❛ ━━━━━━･ ❪ ☆ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜
"first you try to kill me, then you invite me to family dinner! wow, what reason could i possibly have to refuse this?"
"great, let's go."
"that was sarcasm, dipshit."
( 'wayward witch' book 1 )
( seasons 4-6...
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❛ ━━━━━━･ ❪ ☆ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜
SHE DIDN'T GO on hunts for two weeks. She couldn't even look at herself in the mirror, let alone leave the Impala or whatever motel room they were staying in. Her brothers were worried, the guilt was clearly weighing on her.
To them, they had lost a friend, but Eleanor had lost a mentor too. Not only that, but had she gone straight to the car and back, Pamela would still be alive.
Dean couldn't ignore the dark circles under his younger sister's eyes, nor the way they always had a glazed and red sheen, like she had just been crying. She was spiraling, and he knew it. He'd seen it in himself, in Sammy, in most other hunters.
Failing to save someone was never easy, but something about this time was different. He couldn't pinpoint it. Something on her drive that night had sent her even further into a downward spiral, but she wouldn't tell them what had happened.
He was beginning to feel it too, the heartache of losing friends and the weight of the apocalypse on his shoulders. Castiel and Uriel whisked him away to torture Alastair, without giving him much choice in the matter.
He had warned them that they wouldn't like what came out of that warehouse when he was done. He didn't know how true that would be. The apocalypse was his fault. He wasn't strong enough, he started all of this.
He silently dropped his bag by the door and went to the fridge for a beer. He needed something stronger, something to make him stop feeling, but beer would have to do for now. He cracks it open and sits on one of the beds.
Eleanor lay curled up on the other bed, drowning in a sea of thin motel blankets. Her head lifts, hearing the sound of the bag hitting the floor. Her eyes trail Dean to the fridge, then to the bed.
He looked terrible, maybe worse than she did. Her eyes raked over him, looking for any sign of injury. If she could focus on him and his pain, she wouldn't have to deal with her own. "Dean?" she asks softly.
His gaze turns to her, tinged with red and exhaustion. "Hey Ellie, how're you feeling?"
She sits up and drags a hand through her hair. Her finger snags on a knot and she draws in a sharp breath. She ties it up into a quick ponytail and shrugs. "Been better." She pauses, scanning his face. "Something's wrong. What happened? Where's Sam?"
"Sam's fine. He didn't come back last night?" His eyebrows furrow.
"What are you talking about?"
"Eleanor, I was in the hospital last night. Sam didn't come to check on you?"
She shrugs. "He might have. I was probably sleeping. Are you okay?" She looked at him like she was scared he might break. As if him having a conversation with her was enough to kill him.
