Title: I've watched you change (I took you home)
Author: shewritesfreely
Pairing(s): Sam/Dean (mentions of Sam/OMC)
Rating: R
Warnings: mentions of torture, rape, lots and lots of sad!Dean and broken!Dean, spoilers for post-Heaven & Hell
Word Count: roughly 1400
Disclaimer: The boys do not belong to me. They belong to Kripke and everyone else who is keeping them apart.
Note: This is for a prompt table a friend of mine and I chose to do; focusing on the Supernatural fandom. It's also been cross-posted everywhere. No seriously. Everywhere.
Summary: Dean remembers Hell. But, maybe he remembers more than that.
They give me pain, so I live with pain,
They give me hate, so I live with my hate,
They have changed me, and I am not the same man
-Jimmy Santiago Baca
Dean remembers Hell.
He remembers the tearing and breaking; the groaning and screaming. After a while, he couldn't tell which were his screams and which were the other souls on the racks. He remembers Alistair; always Alistair. With his offer every day to release him from the torture and pain if only he were to inflict it upon others. Dean remembers the smell of burning flesh and the iron-coppery scent of blood filling his nostrils every day. Every day for thirty years, he remembers.
He remembers the first time Alistair had ripped the muscle from bone with aching slowness that made him vomit and lose consciousness. He remembers the laughter from the spectators the demon had gathered around. But, like any good soldier, Dean had learned how to pace himself through those moments. How to ignore the dizzying pain and fire running through his body; his synapses protesting to every break and burn. He remembers learning to ignore his body's cry for relief from the digging and prying.
But, Alistair had been smart. After thirty years of torture on Dean's body, he learned. Dean would swear up and down about how fucking useless demons were and how they were all meant for Hell and how he would be the one to send their sorry asses back to the "eternal damnation of endless Britney Spears songs and whatever else of that girly shit Sammy listens to" , but he never said that they were stupid. No, Dean remembers how very smart Alistair was in Hell. Thirty fucking years in Hell and the bastard finally learned. Looking back, he was surprised that he hadn't figured it out sooner.
When he'd opened his eyes (when his eyelids had grown back; "like magic"), the first thing he'd seen had been Sammy. His Sammy. His heart had clenched and he immediately struggled in the bindings he'd been in for almost three decades. And just like the previous thousand and fucking plus one times, they hadn't relented. Sam was not even ten feet from where he stood chained to the rack, the look that Dean had sworn to himself that he'd rather fucking die than see. It was Sam's "Please, Dean. I'm so fucking scared and I don't know what to do. Please big brother, help me" face. Dean felt nerve endings that he had once thought dead, spark to life at his fingertips, as he itched to run to his brother; to make sure everything was all right. Of course he knew everything wasn't all right. Sammy, his Sammy, was in Hell.
He remembers fighting and fighting to get to Sam, even when his eyes had ran over his brother's form, naked and kneeling, checking for injuries (always the good soldier). Dean remembers not remembering when three demons appeared behind Sam and yanked his hair back, exposing his throat. Dean remembers hearing the broken whimper (De, help me; please), as one of the demons leaned forward and traced a path from Sam's collarbone to his ear with his tongue. Dean remembers jumping when Alistair's voice sounded next to his ear, demanding for him to keep an eye on the show (you're not gonna wanna miss this, Winchester). He remembers the broken gasps and cries of pain, as the demons; all three of them, shoved their way inside of his brother, laughing and licking and ignoring the blood and pain. Dean remembers hanging limp on the rack, screaming himself hoarse (Please! Sam! Sammy! No, get away from him, you fuckers! I swear to God, I'm going to kill you! I'm going to rip you apart!). He remembers the demons continuing, without ceasing, as Alistair forced him to keep his eyes on Sammy, as his brother lay unmoving (Please, Alistair! I'll do an-anything, I swear. Just stop-stop. Sammy! Sam…please…). He remembers the offer whispered in his ear like oil and grease and the lick along the shell of his ear as he agreed (Just make it stop. Make Sammy better). And, it had stopped. Dean remembers getting off of the rack, his wounds still gaping, but Sam had been gone; just like Alistair had promised.
When he'd been raised from the Pit, Dean had locked himself into the bathroom in the shit motel he'd found Sammy at, stripped bare and inspected every inch of himself. He had expected to see welts and raised scars; gaping wounds that he could feel as if they were really there. But there had been nothing. Nothing except the print of an angel on his arm which showed his weakness in not being able to get himself out of the shithole he'd so willingly put himself in. There had been no scaring; no scars at all. None of the scars he'd received from the hunts before he'd been sent to Hell and none from being in the Pit. But, even though no one could see the scars, Dean knew they were there. He knew because he remembers.
Dean wished he didn't remember. The liquor didn't stop the memories or the looks from Sam; like he knew. Even though he told Sammy that he didn't remember Hell, he knew Sam didn't believe him. Dean knew about the nightmares and the looks his brother gave him in the morning when he brushed by him into the bathroom (Gotta take a piss, Sammy-boy; don't need you to hold my hand for that) made him aware that Sammy knew about them, too. He ignored it, though; because Winchesters learned how to ignore things and carry on. He ignored it through a handful of hunts that gave him new scars and covered it with drunken stumbles and slurs when he could. Even when Sammy learned that he knew about Hell, despite knowing beforehand, Dean ignored it. But then he couldn't because Anna had done something to him and he'd revealed to Sammy on the side of the road to Bum-Fuck, Nowheresville what had happened.
He remembers Sam's hiss of breath, as if to say, "Dammit, Dean. I'm so fucking sorry", but he'd stopped him from saying anything. What could he fucking say to make it all better? Later, when they'd checked into another seedy motel that didn't ask questions when they stumbled their way into their room covered in blood and other shit that Dean didn't want to spend too much time thinking about, he shoved his way into the bathroom, threw his clothes onto the floor and moved under the crappy stream of water. Ignoring everything that had happened earlier that day (I wish I didn't feel a damn thing…). Dean remembers keeping his head down when he exited the bathroom and moved over to his bed (always closest to the door; always gotta protect Sammy), shoving his spoiled clothes in a black trashbag that they would have to burn later and climbing into the bed, his back away from his brother. He heard the shower go on and let out a shaky breath.
Dean remembers not being aware of falling asleep while Sam was in the shower (it's not in a soldier's genetics to lose his bearings on his surroundings), but he jolts awake when he feels a body slip into bed behind him. Dean doesn't remember when the light had been turned off or when the A/C had kicked on, but he does remember tensing up to his brother's arms sliding around him so fucking bad that his toes felt it.
"Sammy, the fuck are you doing? Get your own bed, Princess."
Dean remembers Sam's arms tightening around him and pulling him so that he felt solid chest against his trembling back.
"No."
Dean remembers trying to pull away, his breaths shortening and panic setting in.
"What? Don't you fucking 'no' me, Sammy. Get the fuck out of my bed or I will kick your ever-loving ass!"
Dean remembers Sam tucking his head into the middle of his back, of warm breath puffing out against the bare skin there.
"No. Go to sleep, Dean."
"Sammy, get out–"
"Dean, go to sleep."
Dean remembers sheets shuffling and harsh breathing.
"Sam-Sammy, please. Just, go. I can't, I just–"
"No. M'not going anywhere."
Dean remembers a pair of soft lips kiss the back of his neck and another puff of breath, steadier this time, move across his back.
"Sammy…"
"Sleep, De. I'll be here when you wake up. Not going anywhere."
Dean remembers the nickname doing something to him that caused all fight to drain out of his tired (so fucking tired, Sammy) body, as he relaxed into the bed and back into the solid body behind him. He remembers falling asleep beside Sammy, his Sammy, and not dreaming a single, bad, fucking thing for the first time since rising from the Pit.
Not going anywhere, De.
Okay, Sammy. Okay.