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[MWR] The Abyss quote
Dec. 16th, 2008 12:56 am[Set in ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wayward_au, between where we deviate from canon, and where the game picks up. Sam = ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
likely_evil. All other characters featured herein are NPCs.]
“Luck is not a factor.”
Dean was royally fucked.
He had been out in Colorado, going into year six of hunting without Sam. It didn’t get any better, any time he said it, thought it, or did anything of the like, but it was what they needed to do. Dean didn’t like that Sam was using his powers to keep him alive, and Sam seemed to think that them going at this alone was the way to do things, so Dean just kept doing what he did best—hunting where he could find the hunts—and he let Sam and that bitch do what they needed to do, or felt they needed to do. In fact, Dean was starting to get to the point where he didn’t care and didn’t want to know, which was really saying something, considering how attached he still was to his brother, and how much hunting alone killed him inside, but Dean knew that he didn’t have the time to care about things like that.
Especially since this hunt was literally killing him. It was rather ironic, actually. Sam was off trying to save him from demons and hellhounds, and Dean was going to meet his untimely end at the hands of a seriously pissed off poltergeist.
His partners on this one had taken the hex bags to the floors above and below him, and Dean had taken the first floor. He had done pretty well so far, managing to get it into the first three corners without incident, but when he reached the fourth in the kitchen he’d run into a problem of the knife wielding variety. The damn thing had thrown him back against the kitchen cabinets, and Dean could feel the blood seeping out of the knife slice on his chest. It wasn’t deep, he cold tell that much, but it was long and it was bleeding like crazy and hurt like a bitch when he curled onto himself, using his back to protect where he was injured. It was a reflexive instinct, he knew it wasn’t smart, but it was better than nothing. Where the hell were—
“Sonuvabitch, Dean.”
( *** )
1221 words
wayward_au, between where we deviate from canon, and where the game picks up. Sam = likely_evil. All other characters featured herein are NPCs.]“Luck is not a factor.”
Dean was royally fucked.
He had been out in Colorado, going into year six of hunting without Sam. It didn’t get any better, any time he said it, thought it, or did anything of the like, but it was what they needed to do. Dean didn’t like that Sam was using his powers to keep him alive, and Sam seemed to think that them going at this alone was the way to do things, so Dean just kept doing what he did best—hunting where he could find the hunts—and he let Sam and that bitch do what they needed to do, or felt they needed to do. In fact, Dean was starting to get to the point where he didn’t care and didn’t want to know, which was really saying something, considering how attached he still was to his brother, and how much hunting alone killed him inside, but Dean knew that he didn’t have the time to care about things like that.
Especially since this hunt was literally killing him. It was rather ironic, actually. Sam was off trying to save him from demons and hellhounds, and Dean was going to meet his untimely end at the hands of a seriously pissed off poltergeist.
His partners on this one had taken the hex bags to the floors above and below him, and Dean had taken the first floor. He had done pretty well so far, managing to get it into the first three corners without incident, but when he reached the fourth in the kitchen he’d run into a problem of the knife wielding variety. The damn thing had thrown him back against the kitchen cabinets, and Dean could feel the blood seeping out of the knife slice on his chest. It wasn’t deep, he cold tell that much, but it was long and it was bleeding like crazy and hurt like a bitch when he curled onto himself, using his back to protect where he was injured. It was a reflexive instinct, he knew it wasn’t smart, but it was better than nothing. Where the hell were—
“Sonuvabitch, Dean.”
( *** )
1221 words
