HE AIN'T HEAVY
Vague spoilers for Season 8. My vision of the condition Dean might have been in when he came back from the 'P' place.
An extension of my drabble 'Not Quite Haute Cuisine'.
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When Dean came back from purgatory, it wasn't just a question of the injuries and traumatic memories that came back with him that Sam concerned himself with; but it was what he didn't come back with that shocked Sam the most.
Sam estimated that Dean must have dropped at least fifty pounds over a year of subsisting on whatever scraps he could scavenge in the forests of purgatory. He didn't even want to think about what kind of gastronomical delights that must have included.
He had also noticed that Dean slept a lot; lack of energy Sam supposed; it was hardly surprising given the physical evidence.
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The evening's hazy moonlight glowed across Dean's bare back as he lay face down asleep in his rumpled bed, bringing into sharp and terrible relief the devastating weight loss. His skin had taken on a translucent quality, so thin and bloodless through lack of sunlight and nutrition that in the moonlight's pale glow, he looked like a figure carved from ivory
His shoulder-blades, highlighted starkly against the shadowy contours of his ribs and spine, looked distressingly sharp and fleshless, and Sam, against his better judgement, couldn't help but stare down at the emaciated remnants of the man his brother used to be.
Dean's shoulders, once so broad and muscular, looked sunken and bony, barely able to take the weight of the two diminished arms that hung from them, cradling his canted head as he slept.
Although Dean had hardly ever had an ounce of fat on him, he had never been what could be described as a lightweight. He had always been stocky; Sam had always known him as a strong, rock-solid presence, far heavier than he ever looked.
Craving reassurance, Sam felt himself reach down and brush fingertips along his brother's unfamiliarly prominent spine; a soothing gesture of care and unity. He looked away with stinging eyes, biting his lip as he felt each ridge of the vertebrae, like pebbles along a lonely track.
It wasn't that Dean didn't want to eat; his appetite definitely hadn't left the building. In fact it was as healthy and fertile as ever, but it was simply that he couldn't. His stomach was so wasted that Sam knew his recovery could be set back weeks by one mouthful of the greasy salt-laden crap he had previously shovelled down his gullet with carefree abandon.
A healing diet of healthy, bland nutrition was in order, and not just for a day or two either. The process of rebuilding Dean couldn't be rushed, and Sam had no intention of rushing. He sighed, knowing he was setting himself up for weeks of arguments, sulking, snarking and dragging Dean away from every burger, hot-dog and pizza joint in sight.
It was going to drive him nuts; he'd probably want to strangle Dean at least once every day, and twice on Sundays.
But it would all be worth it. With every ounce gained, Dean would gradually regain his strength, and the great slabbish jerk that was Sam's brother would replace this ruined, emaciated figure in the bed before him.
In the meantime, Sam would long for that day.
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He pulled the comforter up over Dean's bony shoulders and walked over to the kitchen cupboard to examine the contents.
Oatmeal, honey, wholemeal bread, orange juice and bananas – that would be Dean's breakfast tomorrow; no cold pizza for the foreseeable future.
Oh boy, this was gonna be fun.
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end