Supernatural Oneshots | ✓

The Man in the Street {Dean}

Prompt inspiration: 642 Tiny Things to Write About by The San Francisco Writers' Grotto

Prompt: You're walking down a quiet street and you notice a body lying in the gutter. You don't know if the person is dead or alive.

Summary/prompt change: You're walking home from work when you find the body of a man in the gutter. His clothes are stained with a warm, thick liquid. It covers his face like war paint and coats his hands like gloves. Unsure of what else to do, you decide to help.

It was dark when you finally started home.

The area of the city was purely residential, the houses nice and large, the crime rate low except for breaking and entering and theft. It was a wealthy neighborhood, well lit. Not the kind you'd be likely to get dragged into a dark alley in.

As you were walking, you noticed a large bump in the road on top of what should be a storm drain. It would not be trash, because the people living in this neighborhood were apparently flawless–their trash would be neatly placed at the end of their driveway, next to their mailboxes. And it didn't look like that kind of a thing–it looked dead.

When you reached it, you were at the perfect space between two streetlights, close enough that you could see outlines, but far enough that most details were obscured by the darkness.

It was a man. In that light, everything was painted in blacks and whites–his clothes, his hair, his skin, the dark liquid that stained his skin and the fabric of his clothes.

You knelt on the curb beside him and reached out, trying to check his pulse. It was there, but it was faint. You lifted your hand and went to check what looked like a cut on his face when his eyes snapped open.

You fell backwards, landing hard on the sidewalk. You scrambled to sit up, trying to make sure that he was okay even though your backside hurt. "Are you okay?"

He swallowed hard. "Fine." He was sitting up, blinking hard like he couldn't see straight. "Where am I?"

You rattled off the street name and slid a little closer to him. "You're not fine," you said, "you need help. Should I call an amb–"

"No." He didn't even let you finish. "No hospitals. No doctors. I'm fine, thank you."

"You're not." You said. "Why don't you come back to my place? I've got a first aid kit there, and you can use my phone to call whoever you need." He seemed hesitant. "I'm going to order pizza when I get there."

He let out a sigh in defeat. "Fine."

You learned several things in the twenty minutes it took you to get home. The first was that he couldn't walk on his own and that he needed to heavily rely on you. The second was that his name was Dean, and that he was twenty-six, nearly twenty-seven. The third was that he and his brother, Sam, were passing through town.

"How did you end up on the side of a residential street?" You asked as you unlocked your apartment door. "Usually that's reserved for the slums."

"I can't remember." Dean said. He was leaning against the wall beside your door. His face twisted. "I can't remember very much of today. Or yesterday. Really, everything's blurry right now."

"Are you going to collapse or pass out? Because I won't be able to hold you up." The door finally unlocked, and you swung it open.

"No, I'm fine." Together, the two of you hobbled into the apartment. You kicked the door shut and lead Dean over to the couch, where you dropped him onto the worn cushions.