The Gates of Heaven slam shut, and he falls, endlessly spiralling down as his trueform begins to rot, trapped within his prison of flesh that is too small for everything he once was, and now feels like a hollow labyrinth beneath his ribs. His wings break and shatter as he crashes into the mud and the dirt.
The world goes silent, without his kin - even in exile, he'd always heard them. And now... now there is nothing. Now there is silence, and feelings. And oh, he feels it all. Pain and sorrow, guilt and regret, trauma and fear. It overwhelms him, like mud trying to pull him under, and he tries to drown it out - the constant pain, the way his true form never stops hurting as his shattered wings drag behind his vessel, the way the silence is a constant pressure, the way most of the senses he used to know have been violently, suddenly amputated, the way there's nothing inside of him but an empty, jagged chasm. His existence is pain, and he tries to drown it out, tries to march on towards his inevitable end by numbing himself, trying to make his blood sing and his mind go cotton soft and buzzing, hands upon hands upon hands on his skin just to feel connected, tethered, to something, someone, in ways he was once connected to his kin and is no longer, and those hands turn into claws that tear at his flesh and bone, and he flees into the safety of the wrecked Impala, with the ghostly apparition of Dean's repeating death a vista to the first time he'd cried, utterly broken and beyond any ability to keep going on.
And then, finally, finally...
Out in the mud, Dean putting the colt against his forehead. Behind him, Sam.
His failures. He couldn't save either of them. He's of no use to either of them. He cannot function, not even in this place. He's tried kicking the habit once, and relapsed. He's trying again, but everything is too much, and he wants to do this, but he can't do it, and he knows he's just waiting for them to pull the trigger, when they realize he's a festering disappointment that has long outstayed its welcome.
But the shot doesn't come. Instead the mud drags him under, and then he falls all over again, to repeat the same horror.
cw: boddy horror, mentions of substance abuse, orgies, suicidal ideation
The Gates of Heaven slam shut, and he falls, endlessly spiralling down as his trueform begins to rot, trapped within his prison of flesh that is too small for everything he once was, and now feels like a hollow labyrinth beneath his ribs. His wings break and shatter as he crashes into the mud and the dirt.
The world goes silent, without his kin - even in exile, he'd always heard them. And now... now there is nothing. Now there is silence, and feelings. And oh, he feels it all. Pain and sorrow, guilt and regret, trauma and fear. It overwhelms him, like mud trying to pull him under, and he tries to drown it out - the constant pain, the way his true form never stops hurting as his shattered wings drag behind his vessel, the way the silence is a constant pressure, the way most of the senses he used to know have been violently, suddenly amputated, the way there's nothing inside of him but an empty, jagged chasm. His existence is pain, and he tries to drown it out, tries to march on towards his inevitable end by numbing himself, trying to make his blood sing and his mind go cotton soft and buzzing, hands upon hands upon hands on his skin just to feel connected, tethered, to something, someone, in ways he was once connected to his kin and is no longer, and those hands turn into claws that tear at his flesh and bone, and he flees into the safety of the wrecked Impala, with the ghostly apparition of Dean's repeating death a vista to the first time he'd cried, utterly broken and beyond any ability to keep going on.
And then, finally, finally...
Out in the mud, Dean putting the colt against his forehead. Behind him, Sam.
His failures. He couldn't save either of them. He's of no use to either of them. He cannot function, not even in this place. He's tried kicking the habit once, and relapsed. He's trying again, but everything is too much, and he wants to do this, but he can't do it, and he knows he's just waiting for them to pull the trigger, when they realize he's a festering disappointment that has long outstayed its welcome.
But the shot doesn't come. Instead the mud drags him under, and then he falls all over again, to repeat the same horror.
His dreams are nightmares - without fail. ]