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: MAJOR Crack!fic (well, I think it is anyway), hurt!Dean, mpreg, demons, horror, graphic descriptions— think ER on SPN!crack. This story, while mpreg, is 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 Pine tranio, who was the test audience for this fic. Thank you!
o0o00O00o0o
Eviscerated
By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)
o0o00O00o0o
His ears roared as he flung open the screen door, knowing already that he was too late. A trail of red blood slicked the tile.
"Oh, God," Sam whispered, horrified. "What have you done?"
o0o00O00o0o
Chapter Four
The back steps of the clinic were sun-baked, the warmth seeping into Sam as he sat on the top step, staring out at the two cars in the small parking lot. The Impala sat next to Jim's rusty pick-up, dusty and neglected. He couldn't help but look over the classic car— Dean's baby —and think of his brother with sudden sharpness.
It had been two days since the surgery. In that time, Dean had slept mostly, a combination of painkillers and physical defeat yielding consciousness to slumber. His body was weak from excessive blood loss and any movement that pulled on his split stomach caused him pain. Jim had not been joking when he said major surgery.
Sam had to help him with even the simplest tasks. The surgery had cut straight through his abdominal muscles and he couldn't so much as sit up without Sam's assistance.
"He needs to walk around," Jim had said, little more than a few hours after the surgery.
"He can't walk," Sam had scoffed, aghast. "He was just butchered in your backroom— He can barely sit up."
"Sam, proper blood flow and circulation needs to be encouraged or else a blood clot could form," the doctor explained. "I'm not asking him to do the Boston Marathon— He just needs to stand up and walk for a few minutes. You'll have to help him."
A rueful smile crossed his lips. "Dean's not going to like that."
"He's not going to have a choice," the doctor had said. "If he wants the best recovery possible, he'll do it. The truth of it is he won't be able to do much of anything on his own for a while."
It wasn't until Sam had actually helped Dean to move from the bed that he realized just how decimated his brother truly was. His movements were slow and timid as if standing was new, uncharted territory.
Stooping over him, one hand at Dean's waist, and the other guiding Dean's arm across his shoulders, Sam wished he wasn't so much taller than his brother. He could feel Dean shaking, his body struggling against the simple effort of walking.
"Jesus," Dean gasped, hand instantly pressed to his abdomen.
"What is it?" Sam asked, half afraid of the answer.
"Insides feel like they're falling out," Dean whispered.
Sam paled, flashing back to seeing Dean's intestines outside of his body.
"Go slow and they won't," Jim instructed. "Don't worry, it's normal to feel that way after this type of surgery."
Normal, Sam had thought. There's nothing normal about any of this.
It seemed like a lifetime ago when things were any kind of normal for the Winchesters. Squinting into the sun, Sam tried to remember what was normal, even for them. He'd spent so much of his life wishing for ordinary and now he could no longer tell what was and what wasn't. The line that had once been so clear and black and rigid was now a smudged gray blur.
Feeling suddenly lonely, Sam realized he missed his brother. While Dean was physically there, he was not really present. It was strange to be with Dean and miss him at the same time. Sam found that he wanted crude comments, brother baiting and the endless barrage of classic rock. But mostly, he yearned for his brother's reassuring presence at his shoulder, that feeling of being protected, that Sam hadn't even realized Dean still provided him.
Pulling out his phone, Sam dialed Bobby's number. "It's done," Sam said simply, when Bobby answered.
He okay?
"He'll live," Sam asserted, and then a pause, "It was awful." Bobby didn't say anything, but he didn't have to for Sam to know that he understood how awful it truly was.
"I— Dean— he's going to be out of it for some time," Sam said. "Could be months."
You could use some downtime, Bobby replied.
"If you hadn't recommended Jim—," Sam stopped, not wanting to voice the then consequence. He cleared this throat and said, "I can't thank you enough."
No thanks necessary, Sam. When Dean's ready you should come out here, Bobby offered. You know I've got the room and I certainly wouldn't mind the company.
"We really appreciate it, Bobby," Sam said, not knowing what else to say.
Take care of yourself, too, Sam.
"Yeah," Sam said softly as he flipped the phone shut.
A warm summer breeze drifted over him, and he found no peace in it. Something else was coming, Sam knew it, could feel the tension all around him. The waiting was making him crazy.
He pressed his eyes shut, feeling them burn with fatigue. Sleep had eluded him these past two days. Every time he closed his eyes he saw his brother carved up before him or the demon's blood soaked talons ripping through flesh.
It was wearing him thin. He just wanted Dean to get better, and to move on away from Winnett. Put this all behind us, Sam thought. Just Dean and me back on the open road.
Soft footfalls came to a stop behind Sam as Jim stood in the entry. "Sam?" he asked, sounding troubled.
Fighting the pang of worry that was very prevalent these days, Sam twisted around and looked up at the doctor.
"Could you come here?"
Sam stood and followed him obediently to the operating room, the scene of the crime. "I'm not sure what I should do with it," Jim said, pointing to the white bucket on the other side of the room.
Sam stared at the plastic container, noting that it had not moved from its place since he had kicked it there during the procedure. He had almost forgotten the rakshasa hunt wasn't finished yet. "I need to dispose of it," Sam said. He caught Jim's eye and added, "Someplace secluded."
Jim nodded. "I think I know a place," he said, giving him instructions to a location a good thirty minutes drive away.
There was no time to waste now that Sam had a purpose. He wanted to get rid of the demon before Dean was well enough to start asking questions. He never wanted Dean to see the thing that had had nearly ripped him apart. Sam didn't want to see it again, but this he could do for his brother.
Stopping in the doorway of Dean's darkened room, Sam leaned against the jam and said, "I've got to go take care of something. I'll be back in an hour or two."
Lying on his back, face turned away from the door, Dean didn't stir when Sam spoke, just continued breathing slow and steady with a rhythm that suggested sleep. Problem was that Sam wasn't entirely sure he really was asleep.
Why won't you talk to me? Sam thought as he walked from the door, demon in tow.
The bucket was heavier than he expected, the rakshasa a dense weight inside it. Sam put it on the floor on the passenger's side of the car. The Impala roared to life, antsy from disuse, and sped Sam down a lonely Montana road, putting miles between the demon and Sam and his brother.
o0o00O00o0o
It was the middle of a blindingly bright, beautiful day, but Sam was unconcerned about bystanders getting an eyeful of a noontime salt and burn. The place that Jim had suggested was abandoned for miles and miles, nothing but brushwood and overgrown yellow fields in any direction. It seemed like there was at least one perk to living in isolated Winnett— plenty of privacy for doing whatever it was that needed doing.
Sam pulled the Impala onto dirt shoulder and trekked his cargo through the undergrowth until he came to an innocuous spot, someplace where the smoke would be obscured or at least mistaken for a natural brush fire.
Trying for impassive, Sam only removed the items he would need from the trunk— salt, lighter fluid and a shovel. With bucket in tow, he set off for the best location for the job. Setting the bucket on the grass, Sam dug a shallow hole just deep enough to control a fire.
With a deliberate breath, Sam flipped the lid off and peered into the bucket. The holy water was pink and cloudy and the demon floated face down along the surface.
Sam wrinkled his nose in distaste. Quickly, he tipped the bucket upside down over the hole he'd dug. He couldn't be sure the demon was dead— Could rakshasas drown in holy water? It looked dead, but Sam wasn't about to take any chances.
He stared at the damn thing, feeling bile rise in his throat. This thing was inside my brother— almost killed him— He took a breath that came out more like a sob.
Fuck impassive, Sam thought. Wanting to force the horror behind him, he stood, moving quickly before he thought too much about it. He cocked his gun and fired blessed bullets into the demon, shooting until his clip emptied. The noise boomed out through the field, but there was no one to hear it.
Finish the job, Sam thought. Get it done.
Suddenly frantic, Sam emptied a bottle of lighter fluid over the corpse, jerking it frenetically, trying to rush the liquid from the small opening. It sloshed over the demon corpse, the disturbed dirt and the toes of Sam's boots. Whatever was left in the canister of salt was scattered hastily over the shallow grave. He threw both empty containers to the ground, and then shoved his hands into his pockets, searching for a light. His fingers curled around Dean's zippo. Sam flung it into the hollow and watched as the whole thing blazed in an unholy bonfire.
The flames burned brightly, rising high as it devoured the accelerant and Sam wished it would devour him too.
God, Dean, he thought, his mind still there in that operating room, hands slick and knuckle deep in Dean's blood. Burning the rakshasa did not give the release he'd hoped for. Only Dean can do that, Sam thought with surprise, not realizing until now that he wanted his brother's absolution. Knowing this did not ease the knot in his chest.
It wasn't really forgiveness that Sam was seeking, but he could not identify what it was that he needed from Dean.
o0o00O00o0o
Jim lingered at the door for a minute, listening. Having returned from disposing of the demon, Sam sat at Dean's bedside, trying to seek solace in his brother's stoic presence.
It would taste a lie if Jim said he wasn't worried about the Winchester brothers. A good judge of character, Jim could tell they were fine, decent young men, despite only knowing them for a few days. Being a hunter was a dangerous, usually thankless job and it hardened most men who took up its burden. Whatever the hunt had taken from the Winchesters, it had not yet stripped them of their devotion to each another. It was clear from the second Jim discovered Sam's concerned face outside his door and witnessed Dean's gentleness to his brother in the face of such a terrifying situation, that their familial bond was stronger than most.
But this awful thing that had happened to them had shattered the pair and the doctor feared they'd never find all the pieces. Sam kept a calm exterior, but Jim could tell he was wound wire-tight with worry, and Dean was just a shadow of the man Jim had met two days before. Neither was ready to leave his care.
"I've called Sarah and delayed her coming to do the books until tomorrow," Jim began as he stepped into Dean's room, announcing his presence. "We've been lucky that it's been so quiet, but it won't be for very much longer."
Dean nodded, understanding. "You need us to leave. No problem, Doc. We can be out of here before noon." He threw back the bed sheet, preparing to get up from the bed, face twisting in pain as he pushed himself to rise.
"Not so fast," Sam hissed, putting his hands on Dean's shoulders, holding him in place. "Take it easy, Dean."
"Hold on there, that's not what I said," Jim replied quickly. "You can't stay at the clinic without someone finding out you're here, but that doesn't mean I'm kicking you out." Jim paused, straightened a bit and fixed his features with his most fatherly expression. "You boys are welcome to stay with me," Jim said. "I have a guest bedroom that doesn't get much use anymore." Dean opened his mouth to protest, but Jim cut him off. "Really, son, there's not another decent place to stay for miles and cooped up in some car is not going to do you any favors."
"You've done so much already," Dean said. "I can't just take advantage—."
"Well, when you're feeling better, I could use some help around the ranch, gotta get it ready for the winter," he said with a smile. "Seems like a fair trade to me."
Dean was shaking his head, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of someone helping him out for a change. "Dean," Sam said in a low exasperated voice. "Come, on," and the two stared at each other. The doctor looked from Dean to Sam, recognizing the silent disagreement going on between the brothers.
"I can't make you stay," Jim said, trying to facilitate his proposal. "But I'd really like it if you would. I'll let you two talk it over, of—."
"Yes," Sam said, overriding Dean's protests. "We'll take that offer."
o0o00O00o0o
It seemed like a lifetime ago when Sam had last stepped foot in Jim's ranch house, even though it'd been little over two days. Sam held Dean tightly as they maneuvered the short steps up the front porch. Clearly, the short journey from clinic to house took a massive effort on Dean's part, one that neither brother had been expecting.
Trembling from the exertion, Dean took a shuddering breath, almost a shaky laugh as if he couldn't believe that three little steps hurt so damn much. With gentle hands, Sam guided his brother through the door and down the short hallway to the room that was to be theirs for the time being.
The guest bedroom used to be Molly's, but she had long since vacated the room, having a family of her own in Helena. Long ago the space had been stripped of personal touches, but it had acquired an eclectic assortment of furniture that gave the room its own kind charm. One queen-size bed was pressed against the far wall with two small nightstands on either side of the headboard. There was a hope chest was at the foot of the bed with a folded quilt on top of it. The room had two windows looking out onto the front yard with a big, well-worn armchair in the middle. A small wooden rocking chair was tucked into the corner, collecting dust. Off to the right was a private bathroom. There wasn't a television in the room, but there was a small shelf with books.
"You boys are welcome to anything that I have," Jim said, flicking on the light. "When you feel up to it, Dean, I'll give you the grand tour." Sam eased Dean down towards the bed, wincing in sympathy at the grunt Dean let slip.
"You okay, man?" Sam asked.
"Yes, dear," Dean snapped. Slouching there on the edge of the mattress, Dean looked completely wiped out.
"You hungry, Dean?" Jim asked him. "Can't have solid foods yet, but I'm sure I have something for you."
Dean shook his head. "I just want to rest." Both Sam and the doctor read leave me alone loud and clear.
"Of course," Sam said quickly. "But you're eating something later," he insisted before following Jim out of the bedroom for a tour of the rest of the house.
The doctor's house was bigger than it looked from the outside. The ranch was one floor with the guest bedroom and a small dining room at the front of the house. The kitchen was the central location with the family room off to the left of it and Jim's office and bedroom to the right. There was a lot of land attached to the property, as it had been a farm at one time. A barn was out back, which Jim used as a storage unit.
"You two are welcome to stay as long as you need," Jim said. "I live alone, so there will be no one here to bother you. And as I said before, you may help yourself to whatever I have here."
Sam nodded, his mind clearly elsewhere.
Jim's features softened and he said, "He's going to be okay, Sam."
"Yeah," Sam replied, still not entirely convinced. "So, what kind of stuff needs to get done around here?" he asked.
"Sam, I didn't mean you had to work off—."
"Seriously, Jim, I'm going out of my mind. I need the distraction," Sam said. "Please, give me something to do."
Jim nodded and said, "Well, then, let me introduce you to the porch."
They stood together out on the front lawn surveying the rickety, wrap around porch. "It really needed to be repaired at least two winters ago," Jim admitted. "I just can't let it go another season."
Sam eyed the decaying wooden structure warily. The steps needed to be replaced as did the railing and some of the beams too, but the main structure was still sound, thankfully. The whole thing needed a new coat of paint or two. The entire house did, actually.
"Got some lumber out in the barn," Jim said nodding to the small structure behind the house. "I'll be helping you, of course, but I'm not as young as I used to be," he said with a smile.
"I don't even know where to begin," Sam said, staring at the rotting deck.
"One thing at a time, Sam," Jim said. "I actually have most of the measurements. Perhaps you'd like to try something less daunting?" Jim asked and gestured behind them.
Sam turned and saw the remains of a wood beam fence peeking out behind the swaying yellow grass. As if on cue, the fence groaned balefully in the gentle breeze.
o0o00O00o0o
"Dean?" Sam asked, easing into the darkened bedroom. "You awake?"
Smelling of sweat and sawdust, he had just spent the last four hours lugging lumber around the barn and making sense of the tools Jim had on his workbench. When he had checked his phone to see the time, he was both grateful and amazed that four hours had flown by without obsessively worrying about his brother.
This time Dean really was asleep, soundly sprawled across the mattress. Sighing, Sam settled into the armchair between the windows. He didn't have the heart to wake Dean and he knew he would if he jostled the mattress and consequently disturbed Dean's wounds. There was always the couch, but Sam wanted to keep an eye on his brother.
The chair was more comfortable than the passenger's side of the Impala and with the help of physical exhaustion and the sound of Dean's even breathing, Sam fell asleep.
Sam dreamed in red, horrific images he wouldn't remember awake save for the unsettling feeling in his stomach. His dreams taunted him with his body's fragmented memories— the texture of wet warmth coating his fingers, the twist of tension in his gut, the unbearable whimper of pain forced from Dean's lips, the scent of his blood everywhere. Sam woke several times during the night with these impressions lingering at the edge of his peripherals.
When Sam got up in the morning, Dean was still sleeping. He stood, raising his arms overhead, stretching the kinks out of his back. Maybe it's good that he's sleeping so much, Sam thought as he observed bright paths of sunlight limn the edges of his brother's features. After all, Dean had lost a great deal of blood and he couldn't really do much of anything without aggravating his surgery wounds. He just needs to rest for another day or so.
But, this trend continued for the next two days. Dean slept through the most of the day, getting up only when Jim said that he needed to walk around. And by then Sam knew that most of the time he wasn't really sleeping at all— he was just lying there.
This was the most closed off Sam had ever seen him. In the four days since the surgery, Dean had said less than a dozen words to him. Sam was trying to be patient, trying to give him the space he needed to deal with whatever this was, but Sam was at the end of his patience.
o0o00O00o0o
Dean listened to Sam's footsteps as they tread gingerly past their room, pausing only briefly at the door before continuing past. The screen door creaked open, and banged shut and the front porch groaned under Sam's weight as he rushed down the steps. Dean did not have to spy out the window to know his brother was headed across the parched grass to the barn where he would work out his frustrations on the new beams for the porch.
In some small place inside of him a voice raged to go after Sam and tell him he was in trouble and needed help. But the voice was hard to hear, faint, as if buried six feet under ground.
Dean felt hollowed out, empty, as if Jim had taken more than just the demon out of him during the surgery.
He would be fine, he told himself. He was fine. He did not feel the horror settling into his bones nor the despair carving out his heart.
What the hell is wrong with you? Dean thought. Get it together. But he just couldn't. And he didn't know why.
Hand pressed to his stomach, Dean eased himself to a sitting position, pausing at the edge of the mattress. Lying around all day wasn't his style, but Dean didn't know what to do with himself— moving around took a lot of energy and it seemed that every gestured pulled on the incision, plus he didn't have an inkling of how to cope with these powerful emotions.
He'd never felt this exposed in his whole life. No matter how hard he tried to put this behind him, to find that wall he'd always put up between himself and anything too painful to handle, Dean simply couldn't. He felt like nothing would ever be right again and this realization staggered him.
I don't even know what I need, Dean thought. I have no idea what's wrong or even how to fix it.
He wanted to crack jokes and steal food off Sam's plate and hunt ghosts and drive the Impala over miles of rolling asphalt with Metallica in the deck and his brother riding shotgun— he wanted normal. Dean was encompassed with a sense of despair so bleak that he couldn't even understand how to do these things anymore. The idea of laughing or even driving the Impala down the block felt unbearably impossible and these things brought him no joy. The memories of what he used to be cut him, jagged edges scraping against his soul.
I can pretend, Dean thought. I've done it before. Like when Sam left for Stanford. Like when John died. He'd pretended he was fine, that he wasn't hurting, and it had worked. Eventually. Mostly.
Though his brother hovered like a mother hen, he had backed off when Dean had made it clear he was in no mood to talk. But Dean sensed that this was about to change. Sam was about to blow his top.
I'll never be me again, he realized. But I can pretend. And he rose out of bed to go put on a show.
o0o00O00o0o
"What do you think you're doing?" Sam asked, eyes wide as he stared at the mess of weapons across the table. Sam had spent another day sequestered in the barn, keeping his troubled mind occupied with measuring and cutting beams. When he entered the house, he was surprised to find Dean not only out of bed, but cleaning their entire weapons store at the kitchen table.
"I'm glad you're up, but Dean, what were you thinking? You walked all the way to the car and lugged all this equipment in here? Are you nuts?"
"What am I supposed to do?" Dean retorted. "Sit around and knit booties for the demonic baby we didn't have?"
Taken aback, Sam sputtered, "You've spent the last four days in bed— you should pace yourself before you launch into stuff like this. How did you even get all this in here?" Sam asked, knowing that his brother must have taken several trips to the car, which was a tremendous strain on his still healing body. "You need to rest," Sam said, barely holding back his exasperation.
"I'm sick to death of resting," Dean retorted. "I don't want to goddamn rest anymore."
"It's only been a few days, Dean," Sam replied. "You have to give yourself time."
"Fuck time," Dean said. "You wanted me up—I'm up. Don't nag me, Sam."
Sam paused, choosing his words carefully. "I know it's difficult—."
"You don't know anything about it, Sam," Dean snapped, throwing a rag to the tabletop with a violent thwap. "I can barely take a piss without someone's help."
"Healing takes time, Dean," Sam said. "There are no shortcuts for this."
"I just want to put this behind me," Dean said angrily. "I don't want to feel this way anymore." Then he clutched at his stomach, drawing breath sharply.
"Dean—," Sam began, starting towards him.
Stepping back, Dean held up a defensive hand, warding his brother off. "Back the fuck off," Dean growled. "Just leave me alone." And he stalked off, leaving Sam in the kitchen.
o0o00O00o0o
Jim peered through the screen door and saw Dean leaning against the railing of the front porch, blowing out slow, shaky breaths. He stepped out onto the porch, letting the screen door swing shut behind him and came to a rest beside the elder Winchester.
"Dean, you have to take it easy," Jim said. "I know it's frustrating, but you have to remember that it's not just one incision with stitches you have to worry about— there's a whole lot more on the inside. If one of those tears and you start bleeding inside, I'll have to open you up again. It might be too much for your body to take."
Dean sighed, elbows on the railing, resting his head in his hands. "I'm not used to this," he said. "I've never been— I've never needed—."
Jim smiled. "Let Sam be the big brother for a little while, okay?"
"I've been taking care of him his whole life," Dean said. "I took care of us."
"Sounds to me like you've earned a vacation," Jim replied. "The biggest mistake you can make right now is taking on too much. Let him help you now, and you won't regret it later."
"I feel so goddamned useless," Dean confessed quietly. "Can't take more than ten steps without needing a breather." Then he chuckled. "After all this, I don't even have a baby to distract me."
Jim considered this. "It's normal to feel this way, Dean."
"Normal?" Dean whirled around. "What the hell is normal about this? I had a fucking demon growing inside of me and now I don't even know how I'm supposed feel. It'll never be right again, never be fixed. I'll never be the same as I was, not after this."
"I meant, it's normal to feel this way after major surgery," Jim said. "What happened to you was terrible and it certainly wasn't your fault. You're probably in a little bit of shock still. Your body needs time— you need time. I think a weaker man might not have survived the surgery let alone the aftermath."
"Don't blow smoke up my ass, doc," Dean scoffed. Turning away, he braced himself against the railing with one hand while the other cradled his stomach down by the incision line. His eyes scanned the darkness out of habit, searching for the dangers he knew could be lurking within the night.
"Don't be so hard on yourself," Jim said calmly. "It's okay to need help, Dean."
The evening air blew cold across his flushed skin and he shivered as his anger deflated, turning his hazel gaze upon the doctor. "Sam means well. I know that, I do," Dean admitted softly. "I don't know why I'm so angry."
"You're tired," Jim said. "You're hurting and your body is trying to heal. You're probably quite sore after today. I'm going to give you some painkillers, which will help you sleep. You're going to take them without an argument and then you're going get some shuteye."
Dean smiled a little and said, "Guess you got my number down, huh, doc?"
"I know a thing or two about headstrong patients," Jim replied, "having raised one myself."
o0o00O00o0o
Sam rolled onto his side, into something cold and slick on the mattress. He opened his eyes. Dean lay on his side facing Sam, stitches popped, intestines spilling out, and blood everywhere— dead.
Sam sat bolt upright with an audible gasp, eyes wide with terror and blind in the dark. Panic flooded his every sense, nearly overpowering his lungs to breathe—
Fumbling in the dark for the beside lamp, Sam snapped the light on and gazed around wildly for his brother— who lay on his back on the same bed next to him, perfectly fine.
Still, Sam was scared, the dream so real that he had to make sure— he threw back the covers, hands trembling, to find nothing at all, but sleeping big brother beneath the sheets.
"Sam?" Dean asked, a whispered mumble from his medicated haze, squinting in the light. "S'matter?"
"Nothing, Dean," Sam said. He switched off the light. "Go back to sleep."
He's all right, Sam thought, staring up at the ceiling, trying to control his breathing into a less erratic rhythm. God, he's all right.
Though it may have been nothing but an unconscious movement in sleep, Dean shifted, leaning his forehead against Sam's shoulder. The feeling of his warm presence beside him helped calm Sam's pounding heart, reminding him that Dean was there and not dead.
Sam had actually gone to bed before his brother that night and he only vaguely remembered when Dean had slipped into the bed with a whispered, "Goodnight, Sam," before falling deeply asleep.
Wide-awake, Sam traced the moon-cast shadows upon the wall with his eyes, going slowly over each shape as he tried to blot the violent dream from his mind.
This was not the first nightmare of the surgery to plague Sam's sleep. In fact, Sam knew he'd had awful, blood-soaked dreams every night since he'd seen his brother split open on the operating table, but this was the first one where the details were still etched in his mind upon waking.
o0o00O00o0o
When Sam went into the kitchen the next morning, he found their munitions still spread across the table, exactly as he had seen it the night before. His brother had thrown it in his face that he couldn't do anything without him hovering at his elbow, so Sam had made it a point to leave the weapons to Dean. But Dean hadn't finished cleaning the guns. Sam hadn't expected him to haul the equipment back to the car, but Dean hadn't even cleared off the table.
Sam frowned, staring at their arsenal strewn across Jim's kitchen table. As far as Sam could remember, Dean had never once just left the weapons half-done. He'd been taught to respect a weapon— it was something dangerous, not to be casually left around, and it was their lives at stake if they malfunctioned.
It's almost if he didn't have the heart to finish, Sam thought with alarm. Sam completed the cleaning that Dean had started, and then put the weapons back in the trunk.
It was nearly noon when he was done, but Dean was still curled in bed.
The last time they had spoken resulted in fireworks, but Sam couldn't ignore this. Dean wasn't even pretending to sleep anymore. He simply lay there supine, head turned away from the door, arm draped overhead.
"It's almost noon," Sam said, quietly. "You should get up. I'll make you something to eat." Sam regretted how things had escalated the previous day. This was the first interest that Dean had attempted post-surgery, besides sleeping in, and Sam had chastised him for it. "Please, Dean, let's start again."
At first, Sam didn't think Dean was going to answer him, but then he said quietly, "Yeah, whatever." He moved to get up, a scowl of pain on his face as his healing body protested.
Sam took three strides forward then stopped at Dean's pointed glare. The intensity of anger in his gaze startled Sam and he retreated back a step.
"Gonna take a shower," Dean said quietly.
"You, ah, need any help?" Sam asked. That's all he needed was for Dean to fall in the shower and crack his head open.
"I got this," Dean said. "Go fix me something to eat, bitch."
A small smile pulled at the corner of Sam's mouth. Maybe he is feeling better, Sam thought as he made his way to the kitchen.
o0o00O00o0o
Dean leaned his forehead against the fiberglass wall, letting the spray of warm water run down his back.
Anger welled up inside him. He wanted to pound his fist against the wall, wanted to feel it smash and yield satisfyingly to his anger, but he knew the sound would bring Sam bursting into his one sanctuary in the house. His want for privacy outweighed everything else; it held his fist in check.
Dean couldn't comprehend this stark animosity he harbored towards Sam, the one person he loved and trusted above all others on this earth. Sam was probably the only person who could even come close to understanding what he was going through.
But he doesn't understand, Dean thought. Sam doesn't understand and I don't know how to explain it to him. What was so hard about talking to Sam about all the messed up feelings running through his skull? Everything— every single thing—
Emotion rose through his throat and he found tears welling in his eyes. He squeezed them shut tightly, determined to have control over at least one thing.
Dean felt betrayed by his body. He should be stronger than this. He shouldn't need so much goddamned help. He shouldn't be so fucking emotional about every fucking thing.
A demon had been inside him; he'd had a little surgery, big deal, get over it, why can't you just get over it? Dean willed himself to pull through. It'll go away by itself— I can snap out of this.
Something was wrong with him. It was as if the rakshasa had poisoned him, laced his blood with unshakeable sorrow, and put icy despair in his bones. Hopelessness welled within him that he could not contain. Dean felt used and useless.
The demon will never be gone, he thought. It'll always be inside me.
Dean was immobilized by the vastness of this thought, felt a hot rush of shame blush through him. He was weak. Pathetic. A failure. Worthless. All these thoughts stormed him at once, devastating, destructive judgments masquerading as truth.
I just want this to go away, Dean thought desperately. Please, God, just make it all go away.
o0o00O00o0o
As it turned out, Jim was having a busy week. He'd been called away to a ranch thirty miles west to check out handlers who had been knocked unconscious while trying to calm a herd of stampeding cattle, and the hospital were he worked a shift or two each week had called him in to cover extra shifts.
Sam discovered this when he found the note Jim had left for them attached to the microwave with a piece of Scotch tape.
The sound of water rushing through the pipes indicated that Dean was still in the shower. Dean still had to be careful about what he ate, so Sam opted to reheat some soup from the night before.
The past few days he'd spent a lot of time by himself, working through his anxiety and frustration measuring and cutting lumber in the barn. At the rate Sam was working, he could have everything ready for construction by next week. He'd hoped that Dean would be well enough to join him, not actually working, but keeping him company in the barn. It would do him some good to get out of the house.
The sound of the water abruptly stopped and Sam surmised that Dean would be ready soon. Knocking on the bedroom door, Sam called, "Hey, soup's on."
Through the closed door Dean replied, "Save me a seat." Sam found himself grinning and thought fondly, What a dork.
Returning to the kitchen, Sam put out a place setting for his brother, and then sunk into one of the kitchen chairs, waiting for Dean.
Dean doesn't want to be mothered, Sam thought. I get that. But Dean doesn't ask for help when he needs it.
The ridiculous double standard that Dean lived by drove Sam to the brink of insanity. Dean didn't care what happened to himself as long as Sam was safe. No matter what Sam did to prove himself, or to show Dean that his life was of equal worth, Dean just couldn't rewire his thinking to believe that.
Usually, this proved to be only a minor nuisance, except when Dean was gravely hurt either physically or emotionally. When their father died, Sam watched his brother tailspin down to a very dark place and it took Sam actively calling Dean on his bullshit before he began to heal.
Dean entered the kitchen, shuffling quietly to the table. "Careful, Sam, or your face might stay that way," he said, noting his brooding expression. "Oh, too late."
"Shut up," Sam said with a smile. "Eat your soup, like a good little boy."
Furtively, Sam scrutinized his brother as he sunk into the chair beside him and hesitantly tasted the soup. Despite being freshly showered and dressed, Dean looked awful. His skin looked gray, and for all the sleep Dean was getting there were dark circles under his eyes. His motions were careful and guarded as if still testing what actions caused him pain. Right now mostly everything did. Dean was willful, and determined to do as much as possible by himself, even if it was too soon.
"Want to go for a little drive?" Sam asked, hopefully. "Change the scenery?"
"No," Dean said quickly, then he leaned back in his chair, easing into casual as he added, "Don't really feel up to that yet."
Sam noticed that Dean wasn't really eating, just pushing the soup around the bowl. He frowned and tried another tactic.
"Hey, I found a cassette player in Jim's storage closet," Sam said. "I'll get your tapes from the car."
Dean smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. "No, that's okay."
"So, what are you going to do then?" Sam replied, exasperation in his tone. "Just sit here?"
"I didn't ask you to entertain me," Dean said. "You go do whatever it is that you do around here. I'll be fine."
"You'll be fine, Dean?" Sam repeated incredulously. "You'll be fine moping about? I know this is difficult, but you're not even trying to get better."
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Sam thought for sure that they were about to have an encore performance of last night, but instead, Dean seemed to shrink a little.
"You don't know what you're talking about," Dean said listlessly. "Nobody's trying harder to get past this than me."
Plain as day, Sam suddenly saw through the pretense. Dean was only going through the motions— smile here, joke there— putting on what he thought Sam wanted to see. Something was really wrong with his brother.
"What's the matter with you?" Sam asked.
That did manage to ignite Dean's fuse— he went from diminutive to furious in seconds. "What do you know about it, Sam? Have you ever had a demon growing inside of you?" Dean snarled, but his eyes were scared. "You don't have any idea what this is like, so don't you dare try to lecture me about not trying."
"Then talk to me," Sam snapped. "I don't understand what's going on with you."
"I—," Dean stopped, a visible struggle dancing across his face and for an instant he looked disheartened. "We're done with talking." Dean said finally, rising up from the table.
Stunned, Sam watched as Dean stalked out of the kitchen. He paused at the door, head turned to the side, but gaze focused down, not on Sam.
"I can't do any better than this, Sam," Dean said and he seemed to wither again before he departed.
o0o00O00o0o
A ringing phone startled Dean out of his stupor. He blinked unsure of how much time had passed between his argument with Sam and the present moment.
The ringing was coming from Jim's office where the only phone in the house resided. Dean crossed through the kitchen and listened to the tone. It rang and rang, the shrill, old tone cutting across his brain like a razor.
Jim was at the hospital and Sam was outside working on repairing the fence.
It's none of my business, Dean thought as the ringing continued. But it had to stop— it was annoying as all hell. And he felt compelled to answer it— it was the first thing he felt like doing in a long time.
Peering into Jim's office, he immediately spied the old rotary phone on the desk amid a mess of papers. Without thinking any more about it, Dean went to the desk and picked up the phone.
"H'lo?" Dean mumbled into the receiver.
There was a slight intake of breath on the other end, the person clearly not expecting to hear anyone but Jim's voice. "Hello," she said. "I was hoping to talk to my father, but I realize he must be at the clinic."
Mouth dry, Dean swallowed compulsively and whispered, "Yeah."
"I'm Molly," she said. "You must be one of the guests my father mentioned."
"Yeah— Dean," he said.
"Do you know when my father will be back?"
"No," Dean said. "Sorry, I don't know."
"Well, that's all right. I got to meet you, didn't I? I'll try again later."
Dean nodded, realized that she couldn't see him nod and said, "Okay."
"It was good talking to you, Dean," she said. "You hang in there."
o0o00O00o0o
Sam entered the room quietly, expecting Dean to be asleep. But when Sam's eyes adjusted to the dark he saw that Dean was perched on the edge of the mattress, shoulders slouched, eyes dark and half lidded, weariness radiating off of him in palpable waves. It was as if Dean couldn't even be bothered to put himself to bed and the sight of him drowning in the deepest despair he'd ever faced broke something loose inside of Sam.
The next breath he took felt like glass on the highway. And the breath after that hurt just the same— and the one after that and the one after that until Sam thought he might be having some sort of empathic episode.
Slowly, Sam came around and stood in front of his brother. Dean did not look up. Sam crouched down in front of him so he could meet his brother's vacant gaze. The emptiness he saw there filled his own eyes with tears.
"Dean," Sam said. "This has to stop."
Dean said nothing, just stared blankly back at Sam.
"Please. Tell me what's wrong," Sam begged, grabbing Dean's arms in a fierce grip. "This can't go on. I know it was bad, but you've got to get it together. Just tell me what to do. Whatever you need, I'll do it."
Refusing to look at him, Dean kept his gaze downward. Sam gave Dean a good shake trying to get his brother to look at him, but it only caused Dean to recoil. "Tell me how to help you."
His hazel eyes shifted up, seeking Sam's imploring brown ones, heartbreak pouring through them.
"I don't know," Dean said finally. "Something's wrong with me, Sammy. Something's wrong— I don't know— I don't know—."
Sam must have shaken something loose in Dean for all his emotions were teeming over at once in an unstoppable flow, not unlike when he had bled out all over the operating table.
"Got a vice tightening around my chest," he whispered. "So much pressure. I just— can't— It'll never be right again—."
"Okay, it's alright," Sam soothed, desperate to patch this floodgate he'd opened. "Everything's going to be okay, Dean."
"Okay?" Dean whispered, face scrunched up in misery and Sam knew it was the absolute wrong thing to say. "You think this is okay?" he asked, shaking his head in disbelief. The light of hope that Sam would understand went out in his eyes and his head dipped with despair.
"Oh, Dean," Sam said, horrified. "I'm sorry— I didn't mean—." Sam reached out for him, trying to undo the inadvertent damage he had caused, but Dean drew back from him, didn't want Sam to touch him, for the first time in a long time shying away from his brother's grasp like a wounded animal.
To be continued…
o0o00O00o0o
Author's note:
I am SO sorry that this took so long to get out. On the bright side it's the longest chapter to date! Thank you for the reviews— it's wonderful to hear from you guys! Please keep them coming.
Are we all enjoying season 3? (I'm on pins and needles waiting to find out what's going to happen with Dean!)
I am also posting this story on my LJ (griseldajane . livejournal . com) if you prefer to read it that way. Friending welcome!
Thanks for reading. See you next chapter.
- Li