Fic: Where Did You Go?
Title: Where Did You Go?
Summary: Even during quiet days at home, the Cage is never far away.
Verse: Frayed 'verse. Other fics are here.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: PG-13 for Hell trauma.
Word count: 1,385
“Uh…Sam?”
Dean’s voice comes from the other side of the apartment, breaking through the silence in Sam’s head. For once, blissful silence. Nobody screaming, nobody begging him to stop making it hurt so bad help me please just stop why can’t you make it stop.
Today it’s quiet. The sun is shining outside, but not so bright that it hurts. He’s reading a book, and he can actually focus. There are sentences, and facts, not just words bleeding (pain hurt broken bones blood so much blood) across the page.
“Sammy?”
Dean.
Dean needs him.
“Yeah?” he answers, looking up. But Dean’s not there. Sam gets up and wanders barefoot across the room, finds him standing in the hallway. The real Dean. Not just a voice. So it’s still a good day.
Dean is standing in front of the linen closet, arms folded in front of his chest. He has that look on his face like he’s trying to figure out a problem.
“What’s going on?” Sam asks, stopping to stand next to his brother. He curls his toes into the soft carpet under his feet and watches Dean, who stands there, unmoving.
“I think we have a blanket problem,” Dean says matter-of-factly. “No, wait. You have a blanket problem. We’re gonna need a bigger closet.”
Sam stares at the closet, with its five shelves of neatly-folded linens. There’s all the standard stuff - towels, washcloths, extra sheets. The top three shelves, though, are stuffed full of blankets of varying sizes and textures, piled up to the ceiling.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asks, not seeing the problem.
“Dude, there’s gotta be fifteen blankets in here.”
“Yeah,” Sam agrees, quickly counting them. Sometimes when he’s not paying attention things change.
Dean holds up a hand and starts counting off blankets on his fingers. “And then there’s the five on your bed,” he says.
“Uh-huh.”
“And the three or four in your safe room.” The softest blankets they own are nestled in a corner of Sam’s closet, for when he’s having really bad days and just can’t handle anything else.
“Yeah.”
“And I think there are another couple of blankets in the living room, aren’t there?”
“…Maybe,” Sam says, thinking about the gray throw blanket draped over the back of the couch.
“Oh, and-“ Dean bends down and reaches into the laundry basket at his feet, pulling out a blue plaid fleece blanket. They’d gotten that one yesterday at Walmart when Sam started having trouble and needed something to hang onto in the middle of their shopping trip. He’d clung to it like a lifeline and hadn’t let go until they reached the Impala in the parking lot.
“So that’s, what? Twenty…five, twenty-six?” Dean guesses. “Like I said, blanket problem.”
Sam stares at his feet. Dean’s mad. He didn’t mean to make Dean mad.
He knows what comes next. Now it’s going to hurt, and he’ll be alone for days and days with the hurting and nothing else, just so he knows what he did wrong bad Sam.
“…I’m sorry,” he whispers.
Sometimes apologizing right away makes them go easy on him. Sometimes it makes things worse. He’s never sure which one it’s going to be.
He reaches his right hand up and digs his fingers into the skin of his left arm. They like it when he starts the pain. It makes them laugh, and sometimes they forget for a while.
“Sam, hey.” AdamMichaelLuciferDean he doesn’t know who’s talking. Too many all at once.
“Sammy.”
Please don’t.
“Sammy, it’s Dean. I promise it’s me,” the voice says, but it’s probably lying. Always lying, can’t trust what’s right in front of his face and-
Hand on his arm NO that’s bad pain comes next please don’t touch please, please I’ll be good.
He pushes away, wants to run but there are walls, always walls with no doors and no way out. He holds onto the wall. Please protect me please I’m scared.
“Shhhhhh…” the voice says, and there’s no touching anymore. Nothing hurts. He doesn’t know why it doesn’t hurt. “It’s okay, kiddo. It’s okay, it’s just me. I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t know if that’s real, can’t trust it. They say all kinds of things. But he wants to trust it. It sounds like Dean. And Dean is good, Dean is safe.
Except when he’s not.
Except when they lie.
“Okay,” the voice says softly. Why is it like that? Why doesn’t it start screaming shrieking ear-splitting roaring loud thundering voices all around his head?
“Okay, I’m not gonna touch you. It’s alright, Sammy. You’re safe here. I promise.”
He shakes his head, and then whimpers because he shouldn’t have done that. He shouldn’t have let them know he was listening.
He slides down the wall, still clinging to it even if it doesn’t hug back, and pushes himself into the corner, trying to protect himself. If he looks up, he will see a person who looks like Dean, just visible through the smoke and fire and freezing freezing ice rain acid that burns so he can’t remember where he is. If he looks up, he will see Dean, and it scares him. He wants it to be Dean so badly, even when he knows it can’t be. Not ever.
Because he is lost.
…You know I’m not coming back…
It’s quiet again.
The voice doesn’t talk, and he still doesn’t move, hands frozen in front of his face.
But there’s something near his feet. He doesn’t think it was there before.
It doesn’t move, but he watches it anyway, apprehensive. Things are never what they seem in here. But when it still doesn’t move, he reaches out a finger to touch.
It doesn’t bite, doesn’t burn.
…It’s soft.
He remembers that feeling. Soft means safe. He didn’t know soft for a very long time, and now he knows that feeling again, and it means safe.
Safe safe safe home safe it’s okay Sam.
He pulls it closer, and it doesn’t go away. It’s still soft, still safe.
This is better.
This doesn’t hurt.
The carpet is soft. The lights are on. (Home.) He can see the couch. Their couch. (This is home.) His book is sitting on the floor, bookmark sticking out of one edge. He was reading about birds, wishing he had wings.
“Dean…” he whispers.
If he looks up, he thinks the voice will be Dean. The real Dean, not a trick, not a lie.
The soft thing has a name.
He looks up and he sees Dean.
Blanket.
Wrapped around him, cocoon, shell, keep me safe.
He puts his hand on his head again, but not scared, not protecting, just pushing the bad things away. Make it better, Sam. It’s okay.
Dean moves, and then he’s on Sam’s level, eyes looking at Sam’s eyes, voice soft but not angry, not hiding malice and rage. “Hey, kiddo. You okay?” he says.
Sam nods.
“I’m sorry if I said the wrong thing. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”
Sam nods again. His eyes feel hot. He swallows around the words that he’s trying to say, the words that are stuck.
“You with me?” Dean looks worried. Big brother pulling him out of the fire and holding him tight.
Sam says, “Yeah… Yeah, I’m here.”
Dean smiles, real and happy, and reaches out to so, so gently - it’s okay it doesn’t hurt - put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. Through his blanket armor, Dean’s hand feels strong, keeping him connected.
“I was wrong, Sammy. You can have as many blankets as you want, okay?”
“I… um…” Sam shakes his head, the words stuck inside him again.
Beside him, Dean turns and settles down on the floor, too, leaning against the wall, legs splayed out in front of him. “Just take a breath. We got all the time you need.”
Sam lets out a shaky breath, and whispers, “I know.” He lets his head fall back against the wall with a soft thump, frustrated. “I just wish I wasn’t… broken.”
“It’s okay.” Dean pats him on the leg. “I’ll get out the ‘hang in there’ kitty poster.”
Sam chuckles softly, elbowing his brother in the ribs. “Shut up, Dean,” he says. This Dean won’t be mad at him for that.
Dean just wraps an arm around Sam’s shoulders, grinning.
Summary: Even during quiet days at home, the Cage is never far away.
Verse: Frayed 'verse. Other fics are here.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam, Dean
Rating: PG-13 for Hell trauma.
Word count: 1,385
“Uh…Sam?”
Dean’s voice comes from the other side of the apartment, breaking through the silence in Sam’s head. For once, blissful silence. Nobody screaming, nobody begging him to stop making it hurt so bad help me please just stop why can’t you make it stop.
Today it’s quiet. The sun is shining outside, but not so bright that it hurts. He’s reading a book, and he can actually focus. There are sentences, and facts, not just words bleeding (pain hurt broken bones blood so much blood) across the page.
“Sammy?”
Dean.
Dean needs him.
“Yeah?” he answers, looking up. But Dean’s not there. Sam gets up and wanders barefoot across the room, finds him standing in the hallway. The real Dean. Not just a voice. So it’s still a good day.
Dean is standing in front of the linen closet, arms folded in front of his chest. He has that look on his face like he’s trying to figure out a problem.
“What’s going on?” Sam asks, stopping to stand next to his brother. He curls his toes into the soft carpet under his feet and watches Dean, who stands there, unmoving.
“I think we have a blanket problem,” Dean says matter-of-factly. “No, wait. You have a blanket problem. We’re gonna need a bigger closet.”
Sam stares at the closet, with its five shelves of neatly-folded linens. There’s all the standard stuff - towels, washcloths, extra sheets. The top three shelves, though, are stuffed full of blankets of varying sizes and textures, piled up to the ceiling.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asks, not seeing the problem.
“Dude, there’s gotta be fifteen blankets in here.”
“Yeah,” Sam agrees, quickly counting them. Sometimes when he’s not paying attention things change.
Dean holds up a hand and starts counting off blankets on his fingers. “And then there’s the five on your bed,” he says.
“Uh-huh.”
“And the three or four in your safe room.” The softest blankets they own are nestled in a corner of Sam’s closet, for when he’s having really bad days and just can’t handle anything else.
“Yeah.”
“And I think there are another couple of blankets in the living room, aren’t there?”
“…Maybe,” Sam says, thinking about the gray throw blanket draped over the back of the couch.
“Oh, and-“ Dean bends down and reaches into the laundry basket at his feet, pulling out a blue plaid fleece blanket. They’d gotten that one yesterday at Walmart when Sam started having trouble and needed something to hang onto in the middle of their shopping trip. He’d clung to it like a lifeline and hadn’t let go until they reached the Impala in the parking lot.
“So that’s, what? Twenty…five, twenty-six?” Dean guesses. “Like I said, blanket problem.”
Sam stares at his feet. Dean’s mad. He didn’t mean to make Dean mad.
He knows what comes next. Now it’s going to hurt, and he’ll be alone for days and days with the hurting and nothing else, just so he knows what he did wrong bad Sam.
“…I’m sorry,” he whispers.
Sometimes apologizing right away makes them go easy on him. Sometimes it makes things worse. He’s never sure which one it’s going to be.
He reaches his right hand up and digs his fingers into the skin of his left arm. They like it when he starts the pain. It makes them laugh, and sometimes they forget for a while.
“Sam, hey.” AdamMichaelLuciferDean he doesn’t know who’s talking. Too many all at once.
“Sammy.”
Please don’t.
“Sammy, it’s Dean. I promise it’s me,” the voice says, but it’s probably lying. Always lying, can’t trust what’s right in front of his face and-
Hand on his arm NO that’s bad pain comes next please don’t touch please, please I’ll be good.
He pushes away, wants to run but there are walls, always walls with no doors and no way out. He holds onto the wall. Please protect me please I’m scared.
“Shhhhhh…” the voice says, and there’s no touching anymore. Nothing hurts. He doesn’t know why it doesn’t hurt. “It’s okay, kiddo. It’s okay, it’s just me. I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t know if that’s real, can’t trust it. They say all kinds of things. But he wants to trust it. It sounds like Dean. And Dean is good, Dean is safe.
Except when he’s not.
Except when they lie.
“Okay,” the voice says softly. Why is it like that? Why doesn’t it start screaming shrieking ear-splitting roaring loud thundering voices all around his head?
“Okay, I’m not gonna touch you. It’s alright, Sammy. You’re safe here. I promise.”
He shakes his head, and then whimpers because he shouldn’t have done that. He shouldn’t have let them know he was listening.
He slides down the wall, still clinging to it even if it doesn’t hug back, and pushes himself into the corner, trying to protect himself. If he looks up, he will see a person who looks like Dean, just visible through the smoke and fire and freezing freezing ice rain acid that burns so he can’t remember where he is. If he looks up, he will see Dean, and it scares him. He wants it to be Dean so badly, even when he knows it can’t be. Not ever.
Because he is lost.
…You know I’m not coming back…
It’s quiet again.
The voice doesn’t talk, and he still doesn’t move, hands frozen in front of his face.
But there’s something near his feet. He doesn’t think it was there before.
It doesn’t move, but he watches it anyway, apprehensive. Things are never what they seem in here. But when it still doesn’t move, he reaches out a finger to touch.
It doesn’t bite, doesn’t burn.
…It’s soft.
He remembers that feeling. Soft means safe. He didn’t know soft for a very long time, and now he knows that feeling again, and it means safe.
Safe safe safe home safe it’s okay Sam.
He pulls it closer, and it doesn’t go away. It’s still soft, still safe.
This is better.
This doesn’t hurt.
The carpet is soft. The lights are on. (Home.) He can see the couch. Their couch. (This is home.) His book is sitting on the floor, bookmark sticking out of one edge. He was reading about birds, wishing he had wings.
“Dean…” he whispers.
If he looks up, he thinks the voice will be Dean. The real Dean, not a trick, not a lie.
The soft thing has a name.
He looks up and he sees Dean.
Blanket.
Wrapped around him, cocoon, shell, keep me safe.
He puts his hand on his head again, but not scared, not protecting, just pushing the bad things away. Make it better, Sam. It’s okay.
Dean moves, and then he’s on Sam’s level, eyes looking at Sam’s eyes, voice soft but not angry, not hiding malice and rage. “Hey, kiddo. You okay?” he says.
Sam nods.
“I’m sorry if I said the wrong thing. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”
Sam nods again. His eyes feel hot. He swallows around the words that he’s trying to say, the words that are stuck.
“You with me?” Dean looks worried. Big brother pulling him out of the fire and holding him tight.
Sam says, “Yeah… Yeah, I’m here.”
Dean smiles, real and happy, and reaches out to so, so gently - it’s okay it doesn’t hurt - put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. Through his blanket armor, Dean’s hand feels strong, keeping him connected.
“I was wrong, Sammy. You can have as many blankets as you want, okay?”
“I… um…” Sam shakes his head, the words stuck inside him again.
Beside him, Dean turns and settles down on the floor, too, leaning against the wall, legs splayed out in front of him. “Just take a breath. We got all the time you need.”
Sam lets out a shaky breath, and whispers, “I know.” He lets his head fall back against the wall with a soft thump, frustrated. “I just wish I wasn’t… broken.”
“It’s okay.” Dean pats him on the leg. “I’ll get out the ‘hang in there’ kitty poster.”
Sam chuckles softly, elbowing his brother in the ribs. “Shut up, Dean,” he says. This Dean won’t be mad at him for that.
Dean just wraps an arm around Sam’s shoulders, grinning.