We Are Broken >> Destiel

o n e ; We're at War

The wooden floor creaked under weary footsteps.

Darkness enveloped the hall. Silence. It was silent.

It was daytime, yet the hallways of the house remained untouched by the warm rays of the sun since the curtains were all laid out, thick and heavy, without a single light source to illuminate the way.

The silence and darkness gave off an eerie and depressing ambiance, yet Dean seemed unfazed; this was normal for him. It had been for some time.

He had gotten used to locking himself in their room up until the afternoon, and only sneaked off at night to stare absent-mindedly at the sky from their porch. And then when it was 5am, he would make his way back to their room and hide under the covers. He would then pretend to be asleep until he feels the body next to his slowly get off of the bed. But today, he left the room earlier than expected.

Castiel had always tried to coax him out of bed before, but now he just stared at Dean with a sad and tired glint in his eyes. No. Not sad. Disappointed. He sometimes wonders why Castiel keeps on putting up with his shit; wouldn't even be surprised if he doesn't come home one day.

He continued treading on in the lonely hallways until he reaches the living room.

The living room wasn't any better than the rest of the house; wasn't an exception to the gloominess that had seemed to envelope every place of the damned structure. Well, save for one window that looked naked without the curtains. But it didn't matter; the sun didn't shine bright enough at a time like this.

For a living room, there isn't much life in it, he bitterly laughs at his own joke. His hollow laughter resonates throughout the hollow room, and once again he is reminded that he was alone. Which, by the way, he should be used to as well. What with the way he treats those around him, he shouldn't be surprised if they all left.

Just you wait, Castiel's gonna leave next.

Or maybe... you'd leave him. 'cause you're that cruel.

He lets his fingertips brush over the surface of the walls and furniture, a small nostalgic smile on his lips as he does so. He looks over at picture frames that had once given life to the room - memories they have treasured, in print. But now they were just that: pictures. Pictures that have lost their spark. Pictures that were just images printed on paper, no longer a fleeting moment of utmost importance caught in film. Pictures that no longer make him smile and instead cause an irritation to the eyes; he was too exhausted to feel anything but grief.

Dean walks on.

He then finds his fingers landing on the keys of their old grand piano and suddenly, his smile fades. It was an antique; its keys have turned yellow due to age, like the pages of an old book. And he was certain that if he looks close enough, there'd be at least two layers of dust that have settled on the once pristine keys. It was so familiar and brought memories back to him that he couldn't resist taking a seat to play with the keys, and so he does.

Dean sits down on the stool and presses a key on the piano. He repeatedly does this until he finds a rhythm, the beginning of the interlude starting to take him away. Slowly, he lifts his other hand to play, and that's how he finds himself playing a familiar tune - a lullaby. He is lost in the tune of his childhood that for a moment, he was certain that he could hear the whisper of his mother's voice. A sweet and soft, yet powerful voice that he remembers could always render him calm. Her voice that was like a soft caress against his rough skin.

"Blackbird singing in the dead of night,

Take these broken wings and learn to fly."