Requests and Challenges - Reappearing: Chapter Five
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Back to Chapter Four
Title: Reappearing
Author: girlgotagun
Pairing: Dean/Benny - Gen
Behavior triggers in this chapter include: lying for the purpose of avoiding detection, failed recovery attempts (retrospective), calorie counting, mentions of purging, and death acceptance/ideation. Additionally, an author’s note at the beginning will detail eating disorder complications and risks, which I know can be upsetting for many vulnerable readers.
Please be safe. <3
Chapter Five: Disappear
AN: I hope that you’ll all forgive me for interrupting the flow of this story with a little note here, but there’s something that’s been worrying me a bit and I wanted to address it, so here it goes: I chose a raw and honest approach to this story, for the reasons that I outlined in the first chapter’s AN. I still believe that of the possible approaches, this is the best one. However, I worry at times that I am essentially writing a how-to manual for eating disorders due to the raw honesty. This will never be an idea that I am okay with, and if that is why you’re reading this story, then this note is for you. Eating disorders are fatal if recovery is not achieved, and even then they often result in long-term health effects such as heart and other organ complications, digestion concerns, and wrecked metabolism. And those are just for starters, not even mentioning lanugo (a fine body hair that you could grow to stop your body from freezing to death), hair loss, tooth decay and loss, additional effects resulting from substance abuse and high-risk behaviors often undertaken by sufferers, organ rupture or failure, and many more. Eating disorders have the single highest mortality rate of all mental illnesses, and often sufferers take their own lives. If you are considering such a course, I am not trying to shame you-the fact that a person would consider something like this is a huge red flag that there is already a problem in the early stages. The odds of successful recovery are considerably greater the less that the illness has progressed, and I greatly encourage anyone who feels they may be in danger of developing one to seek out help. Eating disorders are absolutely not worth it.
In regards to this story: Absolutely nothing that Dean does is safe. Nothing. Every single one of his behaviors have amazing potential to be deadly, often without warning and without a standard baseline for an estimated “critical warning” point. No matter how he tries to justify it or how often he flips between hating it and embracing it. His mentality is an effect of the disorder, and it is a distorted reality. Please don’t interpret his thoughts and justifications as reasonable or healthy.
The last thing I have to offer before we get on with this and I stop preaching at you is to say that if any of my readers ever need me-because I suspect there are many of you out there who are not comfortable with commenting or exposing your presence due to the sensitive nature of this story-I am always happy to listen. Issues like this are isolating and widely misunderstood, making coping and seeking help even harder and embarrassing or somehow shameful. I cannot always promise that I can offer any solution, especially as a stranger on the internet, but if you are struggling I will always listen. <3 If you are uncomfortable coming out of anon to message me here, my email is slidepucksandskinnedknees@hotmail.com and you're more than welcome to use an anonymous throw-away email to do so.
. starve .
The truth was, Dean had considered recovery. In fact, he had attempted self-recovery three times in his life. The first time was right after he had taken Sammy and run. Because he didn’t want to be big and strong-the idea caused him more distress than he would have known how to voice even if he had chosen to confide in someone, to ask for help-but he needed to protect Sammy. He had no idea what their dad’s next move would be, and he couldn’t protect Sammy if he was dying himself.
When he looked back on it, he thought that maybe he had actually managed it. But even so, he had relapsed six months later, unable to take anymore. He had gained thirty pounds in those six months, the scale creeping higher to drop him smack dab in the middle of healthy.
The relapse was awful. He felt like he had destroyed his body, like he was carrying around an extra person. He took up too much space. He hit a growth spurt as he tried desperately to work the numbers down, his body thriving and expanding as it relished in being properly maintained for the first time in years. The growth balanced the loss, and the measuring tape said he was shrinking when he wrapped it around his chest, his stomach, his legs, but the numbers didn’t go down because his body was getting bigger, taking up too much space, and he nearly broke.
The second time had been after Sam had walked into the bathroom and nearly caught him that first time that he purged. He lasted exactly nine days. It was harder than the first time, the memory of the aftermath trickling cold fear deep into his mind. He couldn’t get better even for Sammy. He considered in-patient and tossed out the idea. His healthy weight range ended at one hundred and sixty-four pounds. One hundred and forty had nearly destroyed him on his first attempt, and they would surely want to plump him up as much as they could, make him as big as possible so that he’d never have a hope of being safe and sane again, never be able to undo the damage, make him want to tear his own skeleton out so that he could see what it looked like one last time. Besides, in-patient was expensive, and state health coverage didn’t cover it, and they would take Sammy away because Dean was sick and he might make Sammy sick and what was the point of gaining to lose everything?
The third time was right before he really understood that he was going to die. The thought was there, but it seemed distant and unreal and there was time to fix it. He had hurtled himself into recovery head-first. After the first week he had gained ten pounds on the scale and no amount of it’s water weight, food weight, waste weight because your body was empty it’s fake you’re just full it’s not real parading through his head could balance that out.
After that, it hit him that it was too late; it was all he knew. And strangely it didn’t really bother him.
He had heard the soul weighs nearly an ounce.
. starve .
Benny stared at him, and Dean stared back. He waited for the older man to speak. Waited to gauge what he knew, what he guessed, how confident he was in any conclusion he may reach. His mind ran through a list of excuses and explanations. The minutes ticked by, and Dean prepared.
He tried to read the man’s body language. He looked relatively relaxed, leaning back in the armchair with his ankle crossed over his knee and his elbow on the armrest, hand near his temple as he stared back.
“You should eat.” The first words that Benny spoke were simple, his tone lacking judgement. It made him harder to read.
Dean looked at the food. The average four-ounce salmon fillet was over two hundred calories. The fruit salad looked fresh; assuming that it wasn’t sweetened in any way, it was likely about one hundred and fifty. The broth wasn’t likely more than twenty. He added it up, added ten percent for estimation error. He ball-parked it at four hundred and forty. Even if Benny had cooked the salmon with oils, it was still likely under his daily limit when he wasn’t fasting. He could eat it, if it came to it.
That was a last resort, though.
“I’m really not feeling well; had the flu last week and I’m still pretty nauseous.” He didn’t overplay it, staying calm.
“You seemed fine last week.” Again, the words were spoken calmly, as though it was a general observation. Crap. Dean hadn’t considered that it had actually been the week before that he had run into the man in the hospital bathroom.
“Must’ve been more recent.” Dean shrugged. “Felt like it went on forever. But that explains why I still feel like crap.”
Benny surveyed him carefully, and through the mask of indifference Dean saw a flicker of uncertainty. The man only suspected. No matter how sure he was, there was still room for doubt.
“If you’re still unable to keep food down, I should probably give you a lift to the hospital. It might be more serious than the flu.”
That one punched Dean hard in the gut. He had been fasting; had gotten down to just over one hundred and fifteen when he weighed himself that morning. He couldn’t fix that on short notice, couldn’t fake it. And they would lift his shirt to press a stethoscope to his chest and they would feel the bones under paper-like skin and they would hear his heart stumble as it tried to keep up.
He took a slow, steadying breath, worked to keep his face impassive, as though he had no idea why the other man would be so concerned. “It’s not that serious, man. Look, I’m sorry for scaring you, but I’m fine.”
Benny didn’t look convinced, although that slight doubt was still there. Dean picked up the fork and took a bite of the salmon-he wasn’t stupid enough to go for the lowest calories as he tried to throw the man off his track. He focused on chewing normally, on not over-chewing because that was a dead giveaway and not swallowing it down nearly whole so that he wouldn’t taste it, wouldn’t enjoy it, wouldn’t be tempted.
It was immediate hell. His brain processed the taste and desperately sent the signals through his body that made everything in him scream for more.
He finished the fillet. He had planned to only eat half, show Benny that he could do it easily, prove that he was just under the weather. He eyed the fruit salad, wondering if he could have just a few grapes without devouring the whole bowl.
“Are you going to be sick?” The real meaning in Benny’s question was unmistakeable. Are you going to make yourself sick?
Dean tested the back of his throat with his tongue, keeping his jaw steady and his face blank as he shrugged. He had only managed to purge hands-free once, and that time he had eaten enough to make himself genuinely sick, his gag reflex needing only the slightest stimulation to bring it all hurtling back up. He knew he wouldn’t be able to do it now, and it was the only way he might get away with it.
“No.” Dean smiled at the man. “I think it’s gonna stay down.” He chuckled. “I’m a little relieved. I’ve been starving.”
The slip was intentional, and it did its job. Because no one who was trying to hide the fact that they weren’t eating would let themselves say that they were starving. It was colloquial, a hyperbole that healthy people used when they hadn’t eaten in six hours and dinner was drawing near. People who had no idea what it actually meant, what it actually felt like to starve. It was a confession that landed as the most normal thing he could possibly say.
Benny smiled back. Because no one wanted to see it in someone, even if they had struggled with it themselves. Because he desperately wanted to believe Dean.
. starve .
Dean stayed and hung out with Benny for a while after that. It would be too suspicious if he had bolted. Benny had asked about Sam, about how Dean had taken guardianship over him. Dean thought about giving him the usual rehearsed bullshit; that their dad had passed away and Dean had petitioned for custody of his brother so that they wouldn’t be split up. But even though he by no means wanted to come clean to the man about anything, and he was secretly pleased with his victory over being discovered, he didn’t have it in him to lie to the man even more.
But he wasn’t willing to tell him the truth, either. So he had simply said that it was a long story and that he didn’t like to talk about it. To his surprise, Benny didn’t push it. And other than Dr. Novak, Dean had never had anyone just accept that answer. People were curious at best, and nosey at worst.
He asked Benny about himself. And maybe that wasn’t fair; maybe it wasn’t an equal exchange considering the lies and deception and secrets that Dean wasn’t willing to even hint at. But Benny answered him anyway. He had grown up in New Orleans. The big deal at his high school was wrestling, and he had been a division champion until he quit after his junior year. The trophies were still lined up on his mantle, although he was nearly ten years older than Dean and it had been a long time ago.
When Dean had asked him about it he had smiled. “Some things are important to remember.”
Dean wished he had a reminder of a happier time. But any happy memories he may have had were buried in a grave that had no body, burned in a fire that turned his world to ash, hidden in the dark corners that could hide all of the secrets in the world and swallow up all of the good but hadn’t been enough to hide Dean.
He liked talking to Benny, despite his initial wariness.
And he realized with a jolt as he collapsed into bed that night that he was happy that Benny could see him. As far back as he could remember, he had wanted to disappear, to become invisible. But Benny seeing him didn’t seem so bad.
It wasn’t much; it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t a magical cure-all that could save Dean. But as he thought of the hours and days remaining in his body, ticking steadily away in the countdown until he finally disappeared, Dean thought that it was a good way to spend a few of them.
Continue to Chapter Six
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