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SHARDS, SHREDS, SCRAPS
Routine
by
Sade Lyrate
Dean gasps, flinches, as the antiseptic first touches the skin of
his back. After letting out a hiss, he hardly shivers, breaths
pronouncedly deep and steady, catching on occasion, knuckles nearly
white as they grasp the bed covers.
Sam works as fast and
efficiently as he can.
The lashes aren't deep, or wide, but they are many.
He keeps talking, clinically telling Dean the extent of the damage, what he's doing, what he will do. That's the routine. He talks to keep his brother with him, to keep himself distant and sharp, to keep track of the injuries.
When he finishes, Dean sighs and slumps, his whole body trembling. Sam tries to get him to drink, then helps him lie down. Green eyes hide behind heavy lids and his body relaxes, consciousness finally fleeing like a bird its cage. Breath settles, fingers twitch, sleep takes over.
Sitting on his own bed, Sam looks at his brother, runs his hands over his face, through his hair, eyes rising to glance at the window. He knows there are sirens, blue and red lights furiously swirling in their emergency dance. He can't hear them, see them, but he knows they're there.
At times like these, he feels the darkness ever so slightly
closer, the scream reverberating in his bones, a trashing dragon
trapped and bound.
He knows, once he lets it out, there's no
turning back.
But once he lets it out, there won't be anything to
turn back to.