Fic:Bruised; Fanfic100
Aug. 7th, 2006 12:09 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
definewisdomTitle: Bruised
Author: Mariana O'Connor
Character: John
Rating: PG
Time frame: preseries
Pairing: none, gen
Disclaimer: I do not own John, or his sons. I tried to catch them a few times, but after I tied them up I got a bit distracted and I didn't notice them escape... doesn't mean I won't try again though
Summary: He has to be perfect, he cannot afford to make mistakes.
Notes: Written for Fanfic100, John Winchester, prompt 016 - purple.
He hissed in pain as he battled his way out of his shirt, his arms stiff and tired as well as heavily bruised.
It had not been a good night: he had tried his best to avoid the cliff, but the son of a bitch had thrown him over the edge. While it had not been very high, the bottom had been dotted with rocks and he had landed awkwardly. He was lucky not to have broken any bones.
But that was one more bastard that would not be standing back up again and he was, so, despite his injuries, this was still a win, even if, at the moment, it did not feel much like a celebration.
He walked into the bathroom to get the first aid kit and sat down on the edge of the bath, looking over at his reflection.
Blue, black and purple jumped out from his skin, highlighted here and there by the red of blood. His right side was completely purple and, as he slowly rolled his shoulder, gritting his teeth against the pain, he knew it would be a couple of weeks at least before it was back to one hundred percent.
He cursed as he swabbed his cuts with disinfectant, he should not have let this happen. He should have been faster, smarter, better prepared. He should have guessed the moves it would make before he ended up going head first over the edge. The marks which covered his skin were not a mark of pride but rather one of weakness. This was not a celebration but a lesson: he had to do better. How could he kill the thing that had started all of this if he was tripping over his own feet when fighting other, less important, things?
He had to do better, for Mary and her boys; he had to protect them. He had to be perfect.
He finished cleaning himself up quickly and bound up his shoulder, grateful that he did not need stitches. Then he left the bathroom, and his damning reflection behind, to get a new shirt, shoving the signs of his weakness to the bottom of his bag, out of sight and pulling it on, blocking out the pain as he did it up and hid the bruises beneath a layer of cloth.
No matter how much it hurt, no matter how difficult it was, he could not let his boys see his failure, could not let them know of his vulnerability. He needed to be strong; he needed to be invincible, and he would not fail them in that.
Author: Mariana O'Connor
Character: John
Rating: PG
Time frame: preseries
Pairing: none, gen
Disclaimer: I do not own John, or his sons. I tried to catch them a few times, but after I tied them up I got a bit distracted and I didn't notice them escape... doesn't mean I won't try again though
Summary: He has to be perfect, he cannot afford to make mistakes.
Notes: Written for Fanfic100, John Winchester, prompt 016 - purple.
He hissed in pain as he battled his way out of his shirt, his arms stiff and tired as well as heavily bruised.
It had not been a good night: he had tried his best to avoid the cliff, but the son of a bitch had thrown him over the edge. While it had not been very high, the bottom had been dotted with rocks and he had landed awkwardly. He was lucky not to have broken any bones.
But that was one more bastard that would not be standing back up again and he was, so, despite his injuries, this was still a win, even if, at the moment, it did not feel much like a celebration.
He walked into the bathroom to get the first aid kit and sat down on the edge of the bath, looking over at his reflection.
Blue, black and purple jumped out from his skin, highlighted here and there by the red of blood. His right side was completely purple and, as he slowly rolled his shoulder, gritting his teeth against the pain, he knew it would be a couple of weeks at least before it was back to one hundred percent.
He cursed as he swabbed his cuts with disinfectant, he should not have let this happen. He should have been faster, smarter, better prepared. He should have guessed the moves it would make before he ended up going head first over the edge. The marks which covered his skin were not a mark of pride but rather one of weakness. This was not a celebration but a lesson: he had to do better. How could he kill the thing that had started all of this if he was tripping over his own feet when fighting other, less important, things?
He had to do better, for Mary and her boys; he had to protect them. He had to be perfect.
He finished cleaning himself up quickly and bound up his shoulder, grateful that he did not need stitches. Then he left the bathroom, and his damning reflection behind, to get a new shirt, shoving the signs of his weakness to the bottom of his bag, out of sight and pulling it on, blocking out the pain as he did it up and hid the bruises beneath a layer of cloth.
No matter how much it hurt, no matter how difficult it was, he could not let his boys see his failure, could not let them know of his vulnerability. He needed to be strong; he needed to be invincible, and he would not fail them in that.
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