Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made—this story is just for fun.
Spoilers: All of Season one and Season two— specifically "Everybody Loves a Clown" and "Born Under a Bad Sign"
Summary: Dean's physical and emotional boundaries are broken. Sam does his best to hold everything together.
Characters/Pairing: Gen, Sam and Dean, but very "smarmy"
Rating: R for language, horrific imagery and graphic descriptions
Warnings: Okay, gang, this is not a cookie-cutter warning. This chapter is particularly gross with somewhat graphic descriptions of a medical procedure. I don't think it's any more explicit than an episode of ER, but everyone reacts to things differently. Use your own judgment.
This story includes: hurt!Dean, mpreg, demons, horror, graphic descriptions. Though mpreg, it's not Wincest or slash. Some might consider this to be "pre-wincest" as the brothers have a very close relationship. Read at your own discretion.
A/N: Please read the warnings! Credit must go to Pinetranio, who was the test audience for this fic. Thank you!
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Eviscerated
By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)
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It was a slow, agonizing crawl through glass. In some ways it seemed easier just to fall, just to give up.
But he remembered that someone loved him once… that that someone might still. He couldn't feel it though, couldn't feel anything through the despair.
It felt like another lifetime, like a memory from someone else's life that he unfolded from time to time. Someone kept reminding him that it wasn't someone else's life— It was his life and he could get back there again if he dared to try.
And so he kept crawling, little by little, trying not to hemorrhage along the way.
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Chapter Three
It was quiet in the operating room in the minutes just before. Nothing but small blips from the heart rate monitor and the slight clink of metal instruments being fastidiously counted on the tray filled the room.
Not unlike the moment before a hunt, Sam felt a little thrill of anticipation shoot through him. This was somehow worse, going in with both eyes open, knowing exactly what was to come instead of running high on adrenaline and skill and luck, rolling with whatever came at him. It gave him time to think about and fear the outcome.
Dean was quiet, his eyes closed though he was not asleep, but for a moment Sam pretended that he was merely sleeping, blurring his eyes so that Dean was an unfocused shape before him without any wires or IV lines or hospital gown.
No matter what he did, Sam could not shake the bad feeling he had about this. Jim's a well trained medical professional and we're in a sterilized clinic with many medical technologies at our disposal, Sam reasoned silently. We've been in worse circumstances than this and lived to tell the tale.
Still— Sam's precognitive abilities made him wonder if this feeling souring his gut was indeed a premonition or just plain old-fashioned anxiety.
With a small gesture, Jim beckoned Sam towards him. The doctor's serious demeanor had returned, his eyes a steely blue.
"I'll be right back," Sam said to Dean, hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Dean opened his eyes and nodded, but remained silent.
Brief and right to the point, Jim gave him simple and clear instructions. "Sit facing him beside the table. Do whatever you can for him. Don't let Dean see what I'm doing— distract him if you can. And don't you turn around either."
Sam nodded. He didn't want to see his brother's insides splayed out on the table beside him.
"I'll tell you directly if I need your help," Jim said. "But you must do what I ask without question. Hesitation could cost Dean his life." He glanced from Sam to Dean a slight frown on his face. "I'm not sure what to do with it once it's extricated."
"When you get it out," Sam said, looking pointedly at the basin of holy water on the floor, "drown it."
Jim looked up at Sam, startled by his quiet spitefulness and nodded grimly. Sam had to trust that Jim could at least handle the demon until he'd gotten it out of Dean. There was no way to know if the rakshasa would come out defenseless or with claws bared, but Sam was prepared for both.
"It'll probably smoke," Sam warned. "It might even try to fight you, but don't let it distract you from Dean. I'll take care of it, you work on my brother."
With that they both turned towards the table. This was it. There was no turning back now.
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As per Jim's instructions, Sam pulled a stool up beside the table, his bag of supplies at his feet. Dean did not look at him as he sat down, instead keeping his gaze focused on the ceiling.
Jim scrubbed Dean's abdomen with antiseptic solution, and placed blue, sterile sheets over his belly. One of the sheets was then elevated to create a screen to block Dean's view of the procedure. "I'm injecting your abdomen with lidocain," Jim said.
Sam saw his jaw clench, but otherwise there was no reaction from his brother.
The doctor checked Dean's vitals, noting that they were strong, as he waited for the anesthetic to take effect. Prodding Dean's stomach with a needle, Jim asked if he could feel the prick.
"Not really," Dean said, stare still focused straight up.
Jim frowned. "How do you feel?"
"Tired," Dean replied, "but not out of it or anything."
Jim added another dose of morphine to the IV. "This should do it," he said, disappearing around the sheet divider. "You should be feeling pretty good right about now."
Staring down at his brother, Sam was suddenly struck by how small he looked lying there on the table. Despite his brave front, Dean was nervous, hands fisting and unfisting restlessly at his sides.
"Remember that time in Madison when I was seven and I was convinced that there was a demon in our toaster?" Sam said, wanting to draw Dean's attention— and his own—away from the present situation.
Dean acquiesced a little smile and said, "You were so insistent— didn't matter I told you to forget it— had to figure it out for yourself."
Sam beamed, continuing the story, "Doused the thing with holy water and blew the fuse for the entire building..."
As he spoke, Sam was keenly aware of Jim working just behind his turned back, but he couldn't allow himself even the smallest glance. He didn't want to know what Jim was doing to his brother.
But his other senses betrayed him. The scent of singed flesh filled the small room— Jim had cauterized the edges of the incision he'd made. And they could both hear the sounds of the doctor operating on Dean. Sam schooled his features, refusing to show his dread to his brother.
He kept talking, filling the present with stories from their past. Dean's brows drew together suddenly, his eyes pressing shut. He shuddered a breath, trying to keep back a grunt of pain.
"Dean?" Sam asked. "You're not feeling that are you?" But his question was answered when Dean gasped, his face screwed up, fingers curling for some sort of leverage against the table.
Clasping his hand with a firm grip, Sam gave Dean something to hold on to. Sam twisted around and caught Jim's eye over the blue divider. He looked just as confused as Sam did.
While the lidocain had numbed the surface layers of skin tissue, the morphine seemed to be only mildly effective now that the doctor was working deeper.
Sam leaned over Dean, a hand tightly entwined in his, the other rubbing gently at his shoulder. Dean clenched his jaw, and had an iron grip on Sam's hand. His breath came in shaky gasps. Sweat trickled down his forehead and Sam palmed it away.
"Oh, God," Dean breathed, a helpless whimper escaping his lips.
"I thought you gave him morphine?" Sam growled over his shoulder. Seeing Dean suffer made his stomach turn and his heart hurt in violent sympathy. He wanted nothing more than to make his brother stop hurting, to reach down and take this agony away, smooth away the lines of pain deeply etched in his face.
"I've given him as much morphine as I safely can," Jim said, eyebrows drawn together. "He just shouldn't be in this much pain." Then his eyes widened in realization, looking from Dean to his swollen stomach. "Oh, God, it's the demon— it must be like a parasite— it's leeching everything from him, anything in his blood stream."
Helpless frustration stung Sam's eyes as he whispered soothing words in his brother's ear. "Hold on, Dean. You can do it. Just hold onto me." Sam couldn't imagine the torture this was for Dean.
"Some of it must be circulating through," Jim said. "The demon can't be taking all the morphine or Dean wouldn't be able to stand it."
"Give him more," Sam demanded. "You can't do this to him— it's torture."
"Sam, it's unsafe—."
"Do something goddamnit!" Sam shouted.
Jim raised a gloved hand, blood glistening on his fingers. "I don't want to leave him open and unattended," he said. "You'll have to do it." Jim nodded towards the table with the instruments on it. "There's a small glass bottle and a syringe on the tray there. Get them and I'll talk you through it."
Sam swallowed but moved to comply. "Dean," Sam began, untangling his fingers from Dean's but then catching his hand in a firm grip. "I'll be right—."
"Got ears," Dean grunted. "Go."
Sam gave him a final squeeze before hurrying to the instrument table. He was very careful to keep his gaze on the morphine, not wanting to look past the privacy screen. Under Jim's vigilant watch, Sam filled the syringe, following his instructions to the letter and injected the dosage into the IV bag.
Quickly, he returned to his brother's side, taking up his hand again and wiping away more sweat from his brow.
"Dean, talk to us," Jim said. "That morphine should take effect in a few minutes."
"Gonna be… sick," Dean murmured.
"No, you're not," Sam replied, as if he could talk Dean out of it. "Just breathe."
There, of course, was no going back. Jim had no choice but to forge ahead with the procedure, despite the distress Dean was in, for stopping now would certainly mean his death. Sam thought suddenly of battlefield medicine where circumstances allowed amputations and field-surgery to be performed without the benefit of anesthesia.
It was beyond sickening, but Dean could survive it. Sam would help him through it.
Dean moaned through clenched teeth, trying desperately to hold it back. Sam leaned down close, running his fingers through Dean's close-cropped hair. "Yell if you want to. It's only me."
Throat working to suppress a cry, Dean whispered, "M'dizzy," his eyes lazily finding Sam's then rolling shut.
"Hey, man, stay with me," Sam said, gripping his brother's hand tightly.
Sam shot a look over his shoulder at the doctor and instantly wished he hadn't— there was blood splattered across his blue scrubs and his brow was furrowed in intense concentration.
Turning back to Dean, eyebrows drawn together, he asked, "Is the morphine helping at all?"
Dean gave a little nod, saying, "A-a little," and both recognized it for the lie it was. Perhaps it had dulled the pain a little, but it was not enough to erase it completely, not with the demon still attached to Dean's circulatory system.
They heard the doctor gasp— he'd found the demon. "I see it," Jim said. He glanced over the privacy screen and said, "Here we go."
Jim stepped up, his head and shoulders rising above the sheet divider as he put all his weight on Dean's abdomen, attempting to push the demon out.
"Sam," Dean breathed, voice breaking against the single syllable and Sam's heart broke against it too. With a litany of nonsensical words and gentle touches, Sam struggled to soothe him.
Dean threw his head to the side, choking back a sob as the doctor tugged— they could hear the awful squelching sounds as he pulled out the demon.
"Oh, Jesus," Dean gasped. "Oh—."
"Don't look," Sam said. Leaning over his brother, Sam used his broad shoulders to shield Dean's view, even though he couldn't see over the privacy screen anyway. Gently, he took Dean's face in his hands, and said, "Focus on me."
With a moan, Dean pressed his eyes shut, breathing through gritted teeth, trying his hardest not to cry out. Sam smoothed his hand over his scalp and down the side, cupping his face, his thumb fitting just alongside his jaw.
"Sam," Jim said quickly, "I need that container now."
As Sam reached down and lifted the bucket from the floor, he got his first glimpse of the thing that was killing his brother. The demon was encased in an embryonic-like sac, it's own womb growing around it, bedfellow to Dean's body. It was covered in blood and fluid, moving grotesquely beneath the thin skin, its long, sharp talons protruding out as it struggled.
Appalled, Sam realized that the rakshasa would have ripped through Dean's body with little trouble— Dean would have had no chance of surviving the birth had the demon gotten itself out.
The morphine the rakshasa had stolen from Dean lulled the demon so it did not shriek or fight nearly half as desperately as it could have when the doctor dropped it into the holy water.
It smoked and bubbled instantly, but Sam, ruthless against the thing that had ravaged his brother, slammed down the lid with a devil's trap drawn on it and kicked the bucket away from the operating table. It rolled away, spinning until it hit the wall on the opposite side of the room. The demon's cries were loud but dwindling.
Sam returned to Dean instantly, taking his hands firmly into his own. "It's out, Dean," Sam said, bringing a hand to wipe the sweat from his brother's brow. "That thing is out." But Dean wasn't lucid, his body trembling in shock, breath drawn in ragged gasps.
"Dean?" Sam asked, horror stabbing at his heart.
"Shit," he heard the doctor say tersely.
"What is it?" Sam asked, turning his ear towards the doctor, but careful not to look.
"The demon's done a bit of damage," he said. "He's bleeding out."
Sam was suddenly aware of the grip slackening between his fingers. "No. No, Dean—you hang on good and tight."
"Sammy…," Dean trailed, his eyes falling shut.
"Keep your eyes open," Sam commanded, gripping him tightly. "Dean, stay with me!" But Dean didn't respond as he grayed before him, lying frighteningly still on the exam table.
"Sam, I need you here," the doctor said. "Now."
Scrambling around to the operating side of the table, Sam was simply horrified. There, on the table, was a basin containing the bulk of his brother's intestines. Blood spilled gruesomely over the side and onto the floor, slicking the doctor's hands, which were both submerged into his brother. Sam could see into his brother, could see the pink and red layers of tissue—
God, this was his brother—
This is Dean— hisDean— his insides— ohgodohgod—
"Sam, snap out of it!"
Oh, Dean, oh please—
"God," Sam whispered, feeling nausea rise in his throat. He wanted to be sick, but he couldn't— there was no time for that— Dean's dying— Get it together, Winchester.
Sam swallowed, closing his eyes tight, forcing his mind to clear. Setting his horror aside— he'd deal with that later— he stepped up beside the doctor, keeping his focus low, not wanting to see any of it, but knowing he had no choice. If Dean could endure this, then so could Sam.
"I need you to have things ready as I need them," the doctor said. "Put on a pair of gloves. Get that clamp on the end there. Have the gauze ready after that."
Sam wanted to look away, but, like watching a ten-car pile up on the highway, found he couldn't turn his eyes from the gruesome sight.
Fumbling into a pair of rubber gloves, he rushed the instrument tray and grabbed "the clamp on the end" and a surgical sponge. Hands shaking, Sam did his best to assist the doctor.
Jim grabbed the sponge, leaving a wake of bloody fingerprints on Sam. "Damn it," Jim growled. "I can't let go." He looked at Sam. "I need you to apply pressure so I can clamp off the bleeding."
Sam nodded, trying to keep his mind blank as took another sponge and stuck his fingers into the incision— into Dean— where Jim currently had his.
"Damn it," Jim cursed again. "I can't see what I'm doing— See that blood filling up around my fingers?" Of course Sam saw that blood. That blood was Dean's life pooling about Jim's hands. "You've got to keep that back," Jim said.
With forced detachment, Sam watched as red surged around his fingers. Dean's blood felt hot even through the rubber gloves, seeming to burn Sam, searing his hands so that the stain of it would always be on them. Counting backwards from five hundred, he distracted his mind with numbers, repeating them over and over in a desperate effort to keep his sanity.
There was a tense moment that expanded into eternity, where Sam didn't dare speak as Jim worked intently on his brother. It was this moment that could change everything. Jim held not only Dean's life in his hands, but Sam's as well, for Sam could no longer imagine himself without Dean by his side. Sam held his breath and prayed.
"I got it," Jim said finally. "Take your hands away."
Despite his compulsory calm, Sam's painted hands were shaking as he pulled them back.
"Check his pulse and breathing," Jim directed.
Numbly, Sam moved to the other side of the privacy screen, seeing his brother's bloodless, pallid complexion and became suddenly inept, all sense fleeing from his mind. Staring at Dean lying there looking like a corpse, he blinked, trying to remember what to do. His brain was broken. You can't die— you can't— God, I touched your insides— Dean— don't die—
"Sam," Jim said calmly. "Tell me what the blood pressure monitor says."
Squinting at the little machine behind the exam table, Sam read, "Eighty over sixty," knowing somewhere in the recesses of his brain that that wasn't good.
"Now check his breathing," Jim instructed. Sam stepped closer and watched for the familiar rise and fall of chest, but wasn't sure he was seeing it. Panic ransacking through his chest, Sam moved closer still, stooping low over Dean and turning his ear towards his mouth. He felt soft breath sweep over his cheek and Sam in turn released the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
"He's breathing," Sam confirmed, turning toward the blue divider in time to hear something splat from the other side. Jim had removed something else from his brother.
Jesus, the afterbirth, Sam thought, biting his tongue to distract from the queasiness roiling his stomach.
"I need you to do one more thing," Jim said as he worked.
Heart pounding in his ears, Sam nodded, knowing he'd do anything Jim asked, even if it meant crossing to the other side of that divider and once again seeing his brother gutted on the table.
"I need you to attach a saline bag to his IV," Jim said. "I'll tell you what to do."
But he couldn't do it yet— there was blood all over his hands. Quickly, Sam tore off the rubber gloves and whipped them into the trashcan. Then he methodically followed Jim's instructions and attached a new bag of solution to the hookup.
Once again taking up his place beside Dean, Sam felt aged. He couldn't bring himself to touch his brother, not after everything. As Jim worked, undoubtedly sewing Dean back up, Sam tried to keep his mind perfectly blank.
Nothing was decidedly better than something because undoubtedly something would remind Sam of Dean and he couldn't handle thinking about him right now. Even counting numbers was no longer a good distraction because it only made him think of how low Dean's blood pressure was from hemorrhaging all over the place— All over my hands—
"It's done," Jim said quietly. He came around and assessed Dean's vitals himself before snapping off the bloodied rubber gloves and dropping them in the trash. Sam tracked his movements, watching him go about the room, checking on various machines.
Placing a hand on Sam's shoulder, Jim said, "Help me move him."
Mutely, Sam complied, hunkering low over the bed, sliding his hands under Dean, mindful of his IV line. Together, they moved Dean and it destroyed Sam to take his once strong brother into his arms and lay his now fragile form to a cot.
Sam surveyed him, taking in the scene with a clinical eye. Dean looked massacred. Deep, life-affording red darkened the hospital johnny and stained his pale skin. Sam wondered idly how many pints he had lost and how long it would take for his body to regenerate them.
Lost in thought, Sam nearly jumped when Jim came up beside him. He shoved a pair of clean scrubs into his arms and ushered him into the bathroom with a firm hand at the small of his back. "Go clean up," he said with a small smile. "You'll feel better," and Jim closed the door behind him.
Shell-shocked, Sam stood numbly in the cool, quiet bathroom, not quite understanding what he was meant to do now. He caught sight of himself in the mirror— smothered in Dean's blood and his face so pale he might as well have been the one who nearly bled to death on the operation table. Suddenly his gut twisted and everything wanted to come back up.
He lurched for the toilet, vomiting the meager contents of his stomach. Gripping the side of the bowl, he gagged, tears streaming down his cheeks as his body tried to expel the wretchedness inside him.
Blowing out a steady breath, and then another, Sam went to task, stripping out of the bloodied scrubs and stepping into a clean set. He scrubbed his face and hands in the sink until he couldn't stand the hot water any longer.
Sam should have felt relief, but instead he felt heavy as if his insides had turned to lead. It was over. Dean had been saved… hadn't he? That feeling of foreboding that Sam had felt prior to the operation had not eased now that it was over.
What's been done to you? Sam thought miserably. What have I done to you? He felt as if he'd delivered Dean into the mouths of wolves.
Feeling his edges fraying, Sam couldn't let himself think about what had just happened— what he had helped to happen—
He emerged from the bathroom, bracing himself to reenter the operating room, but he saw that the room was empty— no Dean, no Jim. Blood splattered across the space like the front line of a battlefield. In a way, a battle had been fought there.
"Sam, we're in here," Jim called, his voice coming from exam room four. Sam walked to the room, stopping at the threshold, peering in.
While Sam had been inside the bathroom, Jim had taken the opportunity to clean Dean up, removing the stained johnny and replacing it with a clean blood-free one. He'd washed the blood from his brother's body and places where Sam's touch marked red fingerprints on his skin.
All tangible evidence of the torturous procedure had been removed but the horror still lingered in Sam, he still saw the gruesome wounds when he looked at Dean.
Sinking into a chair beside the bed, Sam watched the rise and fall of Dean's chest. He cleared his throat and asked, "How's he doing?"
"He's okay," Jim said. "Stable."
"What's this?" Sam asked, gesturing to the IV and the new bag hooked up to it.
Jim paused before explaining, "It's more saline. His blood pressure is still low."
Sam straightened in his chair. "Give him mine," he offered. "We have the same type."
Jim smiled sadly. "It doesn't work that way, Sam. I can't just give him blood that's untested, even if you are his brother."
My blood is unclean, though I doubt any medical test would show it. Biting his lip, Sam's gaze dropped to the floor. God knows what demon infected blood would do to him. He couldn't help Dean anymore; there was nothing else he could do but wait.
"Sam, why don't you get some rest," Jim suggested. "I know I said it before, but you'll be no good to him exhausted."
"I want to be with him," he insisted. "I know I won't sleep."
The doctor nodded. "I'll be cleaning up," he said. "But you should get some rest if you can. Let me know if you need anything."
Jim set up another cot beside Dean and left Sam with simple instructions. "Keep an eye on his temperature," he said, gesturing to the machine. "If his temperature increases any more than a few points, you come and get me." Sam nodded as he sunk into the cot.
"If he wakes up, talk to him, see how he's feeling, and then get me," Jim said. "He'll probably need another dose of morphine."
"Of course," Sam replied.
Jim clapped him on the shoulder. "You did real good, son," he said. "I know it must have been difficult, seeing your brother like that, but you couldn't have done more to save him."
Sam nodded again, swallowing with difficulty. He didn't want to think about it. Jim had not changed and his scrubs still bore witness to the life and death struggle that had taken place in the operating room.
"I'll just be in the next room," he said and left them alone, closing the door behind him on his way out.
Exhaustion pulled at Sam, forming tension in his skull. He lay down next to Dean and tried to rest, but his mind wouldn't stop— he couldn't stop seeing the horrific images of the surgery and he knew Dean wasn't out of the woods yet.
In desperate need of the contact, he wanted to reach across and take Dean's wrist, feel his pulse beat beneath his fingers, but found that he couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead, he curled into himself and watched his brother sleep.
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There was fire alive in his body, burning in a rhythm like a heartbeat. I've died. I'm in Hell, and he wanted to laugh but he was afraid it would come out as a sob. Something skittered on the edge of his peripherals and it took all his concentration to center.
Horror and nausea overwhelmed him— No way, not doing this now, Dean thought, numbly throwing the off switch in his brain.
A shadowy ceiling came into soft view as the world came back to Dean. Through a pall of pain, his eyes focused to see his brother standing grimly over him.
"Hey," Dean rasped, throat parched as the desert. He swallowed thickly. It hurt to speak. Fuck, it hurts to think.
"Hey," Sam said, his voice pulled tight. His entire presence was dark, like a shroud veiling his being.
Dean narrowed his eyes, straining to see his little brother through it. "…s'it over?" he asked, trying to understand. Something is storming in that brain of his.
Sam nodded, trying to avoid the hazel eyes that appraised him now. A little more clarity appeared in his mind, and Dean saw how ancient his little brother looked— aged decades in a few hours.
"Sam?" he asked, a tacit uncertainty in the single word.
Sam turned away suddenly, hand pressed to his mouth as he strangled a sob in his throat. The wretched sound stabbed at Dean's heart with spears of ice.
"Sammy…" Dean whispered. A driving force ripped through him— Sammy needs me— but his wrecked body wouldn't obey his command and he couldn't get to his brother. Anger and uselessness reared up in him, but Dean shelved it, his brother's pain more important than his own. Can't fall apart. Gotta keep my game face.
"C'mere," Dean pleaded and he outstretched his hand, raising it weakly from the cot. "Tell me."
Sam stooped low, taking Dean's hand and pressing it to his chest as he leaned close. "You were spread out all over the table," Sam said, voice trembling, sounding small and frightened, like the little brother of Dean's memories. "You almost died."
"But I didn't," Dean said. "Still here." God, the kid had to see it, Dean thought. I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm so sorry. No wonder he looked as if he'd aged a hundred years.
"You're not through it yet," Sam said. "Recovery from this isn't going to be easy. You had major surgery here, Dean."
"Gonna be okay?" he asked with a trace of worry. Feel like I'm dying.
"You're gonna be fine," Sam replied quickly, then a little smile quirked his lips. "But you can't give birth to anymore babies."
Dean breathed a chuckle, scowling in pain as the slight exertion of it sent lightning bolts torching through his gut.
"Don't plan on it," Dean said with a ghost of a smile. "S'your turn next anyway."
"We'll adopt," Sam replied, forcing a smile at his little joke.
Searching Sam's face, Dean saw a portrait of grief and guilt and he couldn't understand why.
As if reading his thoughts, Sam asked, "You remember what happened?"
Every excruciating detail, Dean thought. "Some of it," he replied. "Don't remember the demon coming out."
Sam nodded as if that was to be expected.
"So what did happen, Sammy?" Dean asked.
Sam froze, eyes filling with horror. "Let's not talk about it now," he said. "You feeling okay, man?"
Even as decimated as he was, Dean knew question-dodging when he heard it. "Drugs are wearing off," Dean said.
Alarmed, Sam jumped to his feet, a mixture of anger and fear rushing his steps. "Why didn't you say something sooner? I'll get Jim." And he hurried out before Dean could say another word.
When thinking back on it later, Dean would never be able to say exactly what or how it had happened, only that it had been overwhelming from the first.
As Sam left, horror descended upon Dean like a bird of prey swooping after a field mouse, sudden, unexpected and deadly. A tidal wave of emotion blindsided him, so staggering and startling that he lay there awestruck that he could even feel sentiment that deep, that distraught—
Oh, God— Oh, God—
It was as if that wall he'd constructed between himself and everything else had snapped inside of him and all the things he couldn't deal with were spilling out, despair seeping through his veins in place of blood.
To be continued…
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Author's note:
So… everybody still here? I hope so!
Thanks very much for the reviews-- I love hearing from you! Keep them coming please:) I'm in grad school now and I will try for regular updates. Who else can't wait for season 3 to start? raises hand (Even though I know my other fic ideas will get Kripke'd before I have a chance to write them!)
I am also posting this on my LJ (griseldajane . livejournal . com) if you prefer to read it that way. Friending welcome!
Thanks for reading. See you next chapter.
- Li