The Runt of the Litter

Burn You to Sleep

Note: heyyyy my lovelies... long time, no see

i'm so sorry for the impromptu hiatus! i come bearing gifts, however. well- er- at least a gift. 

this is the heavily requested follow-up to "Maybe It's My Eyes" and it is much longer than that story was. takes place just after Dean has been cured of the Mark of Cain. angsty, fluffy, hurt/comforty, sad, and hopeful... i'm sincerely hoping you'll all find something you like here

title comes from "Party of One" by Brandi Carlisle

lyric later on is from "Million Dollar Houses (The Painter)" by Pierce the Veil

and there are references to "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" by Douglas Adams

and thank you, all of you, for sticking with me. life is crazy, but i like to think fanfic goes along with death and taxes in the eternal category. it's nice to talk with you guys <3

anna is sixteen

Burn You to Sleep

Her wrist was already throbbing, but Anna's knuckles refused to quit. She swung from her shoulder, daring the bones in her hand to give against the punching bag. It heaved away from her, swung back fast enough to nearly sprain her wrist as she swung at it yet again.

Anna's rage was palpable. It burned smoke out of her every pore, bled sluggishly from the broken skin on her knuckles, and burst painfully in her wrist with every punch. Red. Blue. Some combination of the two. Like when fire gets so hot that it can't contain itself, that it starts to feel cold. Frozen, even.

"Little early to tear the punching bag off the ceiling, don't you think?"

"Go," Anna grit out, swinging one more time before the bag was done swinging her way. She felt it pound through her hand, reverberate up her arm. "Away."

Dean caught the punching bag this time as it escaped Anna's vengeful fist. "I think you've abused this thing enough for one day."

Anna didn't even look up at him. She stared instead at the object of her anger— the anger still burning its way through her veins, freezing all the blood in its wake. Her breath came in short pants, a testament to the exertion she hadn't even noticed a minute ago.

"What're you doin', Anna?" Dean asked, less sarcastic and more parental.

"Training," Anna tried and turned away from the punching bag. There had to be something else she could attack in here. Her focus centered on the treadmills in the corner. Hell yeah.

She didn't even make it a step, though. Dean's hand around her bicep made her pause. She was careful not to look at him. He'd have her if she looked at him. She'd end up talking to him, and that was not what Anna wanted right now. No, she wanted to break something— break everything. Maybe the gym was the wrong place. Maybe she should've gone into the bathroom and smashed the mirror, gone into the garage and punched her hand through some car windows. Dean would've matched her energy then— he would've been pissed.

"Come on," he said instead, gentle but firm. "You need to take it easy. Your head needs time to heal." At her continued silence, he added, "You've been down here for almost an hour, Anna. If it ain't dead by now, it's immortal."

Anna was so not in the mood for Dean's stupid jokes. She tried to pull her arm out of his grip, but he fixed her with this unbearably scolding look. She turned and shoved him away, both hands to his chest. "Screw off," she practically shouted. Her own volume came as a surprise to both herself and her brother. There were suddenly three feet of space between them. "You are not the only one in this family that's allowed to be mad," Anna snapped, lethal and cold— the burning kind of cold, the so hot it's frozen kind of cold.