[ Of course, he would. They all world. If they could. It's not as though they pick out. It's like a goddamn magnet is affixed to the Winchesters of all people, Sam and Dean most of all. A shit storm tornado that tears through everything around it and likes to leave bodies in its wake. It's not like she doesn't get why her mother was scared all these years later and her own rounds with it since walking out. Her dad's. Her mom's.
Why it came out as piss and vinegar on fire. The only way Ellen Harvelle ever did.
Dean keeps talking, and she doesn't even entirely know what the hell to do with all of it. This place, all the land spread out in endless directions around them, the itching annoyance she still doesn't have so much as a knife on her, weird things that don't even look like clothes on her, and Dean. Dean, like some crazy land tour guide, who gave pit stop stories about the worst places the bus had been before.
It's strange to suddenly feel exhaustedly like she wants to rest her forehead on his back and shake her head until this whole thing turned out to be the weirdest fucking dream while trying to stay awake in her truck while on a stakeout. Or just. Just give in to the goddamn fog still pounding at the back of her skull—the worst of everything on top of it growing with every bloody bomb he dropped.
It takes too long. Staring at the weave of fibers in his shirt. Jostled every step by the horse. Piecing fuck all together.
Trying to find her way back to where it'd been before. She was better than this. At this.
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Why it came out as piss and vinegar on fire.
The only way Ellen Harvelle ever did.
Dean keeps talking, and she doesn't even entirely know what the hell to do with all of it. This place, all the land spread out in endless directions around them, the itching annoyance she still doesn't have so much as a knife on her, weird things that don't even look like clothes on her, and Dean. Dean, like some crazy land tour guide, who gave pit stop stories about the worst places the bus had been before.
It's strange to suddenly feel exhaustedly like she wants to rest her forehead on his back and shake her head until this whole thing turned out to be the weirdest fucking dream while trying to stay awake in her truck while on a stakeout. Or just. Just give in to the goddamn fog still pounding at the back of her skull—the worst of everything on top of it growing with every bloody bomb he dropped.
It takes too long. Staring at the weave of fibers in his shirt.
Jostled every step by the horse. Piecing fuck all together.
Trying to find her way back to where it'd been before.
She was better than this. At this.
(Except. Not this.) ]