anthology

safe

heavy trigger warnings for depression and sort-of-kind-of disassociation. brief swearing.

word count: 976

summary: one of these days, I will finish and publish some lighter stuff. that is not today. so, here's a fic largely based on how I experience waking up stuck in my head and bed, as sort of an elaboration on the beginning scene from Beat the Devil.

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It was dark. The shapes of the room were blurry and hulking. They reminded him of what hid behind his eyelids.

It was all grey. Everything had a staticky quality to it. Even his brother's voice when he asked whether he was awake.

Was he awake? He couldn't tell. Did he want to be awake? He couldn't tell that, either.

Time passes weirdly. It sluggishly marches and skids and slides without notice because watches are a scam. Ha, that's kind of funny. If time and watches are a scam, does that mean everything else is, too? Yeah, probably.

As though underwater in a full speed wind tunnel, his brother's voice registers warbled and quiet. How far away is he? Scratch that, he'd have to move to check.

It's quiet now. Dean must've taken his silence as sleep. Dean didn't wake him up, though he didn't think he could wake up if he wanted to. His bedroom is everything, no?

No.

There's a world outside. But what if there's not? What if the moment he moves it all comes crashing down, an illusion made for the delusional? What if when he walks out that door, the devil will be waiting as if he never left the Cage?

Yes, best to stay here.

The sheets were warm. On second thought he was too warm, hot hot hothothothot. He wants to move but can't, there's nothing. He's nothing. Just molecules. A series of atoms forming molecules forming cells forming organic material because that's what he is what they are what everyone is. Organic material.

Right, too hot.

With a herculean effort, the sheets shift off of him and now he's cold. Fuck this shit and the horse it rode in on guess it's the winter goddamn palace for him.
But everything is still blurry and he likes that. Blurry isn't sharp, blurry can't hurt you, blurry can't attack your retinas or stab you through. Blurry is safe. He is safe.

Nothing has gained color since he last checked. Dean mustn't've left the door open like he always seems to do. That means there's no light because there is a threshold where the cones kick in and your eyes begin to perceive color and finer detail so he must not have hit that threshold yet which means it's dark. Dark isn't as safe as blurry but it's better than light where they can see him and evaluate him and judge him an hurt him.

Relatively speaking, he's the safest he's ever been.

Dean's back.

How long's it been? Nevermind, time is a scam. It doesn't matter just that Dean is here in the doorway looking expectant. Did he say something? Yes, he did. He said something about... what? His mouth is moving and making noise again but what what what is he saying going on about explaining joking what?

Dean stops. Sighs. Walks over and pauses by his bedside. Not that he saw. That would require moving. He just felt it. Is that residual psychic powers from demon blood? Maybe. He hoped not. He hoped it was normal that people could sense other people's location in a room.
There's a hand now. That feels nice. The rough, gentle warmth of his brother's palm is heaven. He begins to focus so hard on the sensation, he doesn't notice his brother's hand moving down across his back, bracing him and pulling him up.

He's vertical now. That's new. It's easier to move his head somehow and he's looking at his brother who wasn't there before was he? Yes, he was, that's right.
Dean is saying something again.

"Can you repeat that?" He surprises himself with talking. Is that his voice that's so rough and quiet?

"I said, get out of bed, it's 3pm."

Is it? Is that how long it's been he's been here? Didn't feel like it. But nothing feels like anything or at least anything it's supposed to, so he's not exactly surprised.

"It is?"

"Yeah, dude. If you hadn't put your alarm clock facedown on the floor, you'd know that."

Oh right. It was bright, too bright so he'd had to move it so he wouldn't burn his eyes on it. But also because time is a scam and he's so fucking tired of being bossed around by a tiny little machine with numbers. Distantly, he figured out that the incessant white noise from earlier had probably been his alarm clock.

"Oh, yeah."

"Come on, dude. You alright? That's probably a stupid question since you've been in bed all day, but still."

He processed the thought, was he alright? No. Yes. He didn't hurt. He didn't anything. Everything was so real and too much but so fake and distant. What was alright anymore? for them, for anyone? Did he even have a right to be alright after everything he's done? Many would say no. He wanted to agree but knew he shouldn't he should be fighting to be good to be good enough to be more than good enough to clean up his messes because that's ultimately the only reason he was alive.

"Yeah, just a little tired."

"Come on, there's leftovers in the fridge if you're hungry, and a library of books if you're not."

"Okay."

The vertigo was a job hazard of standing up. Depression was a job hazard of hunting. Death was a job hazard of living.

He pushed through it all to be... what? A cosmic janitor of his own messes? Heh, yeah. That's what he was. But that meant he needed to go out there and read and fight and be hungry for food, blood, and life.

So he up and left dark and blurry and icy hot for everything. Because reality was just real enough to hurt, and he had to child safety it for everyone else so that they could have their dark and blurry.

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A/N: yes. I do the alarm clock thing. this may come off as pretentious with the quandary's, but wasn't meant that way. it's more like... stuck in your head and can't figure out what's real and makes sense versus what's fantastical and trying to wrap your head around existence.