#plagued by my fucked up meatsuit as always

[milkweedman]

Totally fucked up the order, so am now attempting to recreate it from the pictures that i took of each warp on the board, with the hopes that the 3rd warp will at least be well behaved. If it isnt im gonna need to do another round of towels (or maybe just a test warp) bc i cant be doing this on the blanket commission. Am very very aware of how tangled this warp will be. Only potential saving grace is that imo cotton doesnt tangle anywhere near as badly as wool, so hopefully it wont be too horribly bad.

It is going, though. About halfway done dressing the heddles. Next will be sleying the reed. Hoping to get all the warping done by tomorrow.

[pinknerdpanda]

Broken

Word Count: 1,081 Characters: Dean x reader (implied, kinda), Sam Warnings: Oh buddy, welcome aboard the angst-express. So. Much. Angst. Death, alcohol, despair, depression. Betas: @hannahindie & @wheresthekillswitch Requested by: @adoptdontshoppets - kinda.

A/N: What’s there to say, really? “I’m sorry” doesn’t *really* cut it...because apparently I’m a monster. I did a fluffy prompt for the song “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” that you can read HERE to take the edge off after this fuckery. You know what they say - once an idea strikes you, you’ve just gotta follow where it leads you. My condolences, everyone.

x

Broken

Dean sighed, rubbing a thumb over the creases in his forehead absently as he refilled his whiskey. The first two had burned as he’d forced the vile liquid down his throat, but this one - it tasted like everything he’d ever wanted to forget. An image flickered through his memory bank, sending a fresh wave of pain through him and he cringed, throwing back the whiskey and slamming the glass onto the table.

Dean spent most nights trying to forget the people he’d let down and the mistakes he’s made, but tonight was different. Tonight, the wounds that usually plagued him lay dormant except for one. The last drop of alcohol landed in his tumbler as he filled it a fourth time. He stared into the amber, swirling it around and hoping to find the answer to a question he didn’t understand.

At this point, he couldn’t remember what he’d been looking for when he’d stumbled across the splintered wood and shredded canvas. Whatever it was, he was so consumed with grief that it didn’t matter anymore.

Dean sat the tumbler back on the table, the contents sloshing gently against the side. He reached across the table, his fingertips grazing the rough surface. He traced the curve of the blue “B,” stopping at the jagged tear running through the middle. The memory was fresh, though it had been years ago.

He’d been so angry when he’d gotten there; so scared and frustrated he couldn’t see straight. She’d promised to meet him, and yet there he’d stood, alone. A low rumble had preceded the glow of headlights as they cut through the window, the billowing curtains diffusing the harsh glare.

The look on her face as she’d walked in had been the most beautiful sight he’d seen, though he didn’t realize that until he’d watched it fade from her features. He remembered yelling, but he couldn’t remember exactly what he’d said. She’d rolled her eyes, tossing her keys on the table by the door and placing the object she’d carried in next to them. He couldn’t seem to make her understand how serious the situation was. It had been no time to be careless.

“I’m fine!” She’d insisted, crossing her arms and glaring at him. “Nothing happened!”

“But what if it had? That demon could be anywhere or anyone!” He’d been so frantic that it worried him. This wasn’t supposed to have happened. The people closest to him had a way of winding up dead or worse, and a small, cruel voice in his head reminded of that as she growled in frustration.

“What?” He’d barked. “What was so fucking important that you couldn’t wait until I got here?”

He could still remember the guilt that had welled up inside of him as her face had burned red, tears glittering in the corners of her eyes. She’d jerked the object from beside the door and had flung it at him. It landed in front of him, the force of the impact crunching the wood as it broke.

“Merry fuckin’ Christmas, Winchester. Hope you like what I made you.”

And then she was gone, stomping through the house away from him. He’d felt like the wind had been ripped from his lungs. There at his feet lay a rectangular canvas, the words “Baby, it’s cold outside” had been painted carefully against a mottled blue background. Each delicate letter had been painstakingly formed and each had been highlighted so that they looked almost 3D. That had been the first song they’d danced to when they’d met. Even when he’d been halfway around the world from her, that song had always made him feel like she was standing right there with him.

Of course he’d let his worry ruin the one good thing he’d come to rely on. Maybe it was for the best, he’d thought. If he was far, far away from her, maybe she’d have a chance at a normal life. Whatever it took to rationalize his behavior - he could buy about any line if he squinted hard enough.

So he’d left. He didn’t apologize or say goodbye. He should have said goodbye. Maybe he wouldn’t have been able to save her, maybe he would have, but at least he’d have closure. Christ. There was no closure for her, why did he think he deserved closure for himself?

When he’d found out the next morning what had happened, he felt the earth swim under his feet. Sam wouldn’t let him out of his sight, afraid of what he might do in his grief. That fucking demon had been waiting for just the right moment and Dean had practically served it to him on a silver fucking platter.

The coroner’s report suggested it had happened less than an hour after he’d left. The meatsuit the demon had been riding woke up covered in her blood, no memory of how he’d gotten there or what had happened. Dean knew. A small part of him felt sorry for the guy, knowing it hadn’t really been him in control.

He knew he shouldn’t have gone in there; knew it was an awful idea. Surely Sam had thought so too, but he’d let Dean deal with things the way Dean felt like he needed to. Hell, Dean probably would have resented Sam if he’d tried to stop him. So they went, unsure what they were looking for.

As soon as he’d walked in, he’d seen it, exactly where he’d left it. The cheerful letters mocked him from their canvas home and Dean lost it. He took out every ounce of anger, guilt and despair on it as he shredded the artwork, the frame splintering. And then, it was done. No amount of destruction would bring back what he’d let slip through his fingers.

Time had numbed the pain, but tonight, he allowed it to overtake him. He allowed himself to be overwhelmed by the wave of emotions he felt when he looked at it. He wanted to remember what happened when people got to close, but it was more than that. It served as a reminder of the work he had to do; the work that he feared would never truly be done.

Dean closed his eyes, picturing her face as he chugged the last of the whiskey. He rapped his knuckles against the table and stood. He hummed lightly as he wobbled back to his room, the shattered relic tucked carefully under his arm.

“Baby, it’s cold outside.”

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