kristen999

fandom_stocking went live last night and I was just flabbergasted at all the wonderful things there. Icons, fic, greetings, even a DVD commentary on one of my stories! I'll do a separate post to share all the goodies later, but I wanted to thank everyone who played elf!!

I stuffed one stocking (ran out of time this year) and thought I'd share.

Hollow--850 word Supernatural story. Slightly Dark!fic. Rated R. Dean centric. Set in Season Two or Three. Beta by powrhug

Written for saphirablue





***

He brushes his teeth, counting in his head every stroke of the bristles. Circles and downward angles covering every speck of enamel.

Rinse, spit, repeat.

If it had required any thought beyond the muscle memory of twenty-nine years of repetition, it would have been too much trouble. Dull, bloodshot eyes stare at his reflection and when the stranger glares back accusingly, Dean doesn't curse in return.

There's four days worth of stubble on his face, but razors require trips to the store and all he ever sees are gas stations and truck stops. And it wasn't worth the effort after the dull blade he'd used began to cut and injure more than shave. He didn't mind that either, but then again blood stains all over his collar attract the wrong kind of attention.

Hands smooth out a rumpled t-shirt, black, because it's easier to keep -or at least look- clean. He threw away all the white ones weeks ago when some nameless, faceless girl asked him what their original color had been.

Dean looks down at the jeans sagging on his hips and doesn't sigh when he adjusts his belt yet again. He's running out of holes and soon he'll need to make another one.

The hotels are seedier, the rent cheaper. He rubs at his jaw, not sure in which pool hall, after which hustle, he'd earned the chin music. It had felt good to pound on someone; even better to be on the receiving end.

Credit card applications didn't come with a shot of whiskey, and alcohol these days was the only thing to numb him for even the briefest of times. He drank Evan Williams, bourbon so cheap he'd thought about using it one night as fuel when the Impala had gone dry. The small-breasted, big-assed bartender he fucked in the back of some Chevy got him the few bills needed to fill his ride enough to get to the next town.

His feet almost trip over the curb as he checks his cell phone for the thousandth time for any voice mail or text, but it's blank once again.

Even when he yanks open the car door it seems heavier, takes more effort to force the metal to creak. Lack of food might be his problem, but it's the least of them for now. Dean grips the steering wheel and sits there forever before deciding where to go next.

He's followed the same Interstate for days and he's running out of coastline, so maybe this time he'll head west. Dean flips open his glove box and pulls out the tattered map. He takes the black magic marker and traces one line for only an inch. He looks over at all the other blacked-out areas and begins to second guess himself again.

When his hand stuffs the thing back in, his fingers brush over something cold and metallic. Dean reaches for the lightweight .38 Special. He grips the butt of it, bounces it up and down in his hand, knowing that it's useless against the things he used to hunt.

With a flick of his wrist, the chamber rolls out and he stares at the single-loaded bullet. Dean cracks a smile and his fingers spin the wheel, then just as quickly snap it closed. He licks dry lips and sticks the whole thing in his mouth; the oil almost makes him gag.

He does this every day, eyes squeezed closed and his finger adding pressure to the trigger. He doesn't cry or scream in his head, but allows the metal to mix with his saliva. He counts to ten then spits the gun back out.

That would be too easy.

It's the same verdict every single time, because he deserves a lot worse.

Sam doesn't have that luxury.

Dean jams the key into the ignition, and the car roars to life. The purr is long gone, lost to rough, thoughtless care. It's going to be another few hundred miles of driving, the same amount of doors to knock and rocks to lift.

He doesn't know where his brother is...doesn't know which way the killer took him. If it had been a ghost or creature, then the hunt would be easier. This time he's tracking a mortal man, a faceless asshole who took Sammy right from under his nose and disappeared into the night.

All he knows has is an M.O.

Which means Sammy is alive out there... somewhere.

If it takes Dean every waking hour until time runs out, then he'll save the gun for that bastard.

If the clock stops ticking, he knows what he'll do then, too.

***