the confessional reminds him of waking in his coffin; dean half-expects the smell of gravedirt and decay. claustrophobia is a fire burning in the pit of his stomach, consuming him from within: he feels it crawling beneath the skin, charring the bones and threatening to reduce him to dust. his inhales are clipped, exhales trembling, and there’s a sharp prodding at his ribs that he’s come to recognize as the prelude to panic, insistent and urgent as it knocks against the door to his heart; under the cover of darkness, his mask withers, like a houseplant left forgotten in a sun-deprived corner. his boots scuff the wood floor in their nervous shuffle. dean’s palms, slick with sweat, come to rest against his sides as he curls his arms around his front; the thudthudthud in his ribs eases some, though in its place blooms a sense of irony: he has looked at the face of an angel, yet fears speaking to a man of the cloth. he’s seen the pit of hell and has felt its pitch-black embrace, but can’t hack the tight space of the confessional.
the absurdity of it offers some comfort. one hand snakes towards the necklaces round his neck, fingers landing on a hand-carved wooden cross that had belonged to pastor jim; dean presses it into his palm so harshly that it’ll leave behind a temporary imprint. then he says, “ bless me father, for i have sinned. ” and they’re thick in his voice already. “ ----it’s been, well. a long time since my last confession. i don’t know when. ” // @exorsista
