Comment fic: Speak No Evil
Final part of Speak No Evil - lil' bit of comfort and angst up the wazoo... enjoy!
Dean
It takes three days for them both to stop flinching at loud noises or sudden movements. The day after he follows the coordinates Sam sent with the last dregs of charge in his phone and pulls them out, Bobby tells them the hunters he'd called in to help clear the labyrinth found almost a hundred sets of remains, some corpses, some skeletal, some more dust than bone. He leaves the hospital an hour later, tells them both to take it easy for a while and then goes with an awkward salute.
Dean watches him go, glassy-eyed with fatigue and the drugs Bobby's doctor friend has been pumping into him since they got out. Hospital's not an option now and the ex-medic grumbled and groused but set his broken bones, reduced the dislocation and stitched them both back together without carting them off to the nearest ER.
He knows Sam hates it, the necessity that makes nurses on call and the surgery his shoulder really needs nothing more than a pipedream but huddling in the motel bed, he can't find it in himself to resent it right now. Hospitals mean questions they don't have answers to, long before the inevitable cops and FBI that would follow as surely as the sun would rise tomorrow.
“Wha'd'ya think it was?”
His throat still burns with every breath, worn raw by the screams and the things touch as it tried to possess him.
“Legend called it a daemon, but I think that was just the only name they knew for something like that. Some kind of spiritual entity maybe? Something that can only exist as an essence on this plane, and needed hosts to survive.”
He quirks a brow, grimaces inside when it pulls at the row of stitches in his hairline.
“Jesus, dude. It feed you a freakin' dictionary or somethin'?”
It hurts to talk, but he doesn't think he'll ever get tired of the tiny smile it brings to his brother's face when he speaks, knows his own grin mirrors it when he turns over and sees Sam sitting there at the small table under the window, limned with sunset, watching him.
“Does it really matter?” Sam asks and he takes a moment to think about it, to remember the fire that burned through every inch of his body and tore through his soul, the incorporeal hands that plucked at him, trawled greedily through his mind as he hunched against the wall, helpless, blind, unable to stop them.
Remembers trying to scream through the scarring that sealed his mouth, hearing sound fade until he had nothing but the feeling of it inside him, fire and ice and knives and claws tearing him apart and filling the holes it left behind.
“Yeah,” he finally grates. “Sam, it does.”
His brother looks at him silently, mouth thinned, pinched tight and he sighs, sags back into the headboard, tired again even though he's done little more than sleep for three days straight.
“I have to know it's gone, dude,” he murmurs, can't meet Sam's eyes and stares down at the fingers on his good hand, scraped and bruised from the hours he'd spent fumbling at jagged stone in the dark. “I have to know it was the only one.”
His fist twists the blankets into a knot, winds it tight as he hears his brother's chair creak when Sam shifts in it. There's no answer to give and he knows it but he can't help but ask.
“Is it done?”
It's never done, he thinks a second before Sam says it, low and harsh like he's forcing the words out and Dean knows he's thinking of Californian sun and blond hair burning to ash and 'There's always going to be something to hunt, Sam'.
Story of our freakin' lives. Always a page behind each other.
He lets it sit for a minute, trying to remember a time when it didn't matter. When the world hadn't tilted off its axis, leaving him running blind, lost in the dark and a bitter grin twists his lips at the irony.
“Hey,” he finally mutters, waits for his brother to look at him again. “You know what I could really go for right now?”
Sam rolls his eyes, but he shoves his chair back, reaches for the jacket slung across the back of it.
“What this time?”
“Pie. Man, toffee apple pie.”
He grins as Sam snorts.
“You know it's like thirty minutes to a bakery, right?”
“Hey, you still owe me fifty bucks from poker last night. Call it a down payment.”
“You cheated,” his brother grumbles, slanting a dark look at him and Dean lets his smile spread wider, hitches his good shoulder in a loose shrug. It thrums down his back, tight along his aching ribs, settles back into the low hum of the painkillers and he manages to hide the grimace.
“Hey, I taught you how to cheat, didn't I?”
Sam laughs outright this time, shrugging into his jacket and snatching up the keys from the table.
“Anythin' else you need, Princess?”
“Beer?” Dean asks, not even really bothering to hope and Sam scoffs.
“Not a chance 'til you're off those meds, dude. I've seen what happens when you mix them with alcohol and man, it isn't pretty. I don't want to spend the next two days clearing up after you.”
He'll do it anyway, fetch Dean pie and burgers and soda and help him to the bathroom and back and never say a word about the lingering weakness that leaves Dean trembling after an hour of sitting up. He'll toss Dean his hoodie when the room turns cold, leave the bathroom light turned on at night (though Dean suspects that's as much for his own comfort as it is for Dean's) and he'll sit through the 2am creature feature when Dean can't sleep without jolting awake, pawing at his mouth, choking on the dream.
And he'll look at Dean's cast and the new scars when he does all of it, for a month and more, and it'll take at least that long for the darkness in his eyes to fade a little, for the memories to slide into the past again.
“Fine. No beer. But for the love of god, bring me pie, woman,” Dean smirks, snatches the magazine that hurtles at his head out of the air with his good hand and launches it back. Sam just ducks out of the way, grins as he tosses the keys.
“You better get practising your poker face, dude. I'm gonna kick your ass tonight,” he promises, yanking open the rattling door.
“Yeah yeah. Whatever lets you sleep at night.”
Sam closes the door on a low, “Jerk,” and Dean grins, knows they'll sit up all night playing cards for cents until the darkness is gone from both their eyes, until they won't dream that night or the next or the one after that. And maybe one day, cards and pie and light won't be enough, but for now, he can make it alright with nothing more.
“Bitch,” he murmurs as he shifts carefully, settles deeper into the pillows, lets his head tip back until he's staring up at the ceiling and yawns as he hears the Impala roar to life outside. He closes his eyes, pervasive weariness seeping along his limbs, weighing him down as he drifts comfortably and for a moment, he thinks he feels the weight of eyes watching him, rolls his head to the side and cracks one eye open again.
“Forget somethin' Sam?”
There's no answer, the room empty, the evening quiet around him and he shrugs his good shoulder, thinks Jumpin' at shadows and lets himself slide into a hazy twilight, pushing away the niggling sensation of being watched, of something staring at him hungrily from the dark.
Thanks for the wonderful prompt!
Dean
It takes three days for them both to stop flinching at loud noises or sudden movements. The day after he follows the coordinates Sam sent with the last dregs of charge in his phone and pulls them out, Bobby tells them the hunters he'd called in to help clear the labyrinth found almost a hundred sets of remains, some corpses, some skeletal, some more dust than bone. He leaves the hospital an hour later, tells them both to take it easy for a while and then goes with an awkward salute.
Dean watches him go, glassy-eyed with fatigue and the drugs Bobby's doctor friend has been pumping into him since they got out. Hospital's not an option now and the ex-medic grumbled and groused but set his broken bones, reduced the dislocation and stitched them both back together without carting them off to the nearest ER.
He knows Sam hates it, the necessity that makes nurses on call and the surgery his shoulder really needs nothing more than a pipedream but huddling in the motel bed, he can't find it in himself to resent it right now. Hospitals mean questions they don't have answers to, long before the inevitable cops and FBI that would follow as surely as the sun would rise tomorrow.
“Wha'd'ya think it was?”
His throat still burns with every breath, worn raw by the screams and the things touch as it tried to possess him.
“Legend called it a daemon, but I think that was just the only name they knew for something like that. Some kind of spiritual entity maybe? Something that can only exist as an essence on this plane, and needed hosts to survive.”
He quirks a brow, grimaces inside when it pulls at the row of stitches in his hairline.
“Jesus, dude. It feed you a freakin' dictionary or somethin'?”
It hurts to talk, but he doesn't think he'll ever get tired of the tiny smile it brings to his brother's face when he speaks, knows his own grin mirrors it when he turns over and sees Sam sitting there at the small table under the window, limned with sunset, watching him.
“Does it really matter?” Sam asks and he takes a moment to think about it, to remember the fire that burned through every inch of his body and tore through his soul, the incorporeal hands that plucked at him, trawled greedily through his mind as he hunched against the wall, helpless, blind, unable to stop them.
Remembers trying to scream through the scarring that sealed his mouth, hearing sound fade until he had nothing but the feeling of it inside him, fire and ice and knives and claws tearing him apart and filling the holes it left behind.
“Yeah,” he finally grates. “Sam, it does.”
His brother looks at him silently, mouth thinned, pinched tight and he sighs, sags back into the headboard, tired again even though he's done little more than sleep for three days straight.
“I have to know it's gone, dude,” he murmurs, can't meet Sam's eyes and stares down at the fingers on his good hand, scraped and bruised from the hours he'd spent fumbling at jagged stone in the dark. “I have to know it was the only one.”
His fist twists the blankets into a knot, winds it tight as he hears his brother's chair creak when Sam shifts in it. There's no answer to give and he knows it but he can't help but ask.
“Is it done?”
It's never done, he thinks a second before Sam says it, low and harsh like he's forcing the words out and Dean knows he's thinking of Californian sun and blond hair burning to ash and 'There's always going to be something to hunt, Sam'.
Story of our freakin' lives. Always a page behind each other.
He lets it sit for a minute, trying to remember a time when it didn't matter. When the world hadn't tilted off its axis, leaving him running blind, lost in the dark and a bitter grin twists his lips at the irony.
“Hey,” he finally mutters, waits for his brother to look at him again. “You know what I could really go for right now?”
Sam rolls his eyes, but he shoves his chair back, reaches for the jacket slung across the back of it.
“What this time?”
“Pie. Man, toffee apple pie.”
He grins as Sam snorts.
“You know it's like thirty minutes to a bakery, right?”
“Hey, you still owe me fifty bucks from poker last night. Call it a down payment.”
“You cheated,” his brother grumbles, slanting a dark look at him and Dean lets his smile spread wider, hitches his good shoulder in a loose shrug. It thrums down his back, tight along his aching ribs, settles back into the low hum of the painkillers and he manages to hide the grimace.
“Hey, I taught you how to cheat, didn't I?”
Sam laughs outright this time, shrugging into his jacket and snatching up the keys from the table.
“Anythin' else you need, Princess?”
“Beer?” Dean asks, not even really bothering to hope and Sam scoffs.
“Not a chance 'til you're off those meds, dude. I've seen what happens when you mix them with alcohol and man, it isn't pretty. I don't want to spend the next two days clearing up after you.”
He'll do it anyway, fetch Dean pie and burgers and soda and help him to the bathroom and back and never say a word about the lingering weakness that leaves Dean trembling after an hour of sitting up. He'll toss Dean his hoodie when the room turns cold, leave the bathroom light turned on at night (though Dean suspects that's as much for his own comfort as it is for Dean's) and he'll sit through the 2am creature feature when Dean can't sleep without jolting awake, pawing at his mouth, choking on the dream.
And he'll look at Dean's cast and the new scars when he does all of it, for a month and more, and it'll take at least that long for the darkness in his eyes to fade a little, for the memories to slide into the past again.
“Fine. No beer. But for the love of god, bring me pie, woman,” Dean smirks, snatches the magazine that hurtles at his head out of the air with his good hand and launches it back. Sam just ducks out of the way, grins as he tosses the keys.
“You better get practising your poker face, dude. I'm gonna kick your ass tonight,” he promises, yanking open the rattling door.
“Yeah yeah. Whatever lets you sleep at night.”
Sam closes the door on a low, “Jerk,” and Dean grins, knows they'll sit up all night playing cards for cents until the darkness is gone from both their eyes, until they won't dream that night or the next or the one after that. And maybe one day, cards and pie and light won't be enough, but for now, he can make it alright with nothing more.
“Bitch,” he murmurs as he shifts carefully, settles deeper into the pillows, lets his head tip back until he's staring up at the ceiling and yawns as he hears the Impala roar to life outside. He closes his eyes, pervasive weariness seeping along his limbs, weighing him down as he drifts comfortably and for a moment, he thinks he feels the weight of eyes watching him, rolls his head to the side and cracks one eye open again.
“Forget somethin' Sam?”
There's no answer, the room empty, the evening quiet around him and he shrugs his good shoulder, thinks Jumpin' at shadows and lets himself slide into a hazy twilight, pushing away the niggling sensation of being watched, of something staring at him hungrily from the dark.
Thanks for the wonderful prompt!