#writbelr

Your eyes pool, vision getting half blurry but you don't notice, your mind replaying the scene of what happened over and over, if only you were closer, quicker, just five seconds early, taken the shot. Playing different scenarios of a better ending than the reality you're escaping. The tears fall along your cheek and you rub them away immediately, the air cooling your skin from the traces left.

And despite how the sun was kissing your skin with its warmth, rubbing your shoulders and back in the only way she knows how, her attempt at comforting you was futile, your bones were ice cold and they made themselves loud and clear in between your muscle tissues, holding your heart hostage behind cold bars, with a handcuff that was wrapped too tightly, digging into it's flesh, bruising silently.

"Sweetheart." Dean repeats in your ear, and you let out a wet chuckle, another tear streaming down. You could see the way his lips arched into a smirk while saying it, taking you back to the countless times he'd use it on you. When he's playful, serious, tired, angry, hurt. Dean's hurt because of you. Your brain cuts through like a sharpened blade. Unconscious because of you. Because of you. You.

You rub your chest above your shirt, unable to clean up the blood dripping off the barbed wire that's wrapped around your head, "Shut up. Shut up. SHUT THE FUCK UP." your cry pulls you to your knees as you press a hand against your head, begging the voices to stop its torment.

The other patients and visitors in the hospital look at you with concern, pity, judgement, you don't know, don't care. He hasn't gotten out of the operations room for over 12 hours now. If only you could turn back time. "Please.." you breathe out, tears streaming your face, dreadfully watching the doors, "I'll see you soon, ok?" You hear his voice again, and you pull your knees to your chest, pressing play once more.