memento mori

as if he's not ceaselessly reminded that he will. oh, he dear fucking will, over his damn dead body that is. through sheer will, grotty justice, or just the hell of it. no. he don't enjoy killing. he's not some leashless rabid dog. but dean will admit that he himself is his own rabies. not his heart, not his mind, not his soul. just him.

he was no man who breaks into pieces under the blows of abandonment and absence, of truth and lies, of betrayal and sacrifices, who goes mad, who dies. only few fragments had splintered off, for the rest he was well. he's whole, an invulnerable animal who passes through fire and is not burned. a good man. a good son. a good brother.

and yet...

he don't know why he bite.

tunneled mind. pale skin. dead, dilated eyes. snap. his soul snapped back to his overused body. hands tainted. dripping red. stiffening his entire system to the ends of his hair to a peninsula in an ice age. the dagger slips off his grasp, clattering down the floor.

his blurry, metronome, pulsing vision slowly clears. his eyes finding their way to his hands in an instant as the definite silence in his ears fades, leaving the sounds of his heaves and heartbeat, more when his gaze moves past his fingers, seeing a body— your body under him on a stabbed mess.

"no..."