Back to regularly scheduled Pone!

Sunbutt is like a warm vanilla iced cheesecake. Rich, heavy and somewhat bland, but ultimately oddly satisfying in large quantities and repeated dosages.

*remember kids: if you dont draw pone for 2 weeks your anatomy goes all to shit!*

10.21 Coda

Red.

Red.

Red.

It’s splattered on the walls, on the floor, dripping in footprints and smeared all over skin. It’s stained on novelty t-shirts and on brightly colored flannel, caught under fingernails and pressed into palms.
It’s bouncing, swaying curls and lips. It’s blushed cheeks and embarrassed ears.

It’s rage.

It’s pounding in his veins and in his head and searing hot at his forearm. It bubbles up his throat, tearing at his flesh and stinging his eyes.
He says nothing and turns away, arms reaching up above his head to clutch at the barrel of his gun. He can feel the mist of cold, relentless rain out the door finding the scarred skin of his back as his shirt and jacket ride up. He takes deep, shuttering breaths, but there’s still red on the floor.
There’s still red.
Red.

Red-

Sam rushes out of the small motel room, barely making it out into the rain before he kneels down on the sidewalk and blows chunks in between choked breaths.
Sammy hasn’t cried in ages. Dean can’t remember the last time the giant has cried.
Sammy isn’t just crying, he’s sobbing, one hand gripping at his chest as the other braces itself against the concrete curb, searching for some sort of purchase to ground himself as his whole world comes crashing down.

Dean’s spinning as he searches for a place to set his eyes down, but there’s red everywhere. He looks out the window, but there are red-streaked smears of fingertips on the glass. He looks at the floor, but there’s red in the footsteps leading in and out. He even looks up at the ceiling, but his keen eyes spy droplets that found their way up on the spackled surface there.
He tries to close his eyes, but all he can see is brown-red drying in curly locks of copper auburn-
He opens them, and there she is. She’s lying in the bathtub, her hand still clutching a knife, her stomach still weeping like his brother outside. But her face, her face is peaceful.
Her face is brave.
Her face is covered in red, red, red red redredredredbloodmurderrevengeKILLTHEMALL-

He lowers his hands from his head, sets the gun on the table with her things, and gently steps over to the bathroom, as if moving too loud will wake her from her surreal slumber.
There’s a towel still hanging from the towel bar. The sink still runs.
Gingerly, soundlessly, at the protest of the mark on his arm, at the protest of all the red screaming inside his head, he takes the towel up in his callused hands, wets it, and brings it first to her soft hands.

He holds them like he would hold a baby, his rough palms turning soft like hers as the still-warm flesh touches his own.
She’s just sleeping.
He rubs the blood from her skin.
It’s all his blood, not hers. She’s just sleeping.
He moves up to her forearms, her collarbones, her neck.
It’s all his blood, not hers. She’s just sleeping.

He finds her face, so gentle, so serene.
So young.
He wipes at her cheeks, and he spots little specks on her eyelids. The towel is too rough, too ratty to press against the tender skin there. He doesn’t want to hurt her.
He brings a shaking hand up to his lips, licks his thumb and then moves to swipe it across them. Just like his mother used to do.
She doesn’t stir.

Sammy’s still throwing up outside.

“I love you too,” he whispers. 

It’s the last thing he says for two days.

Castiel comes in and out, always hovering over Dean, an endless stream of apologies falling out of his mouth. Sammy won’t shut up, either. He can’t speak without saying ‘sorry’, can’t say a whole sentence without stuttering, voice shaking.
Charlie sits on the table in the war room. Her gentle, gentle hands are clasped over her chest. Her face is serene.
She’s just sleeping.
Her clothes are still stained. Her stomach lays open like a gaping mouth, no longer weeping.
He keeps vigil. He doesn’t speak.

All he sees is the red on her shirt, her purple plaid flannel, thinks about how red was a color that never really suited her. It was something that belonged framed around her cheeks, her face, her bright eyes that marked her as a Queen of Moondor. It had no business stuck to her chest, to her stomach, underneath her torn fingernails and on her eyelashes.
Red was only for her hair, her lips, her tongue as it peeked between her teeth.
Red was only for him. Red was wasn’t for Charlie.
Red was-
red
red, red, redredredKILLTHEMALL-

“Dean.”

Blue.

He looks back down, closes his eyes. He soaks in the aura now radiating around him, the warmth of the hand on his shoulder.
“It’s time.” Dean shakes his head slowly at first. The hand doesn’t move off his shoulder, so he shakes it harder.
“Dean-”
“NO!” He stands up so fast that the chair topples to the ground in pathetic protest. Castiel jumps back. Dean is heaving, his clenched fists shaking.
“No,” he says again, his voice shuttering and wavering, barely able to choke the word out. “No, Cas. No. She’s- no. No.”

Red. Red is everywhere, red is all he can see. All the red, all the red everywhere, all the time, constantly, red blood on the walls, on his hands, on his palms, under his fingernails, on her stomach, on her eyelashes, on her dainty collarbones and her face too young, too young-

“Dean.” Castiel is soft, quiet, gentle. Hands, arms wrap around his shoulders, his chest.
Dean sobs.
“I’m here.” He falls to his knees, and the angel goes down with him.
There’s so much red, so much red…
Castiel is suddenly in front of him now, pulling up his chin and coaxing open his eyes. All he can see is blurry blue, but the red washes out.
It all washes out.
Castiel is keeping his gazed locked, green and blue trapped together as he reaches for the hunter’s hands. Cool light engulfs them, and the bruises and split knuckles from punching walls, disappear. Dean’s still shaking, and Castiel isn’t letting go.
“I’m here.” And like that, Dean lets it all go. He slumps forward, exhausted and unwilling to keep going, but in this moment, the mark is quiet. All he can hear is the dull thrum of Grace from where his ear is against the angel’s neck, beating like a pulse through his veins instead of blood.
“She loved you, Dean.”
“She’s dead because of me.” Gentle fingers rub small circles into his spine.
“We love you, Dean.”
“You’re all in danger because of me.” Fingers move to thread themselves into the hair at the back of his head.
“I love you, Dean.” He feels lips at his temple, and he welcomes them. He takes in a deep, shuttering breath as he fights the streams that are flowing from his eyes. He feels two days hit him at once, ten days, ten whole years. He sees sparks flash across his closed eyes, feels the handprint burn on his shoulder. It throbs, and he lets himself forget what needs to be done, lets himself think only of this moment. 
“I know.” He lets himself be folded into the angel on the floor, on their knees, with Charlie’s body on the table above them. He lets himself forget everything.

The mark is silent. There’s red everywhere.

But he feels something smiling down on him, and all he can see is blue.