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Fic: Soft Black, Pretty Green

 Soft Black, Pretty Green
By PaBurke
Summary/Challenge: Outsider POV. A street vagrant stumbles across a drunk (or seemingly drunk) Dean. Gen please.
Rating: Adult, but Gen
Warning: Disturbing topics.
Disclaimer: Not mine
Cross posted on hoodie_time 


I shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous. I should be under the bridge, but I’m hungry. So hungry. There’re dumpsters here. Food should be here. It smells like alcohol and food.

So hungry.

The alleyway is dark, but not as dark as my bridge. The light burns my eyes. I should go back to my bridge. It’s safer there. But it smells better here. Here people are. Here people are drunks.

Drunks are here. They do stupid things and people get hurt. They blame me because I don’t belong.

I don’t belong.

But so hungry.

A rat runs from me. I don’t chase. I have been eating rats under that bridge and if I am being bad and leaving the bridge then I will reward myself with real food that I don’t have to kill. Changing my diet.

Diet. I laugh at my joke. Like a woman with a house who is trying to stay skinny, I’m looking for my chocolate to reward myself after a hard work-out.

Step. Step. Kick. Kick.

That used to be me.

Beautiful home, beautiful baby in my arms. Remember that. So soft in my arms.


My fault.

Forget. Forget.

The back door to the bar bangs open and a drunk falls out. He looks confused. He looks at me and I try to hide in myself. I close my eyes. Don’t see me. Don’t see me. I can’t see you so you can’t see me.


Baby green eyes, laughing. I try to stay with the laughing green eyes but my eyes are open and I see a black alley and wet ground and a rat laughing at me. The drunk is still there.

The drunk meets my eyes. I see blurry green eyes. So pretty.

Better than-

-Baby green eyes, blank-

Forget. Forget.

The drunk stumbles again and I wonder if my son would have overindulged in alcohol. I would never have yelled at him. Would that have made me a bad mother?

My baby died.

I was a bad mother.



I shake my head. Forget. Forget.

Blood on a tiny hand.

Forget. Forget.

The drunk leans against the cold, brick wall, trying to find his feet. He didn’t stop drinking after the first sip. I never could stop at the first bite. Food controlled me. I ate myself out of my home. They say that teenagers eat you out of house and home, but I did it. I did it.

My son never had that chance.

Forget. Forget.

So hungry.

I need food. I need food and then to retreat to my bridge. My bridge is safe. The dumpster is right there and suddenly the drunk is there too. He’s too close. Too close.

Danger. Danger.

When did he get so close?

He fell to the ground. So close. So close.

He was right there.

I scuttle forward. Just a sniff. It couldn’t hurt anything. I want it so bad that I can taste it. Maybe I would get lost in the then and forget the now. How I long for a sniff of clean… leather, beer, sweat, cordite, cold-

-steel slides between my ribs and into my heart-

“Eat that, Bitch.”

I fall. Falling. I sigh. I remember my baby in my arms, covered with blood. I hadn’t stopped myself then. I killed my baby.

I ate my baby-

-what have I done?-

I ate drunks-

-what have I done?-


Dying and I no longer have to forget my sins. Death will do that for me.

“Thank you,” I breathe.

The green eyes looked surprised and merciful.

Death is merciful.

Black is merciful.

My baby had black hair as soft as down.

I get lost in the soft black.