Lisa was cowering in the corner beside the sofa, dark eyes blown wide, voice cracking with terror. "Dean! DEAN! Leave him alone!" she pleaded. Broken glass was strewn across the floor, the coffee table smashed and a chair overturned. The broken lamp emitted no light, the only illumination in the room came from the streetlamps outside and a slice of yellow thrown across the floor from the sconce in the hall.
Dean's chest heaved deeply with adrenaline-fueled breaths. He savored his rage as he slowly slid young Ben up the wall, a fierce grip on his slim neck. Directly adjacent to Ben's head hung a framed photograph. Dean with his short, sandy hair, with his right arm around Lisa's waist, left hand resting on Ben's shoulder in front of him. Wide smiles. Sears Portrait Studio. Dean wore a sweater.
I hate that fucking sweater , thought Dean. How did I ever think that this, this fucking farce, could ever result in anything other than pain?
A windstorm raged outside, wind howling like a wounded animal. Or was that Lisa? The whipping shadows of branches thrashed against the wall. Dean's faced was twisted into something somewhere between a grin and a grimace. Thunder crashed and lightning sliced into the room, flaring Dean's green eyes into emeralds which bored into Ben with clinical intensity.
"DEAN!" Lisa shrieked as Ben kicked his legs helplessly, clawing at Dean's right hand, the one with the vice-like grip slowly choking the life from him. Dean felt a familiar burn creep up his arm, toward his chest, something akin to comfort soaked in resentment and shame. Ben sputtered and grunted, unable to form words as he slowly suffocated under Dean's crushing anger. The whites of Ben's eyes splashed with red as the blood vessels surrounding his irises burst from the strain.
Dean heard shuffling behind him, and anticipating interference, pivoted sideways to see Lisa running toward him with a heavy crystal vase in hand. His arm shot out and caught hers, and in one swift movement he twisted her arm around until he felt a satisfying snap. She dropped the vase which thudded to the floor at his feet. He luxuriated in her cry of anguish before throwing her to the floor. He turned his attention back to Ben, still suspended above the ground but no longer thrashing. He hung limply, deadweight pinned against the wall. A empty feeling of dissatisfaction washed over Dean, and he flung the boy's body aside like a cigarette butt.
"Oh God, Dean… Why? Why?" sobbed Lisa, crawling over to Ben's body using her good arm. She laid on top of him, protectively, crying through shuddering, panicked breaths. Dean crouched down next to her and she jerked away fearfully.
"You tricked me into thinking we could be a family, babe ." Dean intoned quietly, with a edge of malice on the last word. Tears began to well up in his eyes. "You should have listened. You should have let me stay gone," he said through gritted teeth. Dean's arm burned as he reached for the vase that had dropped on the floor, and he brought it up above his head with both hands, preparing to bring it down with lethal force.
Suddenly, the room darkened and Dean heard a crackling and a whoosh of wings behind him. " Dean ," said an authoritative, gravelly voice that Dean felt deep in his guts, "put that down." From his periphery, Dean saw a shadowy arm reach toward him, and felt the cool, staticky touch of two fingers on his temple. "It will be okay."
Dean bolted upright in bed, his heart thudding in his chest surging battery acid through his veins as he struggled to get his bearings. In his panicked haze he fought to discern his location. He brought his shaking hands to his face and then pulled back suddenly when he touched wetness. He'd been crying. He'd been asleep, and dreaming, and crying. He was decidedly not okay.
Dean turned and pulled his legs out over the side of the bed, pulled the blankets up around his shoulders, and gently rocked back and forth. He thought of Ben, of his lifeless bloodshot eyes. The tears came faster. In the dimness of the single overhead light, Dean caught sight of the half-empty bottle of bourbon on his desk. With the blanket still wrapped tightly around his shoulders, Dean shuddered to a standing position and shuffled to the desk. He lifted the bottle with two shaking hands and unscrewed the cap. He stood up and drank deeply, chugging the bottle and letting the burning, familiar warmth fill his stomach. He pulled the near-empty bottle away from his mouth and gagged, but held down his medicine. Within a minute, his shaking subsided significantly.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Dean thought bitterly.
He placed the bottle on the floor by his bed, laid back down, and curled into a ball on his side. As he drifted off into blackness, he thought he imagined a low voice whisper, "It is okay. I am here."
A fluttering of wings, and then Dean was asleep.