Supernatural; Wincest: "Solid State"
Title: Solid State
Author: Kitana
Warnings: PG, light Sam/Dean. When he has time to think about it, Dean thinks about how nice it was to not have scars for a little while. Spoilers for episode 5.13, sort of. Written for agoodinsane for the samdeanexchange. I looked at your prompt of "stitching each other's wounds" and went from there. Hope you enjoy it!
~1000 words.
Thanks extra much to paloma1182 for the beta!
***
When he has time to think about it, Dean thinks about how nice it was to not have scars for a little while. He hadn’t seen his skin look so clean since he was eight. Or seven, he’s not all that sure these days. It was good while it lasted… but it only takes a week after Castiel drags him from the depths of hell for new scars to etch their way into his arms, shoulders, stomach, and back. Barely two months later, he gets a well-aimed knife through the meat of his right calf, and there goes the last of his unblemished skin. It’s all old news now… just a few days over a year later. He sits hunched over on the edge of his motel bed, chilly, except for the warmth radiating from Sam behind him. It seems like yesterday that he was in this very similar position.
Oh wait, perhaps it was.
Dean takes a swig of his too-cheap-to-be-enjoyable whiskey before Sam pulls the string of his stitches taut, digging the needle into tender flesh again. Hitting the sharp metal edges of the auto shop’s shelf when Anna tossed him aside - like a rag doll no less (That pissed him off even though he knew he wasn’t the most formidable match for an angel) left a gash deep enough that even Sam winced some when he looked at it. All the gushing blood and pieces of themselves they’ve seen hanging and lost in their lives should’ve steeled them against this, made it seem like just another thing to deal with, but seeing your family’s flesh torn open time and time again never gets easier.
Neither does healing the wounds. It seems like forever that it takes Sam to get the entire wound closed up tight. Dean can feel the blood still trickling warm, wetly down his back. Sam wipes the blood away with alcohol, swipes more of it over the stitches themselves, and for just a moment, there’s a too-bright pain radiating from Dean’s shoulder. Then Sam brushes his lips across the stitches, lightly, barely there… it might be unsanitary first and foremost, but Dean’s grateful for the soothing gesture anyway.
Sam tapes a strip of gauze across the gash on Dean’s shoulder, and gives the unmarked shoulder a light slap. “You’re all clean,” Sam says, groaning as he climbs from behind Dean and off the bed. “Swap.”
Sam’s not half as bad off as Dean this time. He’s got a line of cuts going down his side from where he butted up against an antique Chrysler trying to fend Anna off of Mary. Sam could’ve taken care of it himself no problem, but it’s just their way now. They patch each other up, know which wounds need extra tending to, and when the next fight comes around (because Sam and Dean expect it now… there’s no rest for the weary or the wicked ) they know just how much they can handle together, even if they’ll never run.
Dean watches as Sam pulls his shirt up and off, revealing a nasty swatch of purpling bruises going up his right side. There are some cuts and dried blood, but nothing too deep. This time… It echoes in Dean’s head that this time they’re lucky and after this it will be just another crap shoot. He doesn’t dwell on the fact that they’ve been “lucky” their entire lives.
It’s quick as far as clean up goes; the alcohol eats the blood right up, though Sam hisses when Dean swabs across the cuts themselves.
“You want the dinosaur band-aids or the sparkly ones?” Dean says, with a grin that Sam rolls his eyes at. It’s the same thing he used to tease Sam about when they were growing up. Sometimes the first-aid kits John came back with were for paper cuts at best, but that’s when things were extra tight and they were in the middle of nowheresville.
“The dinosaurs, if you still have to ask,” Sam says dryly, but his lips twist into a smile despite themselves. The band-aids are really just that plain brown generic kind, but Sam knows that Deans trying to keep them both afloat. If they start letting their beatings catch up with them, they’ll drown in them before they even finish this fight. Dean pastes them on as gently as he can and Sam slides his shirt back on.
For a little while they sit side by side on the bed, passing Dean’s whiskey bottle between them in silence. As much as there is to be said - about Castiel, about Anna, about young Mary, John, and Michael, and eventually (because conversations always go there) Lucifer… Dean instead lets the words in his throat get washed down by the liquor until they’re burning in the pit of his stomach. Sam looks at Dean for a long moment when he passes the whiskey back the next time, watches his throat work as the liquid goes down.
Sam opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but instead closes his mouth over the rim of the bottle when Dean hands it back. He can’t think of anything worthwhile to say either, and that’s usually what he’s good at. They’ve had the talk about Michael and Lucifer, and possibly the end of life as they know it. When Sam envisions it, the only images he can conjure up are the nights like this - sitting near Dean, battered and bruised, with nothing in the world to say and trying to think about even less - and he guesses that the last night of the world, his world anyway, will be spent just like this.
Uneventful, but peaceful at least. There’s not much more Sam could ask for.
When they’ve sucked down the last drops of whiskey, Sam moves to turn off the light and climb into his bed. There are still two beds in the room, in case one of them gets antsy for some distance, yet tonight Dean climbs in gingerly with him. This is another thing they won’t talk about, but Dean’s head finds the little space between Sam’s shoulder and neck, the space that was made for lying close together… and they settle down just like that.
In the morning, Sam knows that he’ll wake up and Dean will have somehow migrated back over to his own bed; for now, though, he’s going to take the comfort he can get in knowing that Dean needs him just as much as he needs Dean.
He hears Dean murmur goodnight just before he nods off for good.
Author: Kitana
Warnings: PG, light Sam/Dean. When he has time to think about it, Dean thinks about how nice it was to not have scars for a little while. Spoilers for episode 5.13, sort of. Written for agoodinsane for the samdeanexchange. I looked at your prompt of "stitching each other's wounds" and went from there. Hope you enjoy it!
~1000 words.
Thanks extra much to paloma1182 for the beta!
***
When he has time to think about it, Dean thinks about how nice it was to not have scars for a little while. He hadn’t seen his skin look so clean since he was eight. Or seven, he’s not all that sure these days. It was good while it lasted… but it only takes a week after Castiel drags him from the depths of hell for new scars to etch their way into his arms, shoulders, stomach, and back. Barely two months later, he gets a well-aimed knife through the meat of his right calf, and there goes the last of his unblemished skin. It’s all old news now… just a few days over a year later. He sits hunched over on the edge of his motel bed, chilly, except for the warmth radiating from Sam behind him. It seems like yesterday that he was in this very similar position.
Oh wait, perhaps it was.
Dean takes a swig of his too-cheap-to-be-enjoyable whiskey before Sam pulls the string of his stitches taut, digging the needle into tender flesh again. Hitting the sharp metal edges of the auto shop’s shelf when Anna tossed him aside - like a rag doll no less (That pissed him off even though he knew he wasn’t the most formidable match for an angel) left a gash deep enough that even Sam winced some when he looked at it. All the gushing blood and pieces of themselves they’ve seen hanging and lost in their lives should’ve steeled them against this, made it seem like just another thing to deal with, but seeing your family’s flesh torn open time and time again never gets easier.
Neither does healing the wounds. It seems like forever that it takes Sam to get the entire wound closed up tight. Dean can feel the blood still trickling warm, wetly down his back. Sam wipes the blood away with alcohol, swipes more of it over the stitches themselves, and for just a moment, there’s a too-bright pain radiating from Dean’s shoulder. Then Sam brushes his lips across the stitches, lightly, barely there… it might be unsanitary first and foremost, but Dean’s grateful for the soothing gesture anyway.
Sam tapes a strip of gauze across the gash on Dean’s shoulder, and gives the unmarked shoulder a light slap. “You’re all clean,” Sam says, groaning as he climbs from behind Dean and off the bed. “Swap.”
Sam’s not half as bad off as Dean this time. He’s got a line of cuts going down his side from where he butted up against an antique Chrysler trying to fend Anna off of Mary. Sam could’ve taken care of it himself no problem, but it’s just their way now. They patch each other up, know which wounds need extra tending to, and when the next fight comes around (because Sam and Dean expect it now… there’s no rest for the weary or the wicked ) they know just how much they can handle together, even if they’ll never run.
Dean watches as Sam pulls his shirt up and off, revealing a nasty swatch of purpling bruises going up his right side. There are some cuts and dried blood, but nothing too deep. This time… It echoes in Dean’s head that this time they’re lucky and after this it will be just another crap shoot. He doesn’t dwell on the fact that they’ve been “lucky” their entire lives.
It’s quick as far as clean up goes; the alcohol eats the blood right up, though Sam hisses when Dean swabs across the cuts themselves.
“You want the dinosaur band-aids or the sparkly ones?” Dean says, with a grin that Sam rolls his eyes at. It’s the same thing he used to tease Sam about when they were growing up. Sometimes the first-aid kits John came back with were for paper cuts at best, but that’s when things were extra tight and they were in the middle of nowheresville.
“The dinosaurs, if you still have to ask,” Sam says dryly, but his lips twist into a smile despite themselves. The band-aids are really just that plain brown generic kind, but Sam knows that Deans trying to keep them both afloat. If they start letting their beatings catch up with them, they’ll drown in them before they even finish this fight. Dean pastes them on as gently as he can and Sam slides his shirt back on.
For a little while they sit side by side on the bed, passing Dean’s whiskey bottle between them in silence. As much as there is to be said - about Castiel, about Anna, about young Mary, John, and Michael, and eventually (because conversations always go there) Lucifer… Dean instead lets the words in his throat get washed down by the liquor until they’re burning in the pit of his stomach. Sam looks at Dean for a long moment when he passes the whiskey back the next time, watches his throat work as the liquid goes down.
Sam opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but instead closes his mouth over the rim of the bottle when Dean hands it back. He can’t think of anything worthwhile to say either, and that’s usually what he’s good at. They’ve had the talk about Michael and Lucifer, and possibly the end of life as they know it. When Sam envisions it, the only images he can conjure up are the nights like this - sitting near Dean, battered and bruised, with nothing in the world to say and trying to think about even less - and he guesses that the last night of the world, his world anyway, will be spent just like this.
Uneventful, but peaceful at least. There’s not much more Sam could ask for.
When they’ve sucked down the last drops of whiskey, Sam moves to turn off the light and climb into his bed. There are still two beds in the room, in case one of them gets antsy for some distance, yet tonight Dean climbs in gingerly with him. This is another thing they won’t talk about, but Dean’s head finds the little space between Sam’s shoulder and neck, the space that was made for lying close together… and they settle down just like that.
In the morning, Sam knows that he’ll wake up and Dean will have somehow migrated back over to his own bed; for now, though, he’s going to take the comfort he can get in knowing that Dean needs him just as much as he needs Dean.
He hears Dean murmur goodnight just before he nods off for good.