dean-centric fic & art meme #8
So that fantastic, all-expenses-paid weekend getaway you had planned--you cancelled that, right? You're ready for this? BECAUSE I AM READY FOR THIS. MY BODY IS READY FOR THIS. In anticipation of S9, let's pour some chum in the waters. Bring on the Dean!pain (and comfort!). >:D
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I'm kind of embarrassed to post this because I've been AWOL for so long. I'm pretty rusty. Sorry about the dumb title, basic plotlessness, and no carried!Dean :( Someone else should fill this and add carried!Dean.
CARRY THAT WEIGHT
“Ok, look,” Dean said, and turned the radio down. They were eight hours away from Palo Alto, eight hours away from Jess's body, eight hours away from a beautiful life that was now as much a ghost as the specters Sam had been hunting since childhood. He kept his eyes on the dark road, didn't look at his brother. Nothing Dean said could give him any comfort.
“I keep waiting for a good time to tell you this,” Dean said, drumming nervous fingers on the wheel. “But there's never gonna be a good time. I mean, if I had known what was gonna happen... I woulda told you when I first picked you up, before Jericho, but I thought we'd be together just one night, no big deal, you know?”
“What,” Sam said, dully.
“I mean, it's still not a big deal - I just thought, why mention it if I didn't have to?”
“Dean.”
“Sammy, I lied about spraining my ankle.”
Sam automatically glanced down at Dean's left leg, which he'd been favoring since he first busted into Sam's apartment a week ago. A lifetime ago. “Okay.”
Dean cleared his throat, tried on a grin, swapped it for a scowl, then put the grin back in place. “Actually, it's actually kind of funny, but I don't actually have an ankle anymore. I mean, I've got a plastic one, but the real one - uh, I lost it two years ago. Infected Hydra bite.”
Sam tried to think through the heavy, sodden mist in his brain. Plastic. Ankle? “Huh?”
“Right below the knee,” Dean said, and made a beheading motion across his neck. “Tchk. Right off!”
“You're telling me,” Sam said, slowly, “that you - that your leg - is gone? Amputated?”
“Yeah.” Dean glanced over at him, still grinning, although now Sam saw there was something manic about it, something over-bright. “Like I said - no big deal! But I can't, uh, the fake one starts buggin' me after a while, so I'm gonna have to take it off tonight, and you woulda definitely noticed, and I figured better now than when I come hopping out of the bathroom on one leg like some fucked-up bunny. Scare the shit out of you, probably. Right?”
“Right,” Sam said. “Hang on.”
“That's why I was glad when you stayed in the hotel with Jess's family,” Dean said. “Not 'cause I didn't want to deal with you. I know what you thought. I just didn't want you to have to, uh, deal with me. Not that I need dealing with, but you already had a lot to process, and --”
“Shut up for a second,” Sam said, raising his fingers to his temples. He closed his eyes for a second, though the inside of the car was already pretty dark and all it really shut out was the sweep of headlights on anonymous pavement. He could not, for the life of him, figure out what kind of reaction was socially appropriate. Finally he said, “Did it hurt?”
“I mean... yeah. Some.”
“Was Dad there?”
“Yeah. Some.”
“And now you have a fake leg.”
“Right.”
Sam took a deep breath. “Well,” he said. “I'm sorry.”
“S'okay.”
They went back to staring at the road, Dean out the windshield, Sam out the side window, looking for a glimpse of land that would locate him, somehow. It was all fields, grey and featureless beneath the night sky, like a black-and-white abstract film. After a while, Dean turned the radio up again, although in some way that made the silence even greater. Sam knew, on the level that was still conscious, still human, still Dean's brother, that this would probably hit him harder sometime in the future, but for now, it simply seemed like one more ticked box in a tragic checklist. Maybe it was better this way, Sam thought. Normally he'd probably cry and embarrass the hell out of both of them. But he'd used up all his tears on Jess.
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“Aw, Sammy, no,” Dean said, one hand on the doorjamb of the bathroom, the other clutching his bundled jeans. He was wearing the same t-shirt he'd been wearing all day, and a pair of grey sweatpants, one leg of which ended in a solid, healthy foot, and the other leg...
Sam let out another little hiccuping attempt not to cry.
Dean hopped a few steps forward, which really, really didn't help Sam keep his emotions under wraps, and his brother paused, balancing like a stork, uncertainty written all over his face. His empty sweats leg was knotted right below his knee and didn't quite touch the floor.
“Don't you have crutches or something?” Sam sniffed, trying to engage in conversation like a normal person, but his voice broke halfway through.
“Yeah,” Dean said, and rolled his eyes. “I didn't want to freak you out.” He took another couple of hops and plonked down next to Sam on the motel bed, dropped a hesitant hand on his back. “Hey,” he said. “Man, it's fine. I'm fine.”
“I really wish I'd been there,” Sam said. “I'm so sorry I wasn't there.”
“You've got enough to feel bad about right now,” Dean said, then winced. “Shit, that's not what I mean. I just mean --”
“I can feel sad about Jess and about your leg at the same time,” Sam said, surprised to find it was true. “God, Dean --”
Dean stood abruptly, and hopped over to the mini-fridge with an earnest athleticism that was nothing like the easy, rolling grace Sam associated with him. He leaned down, one hand on the fridge for balance, and fished out a couple cans of beer, then hopped back over to the bed.
“Sorry if these are a little shook up,” he said, and cracked one, handed it to Sam.
“I don't want a beer,” Sam said, taking a sip, “I want to hear about --”
“It's not some dramatic story,” Dean said. “Really, Sam, I don't want you to worry about it.”
Sam's eyes welled up again, and he fisted the hem of his sweatshirt sleeve and tried to mop his face up a little. Dean didn't want a fuss. He knew that. He took a deep, shuddering breath, and Dean clapped him on the back.
“Atta boy,” he said, and smoothly moved himself to his own bed, wriggled under the covers with minimal trouble. The second his left leg was out of sight, Sam felt a little bitter, and he gave Dean a watery smile.
“Dean--”
“Hey,” Dean said, “how about you grab that remote and let's see what's on. Take your mind off this shitshow, okay?”
Sam looked at him for a moment, then complied. It was easier than arguing.
“I am sorry,” he said, as the raucous sounds of Looney Tunes filled the room.
“Hey, you know,” said Dean, and that was the end of it.
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“Shit,” Dean hissed, as Sam grabbed his elbow for the third time that evening.
“Do you wanna sit for a second?” Sam said, trying to steer Dean to a bench beneath the awning of a patisserie, but Dean shook him off and kept clumping on down the uneven sidewalk.
“Shitty balance,” Dean said. “Some kind of inner ear thing.”
“Right,” Sam said, skeptical. They'd been together two weeks, now, and at first Dean really had seemed okay - by the time Sam woke each morning, Dean had his leg locked and loaded and was moving around their motel room the same way he always did, tossing clothes into his duffle, whining about Sam's fruity shampoo, fake-gagging on his toothbrush to try and make Sam laugh. He moved more stiffly than he'd used to, and he always had a faint trace of a limp, more of a hitch, really, unless he was going up stairs or on particularly rugged terrain, but in all the ways that mattered he seemed the same as Sam remembered. Right before he went to sleep he'd go into the bathroom and come out a while later, hopping straight across the motel room and into his bed, and it was such a tiny percentage of the day that Sam could almost pretend Dean was unhurt, unscathed.
But then he'd started limping a little harder, stumbling a little more. He leaned on walls, countertops, railings, the Impala, though when he caught Sam looking he straightened up with a quick grin, as if he'd been caught sleeping on the job by a nagging boss. He was having more trouble rising, too, Sam had noticed - it was taking him a few tries to get onto his feet.
Sam hung back a little now, just to watch, and noticed Dean was dragging his left foot, never getting it all the way off the ground. They'd come off a pretty easy salt and burn the night before, and as far as he knew Dean hadn't been injured - just a little bruise on his temple which was already fading. Now they were in Nebraska to have coffee with an old friend of John's, a woman Sam vaguely remembered from a summer they'd spent here when he was seven.
“Hey,” Sam called, jogging to catch up with his brother, “it's this place right up here.”
It was a small, neat cafe with cases of gourmet pre-made sandwiches, and the woman they were meeting, Sheila, was seated at the far end, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. She had a scar coming down like a hook from her right ear, and her grey hair was braided in an elaborate and beautiful pattern across the top of her head. She smiled when she saw them, and stood to kiss their cheeks.
“I can't believe it's been so long,” she said. “John showed me photos of you, so I knew what to expect, but my goodness... Sam, you're enormous! And Dean, so handsome.”
Dean smirked at Sam, then lowered himself carefully down across from Sheila, mouth tightening a little as he stretched out his leg beneath the wooden tabletop. Sheila noticed, and nodded in sympathy.
“He told me about your leg, too,” she said, and stretched out her right hand - three fingers were missing. “Hardly the same thing, but I do sympathize.”
“Yikes,” said Dean. “What was it?”
“Black dog,” she said, withdrawing her hand again. “Yours was... harpy?”
“Hydra.”
“Of course.” She flicked her eyes from Sam's face then back to Dean and said, “Here's what I know about your father's plans.”
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---
“Well, that was a bust,” Dean said, once the cafe door had eased shut behind them. “Smart lady, though. Good hunter.”
“She had some interesting information,” Sam said.
“None that'll lead us to dad, though.”
“Yet.”
Dean shrugged, seeming to concentrate more on putting one foot in front of the other than having a conversation. He was limping heavily, kind of swinging his leg out from his hip and letting it fall where it may, and for the first time Sam could really see the prosthetic under his jeans - not so much the outline, but the movement gave it away. Dean wasn't moving it like it was part of his body.
“Your leg's bothering you,” Sam said, sticking his hands in his pockets as they made their way down the sunny small-town street.
“Nah,” Dean said, automatically.
“Is it - uh, is it phantom pain?”
Dean shot him a small, amused glance, and Sam shrugged defensively. What, he'd done a little research. And it wasn't like phantom pain was a foreign concept.
“No,” Dean said. “I never really had that.”
Sam furrowed his brow, slowing as they reached the Impala. Dean took his time climbing into the driver's seat, and was tight-lipped and a little pale as he peeled out of the parking spot. “Does your... residual limb hurt?”
“My stump?” Dean spat the word with surprising venom. “No.”
“Is it nerve damage? Or, like, muscular --”
“Lay off, Sam, I'm okay.”
“I'm not gonna lay off,” he said indignantly. “Just tell me what's wrong. Jesus, why d'you have to be such a suffering bastard about it? You always say it's no big deal. So, tell me what's up. It's no big deal.”
Dean was quiet for a while, then gave a convulsive little flick of his hand, like brushing away a gnat. “It's the stupid prosthetic.”
“What about it?”
“It - it chafes, okay? If I wear it too long.” Dean was flushing, though Sam couldn't see anything to be ashamed about. “It gets sore.”
“Can't you wear it less?”
Dean glanced at Sam, then away. “You don't wanna see that.”
“What? Why should I care?”
“You got all... bummed, that first time,” Dean said.
“Of course I did!” Sam exploded. “I'd never seen it before! Please, please don't tell me you've been wearing that thing out of some misguided urge to protect my feelings.”
Dean's guilty, furtive look made it clear that was exactly what he'd been doing.
“You're shitting me,” Sam said, appalled. “You think I care?”
“You've got enough on your plate,” Dean muttered, flicking the turn signal about six blocks too early.
“Seeing you without your leg isn't gonna add to my general state of woe,” Sam said. “I'm already fucking woeful up to my ears.”
Dean laughed a little.
“Seriously,” Sam said. “This ends now.”
“Honestly,” Dean said, a bit tentative, “I could use a break. But Sammy, I gotta use these ugly fuckin' crutches, you'll flip your shit.”
“I won't flip my shit.”
“Yeah, but if you do.”
“That's my problem,” Sam said. “How'm I gonna get used to this if you don't let me?”
“Guess I didn't think --” Dean started, then seemed to think better of it, and swallowed rapidly instead. Sam looked at him with dawning comprehension.
“You didn't think I was going to stick around for long enough to get used to anything.”
Dean shrugged.
“Where the hell else would I go?”
Another shrug.
“That's just stupid,” Sam said finally, and Dean laughed for real.
“I'm not the smart one,” he said. “You heard Sheila. I'm the handsome one.”
“She didn't say I wasn't handsome.”
Dean gave a grand, think-what-you-will gesture, and pulled into the motel parking lot. He tugged the keys out of the ignition, paused, then said, fast, like he didn't want to give himself time to re-think it, “Sam could you grab the big green bag outta the trunk and carry it in for me.”
“Sure,” Sam said, a little bemused.
“Crutches,” Dean said shortly.
“Oh,” Sam said. “Sure.” He'd seen that bag, figured it was some kind of weapon. Dean had never brought it into the motel.
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After a bit, there was a tentative knock, and Dean's voice called, “Sam?”
Sam half-stood. “You okay?”
“You gonna freak if I come out in shorts?”
For a minute Sam didn't understand, then, with a start, he realized he'd never actually seen evidence of Dean's missing leg. He'd seen the absence of the leg, sure, but never the leg itself. “Absolutely not,” he called back.
Dean came out of the bathroom balanced on a pair of capable-looking aluminum crutches, wrists strapped into grey cuffs, face a flushed, mild pink. He was in his boxers, and Sam couldn't help but flinch as he looked at his brother's hairy, slightly inflamed knee, and the rough-looking skin beneath it.
“You're freaking out,” Dean said flatly, and crutched over to where his duffle bag sat on a naugahyde chair.
“Only 'cause it looks uncomfortable,” Sam said, mostly telling the truth. “Shit, Dean. It's all swollen.”
“I told you,” Dean said, rummaging in the side pocket, “I've been wearing the fake too much.”
“You need more than an afternoon out of it,” Sam said. “Even I can see that.”
“Maybe,” Dean conceded, and shoved a bottle under his armpit, started back for the bathroom. Sam was following before he was fully conscious of it.
“Can I, uh, can I watch? I should know this stuff.”
“It's gross,” Dean warned, but didn't try and stop him, just lowered himself onto the closed lid of the toilet and set about cleaning the stump, face screwed up now and again in pain. Sam sat on the edge of the tub and, for want of something to do with his hands, picked up Dean's discarded foot. He'd never really examined it before.
“Is this your only one?” he said.
“Yeah,” Dean said, dabbing his leg gingerly with a hand towel. “I've been through four of them already. Not cheap, lemme tell you.”
“Four?”
Dean grunted.
“I don't think it's gross,” Sam said, watching him smooth a yellowish cream into the seamed, pink skin. “For the record.”
“Used to be a lot grosser,” Dean said, and reached out for the towel rack to lever himself to his feet. Sam handed him his crutches.
“Thanks,” Dean said, meeting his eyes for the first time, and Sam followed him back out into the motel room, feeling a little like a hopeful dog. Dean was easy on the crutches, practiced, and it hit Sam all of a sudden that this had been Dean's life for two whole years.
Like he could read Sam's thoughts, Dean said, “Dad was better with all this shit than you'd think.”
“Yeah?” Sam said neutrally, though he was hungry for information about the time he'd been gone.
“Yeah, he was - he stuck around for most of rehab, and he worked out all the bills. And he never, uh, never tried to... y'know, stop me from hunting or anything.”
Sam read between the lines. John had treated Dean the same as he'd always treated him. And that, Sam understood, had meant more than Dean could explain.
“I'm not going to stop you, either,” Sam said. “I haven't yet, have I?”
“Nope,” Dean, and favored him with a quick, true smile.
“Don't pull this again,” Sam told him. “Take care of yourself, or maybe I will stop you.”
“Like to see you try,” Dean snorted, but he grinned again as he plonked down onto the bed. “Another thing Dad did was wait on me hand and foot. Grab me a beer?”
Sam snorted, but he went and tugged a can free from its plastic noose and brought it over. Dean cracked it, was about to take a sip, then raised it at Sam, almost a toast.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Anytime, Peg Leg.”
“Sam.”
“Tiny Tim?”
“Sam.”
“Captain Hook.”
“That was his hand, dumbass.”
“Yeah, tell that to the Crocodile who ate your leg.”
“I'll eat your fuckin' leg if you don't shut up.”
“Kinky.”
“SAM!”
end
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I'm so glad the prompt caught your eye - I devoured your fic and adored it.
I wish you all the best in your life - I've loved your stories - and hope you find the time to write much much more!
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You're still writing like a champ, fear not! The banter and surliness and honestly ... it's glorious.
Hope you're doing well-ish. WE MISS YOU!
(Oops, wrong place. Of course. Hey, it's 2 a.m.)
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Sam's reaction was just right too. Upset but dealing.
Lovely.
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I love this, and I love how it connects back up to the Dean's ending explication of John's involvement at that time:
Finally he said, “Did it hurt?”
“I mean... yeah. Some.”
“Was Dad there?”
“Yeah. Some.”
And then mostly I love this, the whole thing. <33 Thank you!
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<3
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