nomad.

@toramble

his temperature’s soared in the past hour but it isn’t enough to begin worrying about brain trauma. sitting down next to him on the motel bed, she exchanges the compress on his forehead with another, colder one.

❛ dean, ❜

she begins, keeping the note of panic far from her voice. regardless of his body temperature, the illness was a bad one. he’d barely been conscious for the past day, and delirious when he was.

❛ dean, it’s me. can you hear me, love ? ❜

brushing his hair back, she moves her hand down to press against his cheek. still very warm. goodness. of course this had to happen on new year’s, right before they were scheduled to leave town. sam took the impala to check out what could potentially be another haunting. as lonely as it is without someone to talk to, she finds herself nostalgic, remembering her time hunting before fetching him from stanford.

❛ i know you’re very sick right now but i need to tell me if you feel   any worse and, if so, where ? ❜

half-dreaming, half-delirious, clinging   to  what  little conciousness  is  left, dean gargles, ‘ sammy ... ’

any  sound   falls   on   oblivious   ears.  all  he  knows are  insistent   hands, freezing on  his  white-hot  skin. blankets,  heavy  on  his  chest  like  lead,  obscure  his already  limited  vision.  he   hasn’t   been   this   gone   in   years. dean  rolls   over to view the ceiling, lit  green-red-blue  from  the  color television  across  the   room. he  can’t  lift  his  head. 

     ❛ no.  i don’t. ❜

     he can’t breathe.  his palms are slick.  there is a cold horror and muted anger that runs through mateo’s veins like gelid slush,  thick and dark,  and his heart slams a staccato rhythm against his ribs.  mateo likes to think he lives in a bubble with just the right people and enough protection to keep the world spinning carefree and happily on.  he knows that isn’t true.  he knows to some,  he is a vile thing.  but he thinks he’s not.  he’s thinks he’s just another kid.

    ❛ i’m not  -  ❜  mateo holds up a hand,  a gesture of attempted peace.  he can fight.  he doesn’t want to.  ❛ i’m not a monster.  i got you,  man.  i do.  c’mon.  you don’t gotta do this. ❜

‘ you   know   how   many  ugly  sons’a’bitches  like  you  have  sat  where  you sit, &&  said  the  same thing ? ‘

dragging  it  out  is  more  for   him  than  it  is  for  mateo.  it’s  a  slap  in  the face,  like   this   secret  was  to  dean.   here  he  was,  thinking  he’d  found someone  to  befriend.  just  a  good  lesson   learned,  every   time  you  let your  guard   down    something  sinister  is   liable   to   slip   right   through. 

❛ your sense of humor is perfectly wretched. ❜

even compared to mine is an unspoken addition to the end of her sentence. of course she’s furious that the man she’s grown quite fond of is reckless with his health. doesn’t he understand how dangerously close to death he’s gotten ?

while by no means fragile, dean is still a human being with a soul like a candle. he could be snuffed out at any moment if he doesn’t mind his own choices. she’s fuming, she really is but myrtle does her best to repress it, conjuring her energy and brushing her hand along his cheek. 

❛ you poor angel, won’t go to a hospital ? please ? for me ? ❜

‘   what,  and   leave  YOU   behind ?   ‘ 

what  starts  as  a  chuckle  ends   a  GASP   for   air.  fresh  stitches  throb  just  above  the knee  of  his  worn  out  jeans.  he’s  been bloodied  and bruised more  days   than   not,  for   as  long   as   he   can   remember.  doesn’t  even want   to  think  about  the  last  time   he   went   in  for  a  tetanus  shot.  or  ANY   shot   for   that   matter.

he  feels   so  much   worse  having  left  her  alone  all  day. wants  to   spend   five   minutes   on   her  before   the  exhaustion  sets  in. eyes  search  her delicate features, ADORATION  hardly  masked  in  his  gaze.  his  truth, HOW   HE  FEELS,  is  always  right  on  his  tongue  when  she  looks   this   way.  

‘   no hospitals.  no  doctors.   i  don’t  feel  like   making  up  a   story  tonight.   ‘ 

@toramble // ( CHARRED FEATHERS )

some might consider it strange, the girl in the passenger’s seat of his impala. nothing seems to touch her, earthly years or the air blowing in from the open window. her mane of black hair stays fixed, falling down her shoulders and over her eyes. pushing it out of the way is something only she can do. 

turning her head as someone else enters the car, a smile like river water blooms on her face. 

❛ dean ! ❜

she sounds so happy and at least a decade of misery melts off her face. inching a bit closer to him, myrtle freezes when she gets a look at him.

❛ what– you’re hurt ! ❜

busted  digits,  grazed  and  blistering  from  buckshot  and  fire, hover  over  his  abdomen. there, under  two haphazardly  wrapped  ace  bandages, is  a  broken  rib  just  beginning  to  smart. it’ll  be  worse tomorrow, because  he won’t  stop  and  rest,  but  what  else  could  he  do ?  he  tries  to  slide  in  the  bench  seat  nonchalantly,  as nonchalant  as  one  can  be  when  covered  in  dirt,  sweat,  and  your  own  blood. it  even hurts  to  smile,  but  he  does  that  for  her.  just  trying  to  minimize  the  damage.  the  way  her  face  changes is  enough  to  make  him  regret  coming  out  here  in  the  first  place. 

hello, hello! got a to-do list, for anyone watching/wondering/listening.

replies.  @resparked​, @vaultstolen​, @grimprim​ (myr), @grimprim​ (jenna) 

      “    oh,  the  RUMOURS ?  yeah,  of  COURSE  i  know  about  them.  i  live  here,  dude.    ”      stiles  waves  the  other  closer,  leaning  in  to  stage-whisper  to  him.      “    if  you  put  on  an  energizer  bunny  costume  at  three  in  the  morning  behind  our  school  and  make  enough  noise,  a  ghost  from  the  class  of  ninety-eight  will  come  out  from  behind  the  shed  and  suck  your  dick.    ”      he  leans  back  then,  looking  far  too  satisfied.      “    anything  else  you  want  to  know ?    ”