Supernatural: What Part of Which One of Them
Title: What Part of Which One of Them
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Gen. (Weechesters)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
Rating: PG-13 for Graphic Violence (death of a victim on a hunt)
Word Count: 2,083
Author’s Note: The last 500 words of this were written for the spnland Devotion challenge. Title stolen from The Age of Dinosaurs by James Scruton.
Summary: Dean’s first hunt on his own doesn’t go as planned and Dean is devastated by his failure. For the first time ever, it’s Sam who has to comfort Dean.
It’s pride that Dean feels when he gets the call.
There’s a little fear and some annoyance that the job didn’t get done, but for the most part, pride. He’s been hunting for a long time, but at 16 years old, Dean Winchester has never gone on a hunt alone. And now John is calling him, trusting him to get this job done all by himself.
The family has been attacked before. Dean torched the black dog that had been hounding them all week with John’s help. John, thinking the job was done, moved on to the next one, leaving Sam and Dean behind to settle into town, register for school for the next few months. The next day John gets a call: same family, different black dog, and John doesn’t need to turn around to take care of it. He’s got Dean and he’s confident in Dean and that makes Dean confident, too.
He sets off as soon as he’s done on the phone, steals the first car he sees, and heads back to the house.
There’s crying within when he gets there, a broken window showing that the thing’s already gotten in. Dean shoots the lock out as he runs for the door, makes it inside in record time. He can see the dog from the living room. It’s attacking, so Dean doesn’t have to time to sneak up on it and goes with his instinct instead.
Dean grabs the first thing his hand makes contact with and flings it as hard as he can, hoping for a distraction. There’s a satisfying sound as the phone hits the animal and the dog turns, snarling, blood dripping from its mouth. It’s almost too big to fit through the door, but it launches itself at Dean with so much power that the archway crumbles and pieces of the house break off instead of stopping it.
Good, Dean thinks. Bring it on.
The dog does. It only takes one quick jump for it to land a hit and Dean stumbles back, almost unable to move beneath it. It takes a few seconds to get its bearings and that’s what saves Dean’s life. Had its landing been smoother, it would have torn through him in one bite.
Dean’s small enough to wiggle under it, so he lands one good hit in its ribs before finding his gun and shooting a leg out. The dog whimpers, but it won’t for long. Dean has to get the thing on fire before its bones have time to heal. He’s as good as done for once it can walk again. The dog thrashes in pain, knocking against (and bringing down) everything in the room.
Dean moves quickly, trying to find the pocket with his lighter without losing his focus and letting the dog catch him off guard. It doesn’t take much to toast a black dog-they’re more flammable than gasoline if you can actually keep it off you long enough to get the fire going. Dean just has to get close enough to light the end of one hair and the fire rips through the animal, immediately consuming it in flames.
“Get out of the house,” he screams at the family. They obey, heading for the back door and not sending a single look back as their house lights up.
Once they’re outside, Dean on their tail, the mother turns, looking at her husband and two children with terror dawning on her face. Dean suddenly remembers there were three kids, the daughter and two sons. He hauls ass back into the house as fast as he can manage.
His best guess is that the dog got the kid before Dean even arrived, that he’ll find a chew toy instead of a person once he gets inside. He doesn’t let himself believe that his best guess is right.
Dean’s never failed anyone before. Sure, he’s always had Dad’s help, and Dad’s as close to perfect at hunting as a person can get. But Dean’s gotten his moments and he’s never screwed up when it matters. Not until now. Not until he sees this body and for half a minute it doesn’t matter that the house is boiling and falling apart around him because Dean doesn’t care if he makes it out alive.
The broken little body on the living room floor is maybe 13 or 14. Not much older than Sam. Not much bigger. And for some twisted reason, the first thing that flashes into Dean’s mind is a picture of his little brother torn up like this, Dean helpless to save him.
“No, no, no, no, no,” he says, falling to his knees and shaking the kid, even though it’s hopeless. Black dog’s bites are poisonous, the kid would be dead even if his vital organs weren’t scattered around like-Dean doesn’t let himself think about it.
He scoops the kid up and runs for the back door. He doesn’t know how he makes it out in time; he doesn’t know how close he comes to dead. He knows that the weight in his arms feels exactly like Sam does when Dean carries him from the backseat of the Impala to the motel that’s home for the night.
There’s a terrible cry from the mother when she sees him. Dean will never forget the sound she makes. The father comes forward and takes the child from Dean and Dean surrenders him without knowing what he’s doing.
There are cries, a name being repeated, his name. Dean closes off, doesn’t let himself know. Dad once said it’s easier to kill a thing if it doesn’t have a name. This isn’t a thing Dean killed. It’s a person. It’s a child. Dean’s covered in his blood.
“Why?” The mother cries, and then she keeps crying it. Over and over and over and although she never says anything else, it’s a different question every time.
Why him? Why not me? Why couldn’t you get here in time? Why are you still alive if he isn’t?
Dean asks the same questions. Shouldn’t he be dead, isn’t the hunter supposed to be the one in danger? Why wasn’t it him?
The family is collected over the body and Dean doesn’t know what to do now. Half of him wants to slink off, disappear from these people’s lives like an ugly dream. But he stays put. Glued in place, knowing he has to own up to what he’s done, knowing he’ll deserve whatever they do or say to him.
The father turns first and looks at Dean like he’s a ghost. “You saved us,” he says, like it’s a question. “Thank you.”
No one else says anything to him. The girl looks at him, tears running down her face, as if she’s thankful, too. The mother doesn’t even seem to know there’s anything going on, she rocks back and forth, her son’s body clutched to her chest and Dean thinks that’s the correct response. Then the boy looks up at him. He’s maybe 17 and there’s hate in his gaze when he looks at Dean. Dean emphatically agrees with whatever he’s thinking.
He takes the coward’s route then, turns and makes for his stolen car, for the crappy motel where his little brother is waiting to be reassured and tucked into bed. That’s where Dean needs to be, where he belongs, even if he doesn’t deserve it.
He drives for half a mile before he pulls on to the side of the road and throws up everything he’s eaten in the last year. Once he’s gotten control of himself, he calls his dad and reports on the case, anticipating the verbal lashing, maybe even hoping for it. It doesn’t come. John is subdued, apologetic, but he still says Dean did the best he could. Says he’s proud. Dean’s never actually thought his father’s opinion to be worthless before.
When John hangs up, Dean lets his head rest on the wheel and for the first time since he can remember, something rips through him and he can’t stop the sobs that shake his body for the next fifteen minutes. After that he pulls back, wipes away the evidence, and takes a deep, steadying breath. He feels numb and empty and he almost doesn’t bother starting the car back up and driving home until he remembers Sam is waiting for him.
Dean sinks into his mattress as soon as the door closes behind him. He sits on the edge and buries his face in his hands.
A tiny hand is on his shoulder suddenly and Dean’s entire body goes cold at the touch. He doesn’t want to look up, doesn’t want to feel or see or hear or remember. He’s never been upset to see Sam. Sam has never been the thing that hurts.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, Sammy, I’m fine,” he lies, the same strained easiness in his tone that he’d used when speaking to Dad. Dean shouldn’t be surprised when Sam can see through it.
“Dean, what’s wrong? Did somebody get…is the monster still coming for us?” Sam asks, his little voice trembling and, God, Dean should tell him it’s okay. Should put on a brave face because that’s what Dean does and that’s what Sam needs him to do. But Dean can’t now.
“No, don’t worry, Sam. I…I got it. It’s not gonna hurt anyone else.”
He finally looks up because a part of him, the ugliest part of him, wants to see Sam and gloat and know that he still has his little brother. Sam is smiling at Dean like he’s some kind of hero and that twists the knife. Dean is no hero. Dean is the guy who killed a monster thirty seconds too late. The guy who wasn’t good enough to do the job while it still mattered.
“You did it, Dean! All by yourself!”
Dean shakes his head and pushes Sam out of his line of vision. Sam makes the mistake of thinking it’s just brotherly affection, so he pushes back until he’s sitting next to Dean, pressed against his side, innocently begging to hear about the hunt.
“Sam, I don’t want to talk about it,” Dean says and then Sam’s face sobers.
“Dean, whatever happened wasn’t your fault.”
Dean looks down. There’s literally blood on his hands. It’s almost funny in an appallingly morbid way.
There’s blood from the body he found when he got to the house, blood from a body about Sam’s size. Someone’s little brother. Someone’s Sammy. Dead because Dean didn’t get there on time.
Because Dean stopped at a red light or didn’t press hard enough on the acceleration, someone will lie awake tonight and no one will say in a shaky little voice that what happened wasn’t their fault. Dean can’t stop feeling all the hate and rage he’d experience if someone had let something like that happen to Sam.
Sam doesn’t ask any more questions. Dean hates that he’s this grown up at 12, but maybe he has to be. At least he can look out for himself, because for the first time ever, Dean has to wonder if Sam is right to depend on him.
“Dean, come here.” Sam pulls him down, lets Dean rest his head on a shoulder way too small to hold it, strokes his hair exactly the way Dean has done to Sam so many times.
Dean thinks that’s what does it: the circular motions Sam’s hands use to lull Dean out of his thoughts, the little soothing murmurs-Sam’s best imitation of his big brother. Sam’s determined to make Dean forget and Dean has the almost unbelievable realization that the things Sam thinks of as comfort are all linked right back to him.
“I couldn’t save him, Sammy,” Dean finally admits. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t.”
“Shh, Dean, stop it. Please stop,” Sam sounds a little scared and a lot hurt and Dean tries to rein himself in for Sam’s sake.
Sam wraps his arms around Dean and holds on, whispering every comfort he can think of. Dean’s never had to go to his brother for support before, never even dreamed of dropping his problems on Sam, but right now he doesn’t think anything else could ever make him forgive himself.
Sam can. He promises it’s okay, forgives Dean for what happened, and repeats over and over that it isn’t Dean’s fault. Dean doesn’t believe it, not for a second, but he accepts it because Sam does.
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Gen. (Weechesters)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
Rating: PG-13 for Graphic Violence (death of a victim on a hunt)
Word Count: 2,083
Author’s Note: The last 500 words of this were written for the spnland Devotion challenge. Title stolen from The Age of Dinosaurs by James Scruton.
Summary: Dean’s first hunt on his own doesn’t go as planned and Dean is devastated by his failure. For the first time ever, it’s Sam who has to comfort Dean.
It’s pride that Dean feels when he gets the call.
There’s a little fear and some annoyance that the job didn’t get done, but for the most part, pride. He’s been hunting for a long time, but at 16 years old, Dean Winchester has never gone on a hunt alone. And now John is calling him, trusting him to get this job done all by himself.
The family has been attacked before. Dean torched the black dog that had been hounding them all week with John’s help. John, thinking the job was done, moved on to the next one, leaving Sam and Dean behind to settle into town, register for school for the next few months. The next day John gets a call: same family, different black dog, and John doesn’t need to turn around to take care of it. He’s got Dean and he’s confident in Dean and that makes Dean confident, too.
He sets off as soon as he’s done on the phone, steals the first car he sees, and heads back to the house.
There’s crying within when he gets there, a broken window showing that the thing’s already gotten in. Dean shoots the lock out as he runs for the door, makes it inside in record time. He can see the dog from the living room. It’s attacking, so Dean doesn’t have to time to sneak up on it and goes with his instinct instead.
Dean grabs the first thing his hand makes contact with and flings it as hard as he can, hoping for a distraction. There’s a satisfying sound as the phone hits the animal and the dog turns, snarling, blood dripping from its mouth. It’s almost too big to fit through the door, but it launches itself at Dean with so much power that the archway crumbles and pieces of the house break off instead of stopping it.
Good, Dean thinks. Bring it on.
The dog does. It only takes one quick jump for it to land a hit and Dean stumbles back, almost unable to move beneath it. It takes a few seconds to get its bearings and that’s what saves Dean’s life. Had its landing been smoother, it would have torn through him in one bite.
Dean’s small enough to wiggle under it, so he lands one good hit in its ribs before finding his gun and shooting a leg out. The dog whimpers, but it won’t for long. Dean has to get the thing on fire before its bones have time to heal. He’s as good as done for once it can walk again. The dog thrashes in pain, knocking against (and bringing down) everything in the room.
Dean moves quickly, trying to find the pocket with his lighter without losing his focus and letting the dog catch him off guard. It doesn’t take much to toast a black dog-they’re more flammable than gasoline if you can actually keep it off you long enough to get the fire going. Dean just has to get close enough to light the end of one hair and the fire rips through the animal, immediately consuming it in flames.
“Get out of the house,” he screams at the family. They obey, heading for the back door and not sending a single look back as their house lights up.
Once they’re outside, Dean on their tail, the mother turns, looking at her husband and two children with terror dawning on her face. Dean suddenly remembers there were three kids, the daughter and two sons. He hauls ass back into the house as fast as he can manage.
His best guess is that the dog got the kid before Dean even arrived, that he’ll find a chew toy instead of a person once he gets inside. He doesn’t let himself believe that his best guess is right.
Dean’s never failed anyone before. Sure, he’s always had Dad’s help, and Dad’s as close to perfect at hunting as a person can get. But Dean’s gotten his moments and he’s never screwed up when it matters. Not until now. Not until he sees this body and for half a minute it doesn’t matter that the house is boiling and falling apart around him because Dean doesn’t care if he makes it out alive.
The broken little body on the living room floor is maybe 13 or 14. Not much older than Sam. Not much bigger. And for some twisted reason, the first thing that flashes into Dean’s mind is a picture of his little brother torn up like this, Dean helpless to save him.
“No, no, no, no, no,” he says, falling to his knees and shaking the kid, even though it’s hopeless. Black dog’s bites are poisonous, the kid would be dead even if his vital organs weren’t scattered around like-Dean doesn’t let himself think about it.
He scoops the kid up and runs for the back door. He doesn’t know how he makes it out in time; he doesn’t know how close he comes to dead. He knows that the weight in his arms feels exactly like Sam does when Dean carries him from the backseat of the Impala to the motel that’s home for the night.
There’s a terrible cry from the mother when she sees him. Dean will never forget the sound she makes. The father comes forward and takes the child from Dean and Dean surrenders him without knowing what he’s doing.
There are cries, a name being repeated, his name. Dean closes off, doesn’t let himself know. Dad once said it’s easier to kill a thing if it doesn’t have a name. This isn’t a thing Dean killed. It’s a person. It’s a child. Dean’s covered in his blood.
“Why?” The mother cries, and then she keeps crying it. Over and over and over and although she never says anything else, it’s a different question every time.
Why him? Why not me? Why couldn’t you get here in time? Why are you still alive if he isn’t?
Dean asks the same questions. Shouldn’t he be dead, isn’t the hunter supposed to be the one in danger? Why wasn’t it him?
The family is collected over the body and Dean doesn’t know what to do now. Half of him wants to slink off, disappear from these people’s lives like an ugly dream. But he stays put. Glued in place, knowing he has to own up to what he’s done, knowing he’ll deserve whatever they do or say to him.
The father turns first and looks at Dean like he’s a ghost. “You saved us,” he says, like it’s a question. “Thank you.”
No one else says anything to him. The girl looks at him, tears running down her face, as if she’s thankful, too. The mother doesn’t even seem to know there’s anything going on, she rocks back and forth, her son’s body clutched to her chest and Dean thinks that’s the correct response. Then the boy looks up at him. He’s maybe 17 and there’s hate in his gaze when he looks at Dean. Dean emphatically agrees with whatever he’s thinking.
He takes the coward’s route then, turns and makes for his stolen car, for the crappy motel where his little brother is waiting to be reassured and tucked into bed. That’s where Dean needs to be, where he belongs, even if he doesn’t deserve it.
He drives for half a mile before he pulls on to the side of the road and throws up everything he’s eaten in the last year. Once he’s gotten control of himself, he calls his dad and reports on the case, anticipating the verbal lashing, maybe even hoping for it. It doesn’t come. John is subdued, apologetic, but he still says Dean did the best he could. Says he’s proud. Dean’s never actually thought his father’s opinion to be worthless before.
When John hangs up, Dean lets his head rest on the wheel and for the first time since he can remember, something rips through him and he can’t stop the sobs that shake his body for the next fifteen minutes. After that he pulls back, wipes away the evidence, and takes a deep, steadying breath. He feels numb and empty and he almost doesn’t bother starting the car back up and driving home until he remembers Sam is waiting for him.
Dean sinks into his mattress as soon as the door closes behind him. He sits on the edge and buries his face in his hands.
A tiny hand is on his shoulder suddenly and Dean’s entire body goes cold at the touch. He doesn’t want to look up, doesn’t want to feel or see or hear or remember. He’s never been upset to see Sam. Sam has never been the thing that hurts.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, Sammy, I’m fine,” he lies, the same strained easiness in his tone that he’d used when speaking to Dad. Dean shouldn’t be surprised when Sam can see through it.
“Dean, what’s wrong? Did somebody get…is the monster still coming for us?” Sam asks, his little voice trembling and, God, Dean should tell him it’s okay. Should put on a brave face because that’s what Dean does and that’s what Sam needs him to do. But Dean can’t now.
“No, don’t worry, Sam. I…I got it. It’s not gonna hurt anyone else.”
He finally looks up because a part of him, the ugliest part of him, wants to see Sam and gloat and know that he still has his little brother. Sam is smiling at Dean like he’s some kind of hero and that twists the knife. Dean is no hero. Dean is the guy who killed a monster thirty seconds too late. The guy who wasn’t good enough to do the job while it still mattered.
“You did it, Dean! All by yourself!”
Dean shakes his head and pushes Sam out of his line of vision. Sam makes the mistake of thinking it’s just brotherly affection, so he pushes back until he’s sitting next to Dean, pressed against his side, innocently begging to hear about the hunt.
“Sam, I don’t want to talk about it,” Dean says and then Sam’s face sobers.
“Dean, whatever happened wasn’t your fault.”
Dean looks down. There’s literally blood on his hands. It’s almost funny in an appallingly morbid way.
There’s blood from the body he found when he got to the house, blood from a body about Sam’s size. Someone’s little brother. Someone’s Sammy. Dead because Dean didn’t get there on time.
Because Dean stopped at a red light or didn’t press hard enough on the acceleration, someone will lie awake tonight and no one will say in a shaky little voice that what happened wasn’t their fault. Dean can’t stop feeling all the hate and rage he’d experience if someone had let something like that happen to Sam.
Sam doesn’t ask any more questions. Dean hates that he’s this grown up at 12, but maybe he has to be. At least he can look out for himself, because for the first time ever, Dean has to wonder if Sam is right to depend on him.
“Dean, come here.” Sam pulls him down, lets Dean rest his head on a shoulder way too small to hold it, strokes his hair exactly the way Dean has done to Sam so many times.
Dean thinks that’s what does it: the circular motions Sam’s hands use to lull Dean out of his thoughts, the little soothing murmurs-Sam’s best imitation of his big brother. Sam’s determined to make Dean forget and Dean has the almost unbelievable realization that the things Sam thinks of as comfort are all linked right back to him.
“I couldn’t save him, Sammy,” Dean finally admits. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t.”
“Shh, Dean, stop it. Please stop,” Sam sounds a little scared and a lot hurt and Dean tries to rein himself in for Sam’s sake.
Sam wraps his arms around Dean and holds on, whispering every comfort he can think of. Dean’s never had to go to his brother for support before, never even dreamed of dropping his problems on Sam, but right now he doesn’t think anything else could ever make him forgive himself.
Sam can. He promises it’s okay, forgives Dean for what happened, and repeats over and over that it isn’t Dean’s fault. Dean doesn’t believe it, not for a second, but he accepts it because Sam does.