So while school was boring I wrote this...
slight Destiel and a lot of depression... A knife in his hand, A gun on his belt, a selection of poison, so called 'whisky' in front of him. It was all he needed. It was all that kept him going. It was all that was going to end him. He felt it, felt so much closer to death than ever before. Famine had been wrong, when he told him, he was already dead inside. He knew this now, now that he finally really was. His soul, that had once burned bright and strong like a bonfire now weak like a lost candle in the wind. Flickering. Dying. The left side of his chest torn, ripped, open and bleeding, barely covered by muscles and flesh and skin. The place where once had been a human heart a gape, black wound. The lips of his wooden mask curled into a smile as he answered the bartenders question before downing another shot. It wasn't enough yet. He quickly ordered another one, craving the feeling he knew was going to come sooner or later. This numb feeling that filled his meaningless life with a soothing blackness, that made him stop thinking, stop remembering. Another forced laugh broke through his lips, feeling like vomit in his burning mouth as he impatiently waited for the amber anaesthetic, already feeling sick... Flashlights. Blurry, fast, painful. He growled as he tried to focus on the pictures in front of him, seeing nothing but dancing shadows in his spinning head. He had lost count of the times he had told the woman serving his drinks to fill up again, all he knew was that she kicked him out a few hours ago, told him to go home. He told her that he couldn't, that there was nowhere to go to, no one waiting for his return. She didn't listen, didn't care, but why would she? Why would anyone care about him? The world around him started spinning again, tempting him to throw up and he gave in, barely reaching the toilet in time as his body finally reacted to the poison, he had been giving it since he had crawled out of the sheets this morning. His knuckles turned white as he tightly grasped the porcellain, heaving up the liquor again and again, all the while wishing the pain would go along with it. But it didn't. It never would. His body shook as he collapsed to the floor, cold sweat covering his skin. Green eyes looked up at the ceiling as dead and emotionless as a doll while he just lay there, breathing heavily and finally, finally feeling nothing. This was it. His only moments of peace. Short, fragile like glass and just as beautiful. It wouldn't be too long before sleep would take him, rape his soul with memories of a collapsing Sam and bullet in an old man's head until he was screaming and thrashing in his sleep and when he'd think it couldn't get worse there would be those eyes. Blue as a sunlit sky and as close to heaven as he would ever get. There would be tears running down the hunters face and when his trembling fingers would feel the soaked fabric of a tan trenchcoat his eyes would shoot open and he would be back in hell. where his day had started. Just a normal day in the life of Dean Winchester.
