—— The rain batters his skin, gracing his cheeks with fresh
water. It feels like a shower from the heavens above. It feels
like they’re telling him to wash clean of his sins and in this
moment of kindness be freed of the weight that lay on his
shoulders. But no amount of rain will even make him feel
clean.
There’s a hitch in his step, mild hesitation to advance to the
Impala with her once again at his side. She’s more deserving
of the shelter than he is and he’s thankful that she decided to
pull his jacket tighter around her. He would not have taken it
from her. If she’s considered a monster, then what is he?
Dean Winchester is the real monster.
For years he killed without so much as a second thought.
Didn’t matter if they were trying to get by or if they were
ruthless, if it was a monster it died by his hand. How many
did he kill that were more innocent than him? How many
had to die before he realized the world is not built in black
and white?
A sigh forms along his lips but he suppresses the flow of air.
Emerald orbs trace cracks in the sidewalk that suck up rain
water before it can make it to the curb and add to the growing
flow in the gutters. He can feel those cracks in himself,
absorbing the sky.
A glance over his shoulder at her frustrated grunt brings a
smile back to his face, but whether or not it is genuine is
something he could not answer. The crunch of her feet along
the sidewalk makes him raise an eyebrow at first, questioning
the source of the noise. But, he feels it before he can ask the
question. The chill of frost makes the hairs on his arms stand
on end, searching desperately for warm air to trap against his
skin where there is none.
the hunter replies with the raise of his brows. In truth, he won’t
be, but isn’t that what every stand up comic says when they get
a few laughs and walk off stage?
Slender digits CLENCH around biceps, shoulders pressing close
to neck. Focus was aimed on the rapid streams down the streets,
the p a t t e r of rain drops on solid ground or against parked cars.
It was a means of remaining placid. Quelling the churning beast
within her center. Even monsters could experience FEAR over
something as simple as a storm. Tempting discomfort within the
ruthless creature was SADISTICALLY satisfying to the woman.
Despite a shared fear, it resulted in its silent, statuesque manner.
Angels don’t cry for monsters.
The statement managed to e c h o in her mind, muffling the
sounds of the rain. A tainted soul writhed in agony beneath
alabaster flesh, trying desperately to shake off the parasitic
LEECH that grasped onto her with all its vigor. For if it
released her frangible SOUL, it would no longer possess a
life source and would undoubtedly p e r i s h. And, God, did
she want to watch it go up in FLAMES without a trace of ash.
Though for this to occur, would she have to sacrifice herself?
Dying had been pondered one too many times by the ice woman.
Too perturbing of an amount for any normal being to think about.
Most times she craved Death at her worse moments. Yet there
were nights spent cognizant, crying over truth behind the desire
to live, but knowing there isn’t much of a CHOICE. The last thing
possible was to domineer the robust monster that tormented her.
And everyone knows no monster approves of SUBMISSION.
❝What is it like? Being a hunter? ❞
She could not contain inquiry from vacating the surface of tongue,
having embedded whitened carnassials into the muscle in means
of berating. The question wasn’t intended on being phonetic aloud,
immediately BRIMMING with repentance at having even thought
the words to begin with. Lips pry apart, gaze FLICKERING to him
before returning to the ground in slight embarrassment.
❝Sorry. You don’t have to answer that.❞
