could even get the saying out because even now, it does not feel right on her tongue. because it's not true. she doesn't hate him, it's the opposite for her, in fact. dean haunts her all the way down to her bones, making a home out of her long before she realized that he laid roots. leaning forward she presses a kiss against his cheek, and she has to fight the urge to crumble right there. "you can't leave me," she says quietly, as if heaven and hell could hear them now; this is their secret to share.

"you can't leave me, not like this." jo could watch the back of his leather jacket disappear into his impala, before it hides behind the veil of dust that it leaves in his path. because she knows that deep down, he would find his way back to her, back to the roadhouse, and back within her orbit where they would flirt the edges of something akin to just friends, and something more. he isn't supposed to leave her like this, something so permanent; where she won't be able to understand the way that the callous lines in the fleshy pads of his fingertips feel against her otherwise smooth skin; to know of the way that whiskey stains his breath whenever they linger in too close for an almost there kiss; to understand the way that the warmth of his lips feel against her own, even on her deathbed.

"gods," she curses, leaning in and crashing their lips together for a finality of something that she knows may never come. not this time; not when so much is at stake, and the ruination of dean winchester seems to have been written in history books long before this moment. she wanted to see what it would be like for dean to grow out of the life; to understand what it means to have a family and settle down and have a taste of what if- even if it wasn't with her. but now, she feels robbed; and the white hot anger that follows that feeling threatens to brim to the surface as she presses her lips against dean's for the last time. "i love you," jo finally admits aloud, a contradict to her earlier, more emotionally and raw admittance that disguised a lie. jo could never hate him; not even when will tells her that the winchesters drove her to her grave.

then why does her grave feel like another breath of fresh air? to know what it means to find a hidden passion within the cavern of her chest that woken up in her after she meets him for the first time? dean did not send her to her death; he saved her. he breathed life in her when she thought that she was living; he no longer made her feel like a ghost that was lingering around the roadhouse. "we can wait here," jo says quietly, a silent addmitance of what is to come. dean is going to die, and instead of wasting his final breath in the backseat of her jumped car, she moves so that she is leaning up against the wall next to dean.

pine bluff, arkansas 7:45 pm

a car's engine turns over and moments later they're fleetingly cast in bright light as it pulls out of its spot and rolls out of the parking lot. somewhere nearby, a door slams shut. over dean's shoulder, she can see a couple in the lobby arguing about something. winter had made its sudden appearance twelve hours earlier by blanketing the ground with snow and while that had made the job more uncomfortable ——and digging up the body that much harder—— they'd managed it.

leaning against the side of her car, natasha ashes the cigarette and takes another drag. a slow exhale and she watches the smoke hang in the air like a veil. this meshing of post-hunt routines ——his, a roadside view and beer prior to a long drive and hers, a cigarette outside whatever shitty motel she's staying at—— has become something uniquely theirs. it is not only something she can look forward to but also dependable and the realization twists something inside her. how has she not learned that in this business dependable never lasts? (she hates herself for how it has become harder to keep people at arm’s length. even after everything that has happened, everything she's been through, her heart refuses to stay incased in ice.)

putting out the cigarette out with the toe of her boot, her gaze flickers over to dean. she's only known him for a few years at this point but it is more than enough time to pick up on subtilties, like the way his brows knit together and how oddly quite he's been. they haven't been out here long but he hadn't said a word since he'd offered her a beer. natasha knows better than most not to pressure people to talk, so she settles for nudging @hellvive's leg with a booted foot and a silent upward tilt of her chin as if to say: what gives.

don't you know i'm no good for you?

the monosyllable laugh gives way to a sardonic grin as she momentarily wonders if the patronizing undertone is purposeful or if it is something she imagines. (given how long she's been doing this job she knows she's imagining it because she'd made it known long ago that she can handle herself—— that she doesn’t need protecting.)

"you want to know what's not good for me—— or you. or anyone for that matter? this job. but we still do it." crossing her arms, natasha tilts her head slightly to one side as she studies him. sure, he unknowingly triggered the events that lead to the world almost ended, and she while had helped him and his brother out whenever she could during that long ordeal, when it came down to it, all those events had nothing to do with her. so he had seen her get hurt one too many times, so what? it wasn’t his fault, it also wasn't due to a lack of skills on her part either; it came with the job, end of story. perhaps if he knew how filled with misfortune her life had been before their paths crossed, he wouldn’t say such a thing.

deadpool and wolverine / @hellvive.

comparing heights / @hellvive.

@hellvive in response to betrayal

                         DEAN'S WORDS ARE LIKE A KNIFE TO THE GUT. Castiel can understand his frustration, his anger, but can't Dean see why he did it? Can't he understand? He wishes the brothers would have never found out about it. He has tried to keep them away from the Civil War in Heaven because they were busy enough with their own problems, but they're simply unable to leave things well enough alone. They never learned it. "Dean," he tries again, "I didn't do it to hurt you. I wanted to keep you and your brother safe. All of humanity. Raphael tried to free Lucifer and Michael from the cage and start the apocalypse all over again. Can't you see?" After they've given so much to stop the end of the world in the first place, after Sam gave his life and soul to save humanity –– Castiel thought they deserved a break. An attempt at a normal life. Dean had it for a short while.

his heart starts a thrum like a caged bird tucked within his ribs as he spots the familiar silhouette of the impala parked at the curb of the motel. the car is a relac of a bygone era, usually tucked beneath a tarp that dean forbade ben from ever grazing his lithe fingers against when he was a kid. he remembered feeling like a rebellious teenager, lifting the tarp slightly so he could peer against the black paint of the impala, marvel at the idea of what kind of man dean is, riding along inside of the muscle car, saving lives, protecting people. he hates that now the memories are marred with his own bitterness, invoking a flood of emotions that ben has long tried to suppress.

dean's presence is commanding and electric, as time has etched itself into his features; lines of worry and wisdom minged with the stubborn bravado ben remembers so vividly. and yet beneath the surface, ben can sense the weight of regret that clings to dean like a shadow that he can't seem to shake free from. in another time, ben would feel a rush of sympathy, but he hates that something has turned ben ugly, and his sympathy has been perfectly carved and shaped into malicious anger.

"no, you don't get to do that," ben starts, feeling the walls he has built tremble beneath the weight of what dean is telling him. for weeks he has been dodging dean's calls, trying to come to terms of what dean has done; he thought that when he would see the winchester, that he would be able to handle it; get the answers that he needs and leave. but he couldn't even do that (he's weak, or at least his mind reminds him of that every time his steely resolve seems to crumble and waver around the eldest winchester).

dean's words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating, and ben hates it. he hates how he wants to hear the words, but hates how it doesn't seem to provide the solace that he has been chasing for years. somehow, ben thought that hearing dean admit fault would make up for the loss of his mother; but his mother is still dead, the shifter is still killing people, and ben still feels the iciness of the road that he ventures on alone. because he knows deep down that it's not dean's fault for the undoing of his mother; it's his own fault. it's easier to blame someone else than it is to admit when it's your fault.