Fic: No Fear of Falling (7/16), brown cortina, by little_cello
Title: No Fear of Falling (7/16)
Author: little_cello
Word Count: 2400ish
Rating: Brown Cortina
Warning: AU-specific self harm, graphic depictions of said self harm. As in, blood. Take it easy if you're easily squicked/triggered.
Summary: Sam's recovery isn't as easy.
( Part 1 - Prologue)
( Part 2)
( Part 3)
( Part 4)
( Part 5)
( Part 6)
When Sam came to, he was laid out on his front in what appeared to be a very comfortable bed. The room was dark and quiet, the only sounds coming from outside - the occasional bird tweeting, and someone in a different room clattering about and whistling tunelessly.
Sam had no idea where he was, or how he had got there. So he didn't move, tried to assess his own physical state instead. Moving his head seemed possible, but quickly proved to be too troublesome and energy-consuming. His back felt... heavy. And not just because of the blanket that was covering him up to his rib cage - there was something else, weighing Sam down, almost pinning him to the mattress.
Sam tried to move his wings.
It hurt.
Through his groan, Sam could hear footsteps approaching fast. He'd pressed his head further into the pillow, but now as the door opened, he tried to look up again, he needed to see who was there, he needed to protect himself...
'Sam!'
It was Gene's voice, and a second later, the man himself appeared in Sam's line of (blurry) vision, looking unusually casual with his shirt open and revealing the vest underneath, a towel slung over his shoulder. Before Sam could try and make sense of this, Gene's hand was on his shoulder, gently but firmly coaxing him to lie down properly again.
'None of that now. You need rest.'
Sam squeezed his eyes shut. 'What...'
'You were in the wars. Your wings took a bit of a battering. Don't worry, they'll mend themselves, but they need a little help, and a lot of patience on your side - and I know you won't like that, because you're an impatient little prick, but you'll have to deal with it.'
Gene's voice was strange, and it took Sam several seconds to figure out why: He was talking in such a friendly way. Like a nurse caring for a patient, telling them that everything would be fine. He cracked one eye open, once more taking in the way Gene was dressed, then the unfamiliar room itself. Finally, he opened his mouth, though talking was surprisingly hard - it took Sam a few tries before he was able to string together a few words.
'… your house?'
Gene nodded, a little smirk making his lips twitch. 'Yeah, Casa de'l Hunt. Better enjoy that privilege while it lasts, Sammy-boy.' He rubbed Sam's shoulder (comfortingly, in a way) and added, 'Go back to sleep.'
Sam thought that that sounded very reasonable, and obliged.
**
It took a lot of sleep for Sam's wings to mend to a point where he was able to spend more than fifteen minutes awake. Apparently that was what it took - sleep, so that the bones could knit together and the feathers grow back. Gene had put the broken wing in a makeshift cast, to help the bones mend and to stop Sam from moving his wings too much. The problem with that was, Sam's nights were frequently interrupted by nightmares. Filled with a flurry of feathers dark as the abyss, a soft laugh, his own weak crying and pain, so much pain. Sam woke up screaming more often than not. Gene was there every time, stopping him from seriously hurting himself, trying to calm him down. He succeeded mostly, reminding Sam of where he was. He never could quite believe that he was safe now, though.
After several days of mending, Sam's wings still looked awkward, with so many of the primaries missing, only just budding and starting to reform. He was lucky, Gene said; it appeared to him as though Sam's wings were stuck in some kind of adolescent stage of growth, which meant that they were a lot more ready to reform bones and feathers. With Gene's own wings, he was adamant, it would be taking a whole lot longer.
Sam supposed he ought to feel relieved knowing that, and being able to watch his wings heal bit by bit. However, Sam felt nothing of the sort. No relief, no hope.
When he studied his wings in the mirror, he imagined himself without them.
He found himself wishing that Warren had cut them off altogether.
What had they ever done for him? He remembered loving them when he was a young boy, but that feeling had long since passed. No, those wings had given him nothing but grief and trouble. Had attracted unwanted attention, had very nearly gotten him killed. He'd be much better off without them, wouldn't he?
Sam kept those thoughts to himself. He was grateful for the way Gene was caring for him, though he also found it a little disconcerting, the way he insisted that Sam stay with him until he was completely healed up. He wasn't allowed to go to work until that day either, so Sam spent a lot of time alone in his Guv's home. At first, he busied himself with housework and reading, mostly, often preparing meals for the evenings (strangely enough, Gene didn't go to the pub after work as often as Sam always thought he did). He hardly ever felt like talking much. If Gene noticed, he probably put it down to either Sam being tired, or still affected by what happened.
Which was the truth, to some extent.
They didn't talk about it. Gene just concentrated on helping Sam to mend, checked whether everything was coming back together the way it should. Beyond that, he left Sam to his own devices.
But it wasn't enough. Sam couldn't stop himself sliding down a circle of depression and self-loathing, strengthened by each rustle of his healing feathers, each sting of pain when he involuntarily moved them too much. He couldn't stand them. He wanted them gone.
**
One day, Sam noticed that, in one of the upper cupboards in the kitchen, Gene had a number of unused, fairly large knives, proper meat cleavers. It set him thinking. Planning.
**
One afternoon, knowing that Gene wouldn't return for a good few hours, Sam left the house to buy painkillers (the strong kind), bandages and disinfectant. He needed to make this as clean as possible. Gene had helped him as much as he could, after all, so Sam wanted to make sure to leave as little a mess as he could.
It wouldn't be easy. The angle would be awkward, and it would hurt, despite the painkillers Sam had just chugged - as many as he dared, not wanting to impair his co-ordination and focus too badly. The bandages and bin bag were ready, the knife disinfected. All of that was familiar. He had attempted to do this when he was younger, after all. This time, however, he was going to go through with it until the end.
He was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, knife in hand, staring at the tiles of the opposite wall. Despite his grim determination, it was difficult to actually start. This entire plan would have very permanent results, after all.
Sam raised his head. He hadn't heard any more hospital sounds since he'd woken up in Gene's guest room. There were no encouragements, no indication of anyone being there. Maybe he was already dead. Maybe getting rid of the wings was the kind of shock he needed to wake up. None of that made sense, but Sam didn't care. All that mattered now was to go through with this - to take the definitive step.
Taking a deep breath, Sam picked up the knife and made sure that, whatever happened, most of the blood would end up in the tub instead of on the floor. He could see himself in the mirror - pale, although his movements were calm and measured as he reached behind himself, grabbing hold of his left wing. That was the unbroken one, though Warren had made sure to pull so many feathers from it that it had hurt far more than the other one. They still hadn't grown back completely; despite their strong regenerative ability, this wasn't something wings could recover from easily.
Sam raised the knife experimentally, trying to work out the best way to do this without causing more injuries than he already intended to. No need to chop off a finger or two as well. The detachment he felt to the entire situation almost scared Sam, but he was rather grateful for it. He didn't need anything or anyone holding him back, least of all himself.
Finally, he felt confident enough. Looking in the mirror, he could be sure that his aim would be as precise as it could get. Sam exhaled slowly.
Hide those bad feelings away, Sam.
Sam brought the knife in position. Gripped it harder.
Slashed downwards.
It hurt. Despite the painkillers, there was an initial jolt of sharp, sickening pain. Sam lurched forward, gagging, but suppressing the scream that was trying to escape him. He glanced in the mirror and saw blood dripping down from his wing. The initial pain faded away, replaced by insistent pulsing and pulling. Sam swallowed and shook his head, raising the knife again. He couldn't stop now, he needed to finish what he had started.
He hacked down again, groaning with the intense discomfort and renewed agony. Breathing hard, Sam tried to continue, but found that he needed to give himself a little time to adjust - there was a roaring in his ears and his head was spinning slightly. Blood loss and shock, probably. He closed his eyes, willing himself to remain calm, only faintly registering the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs. You can do it Sam, you can do it -
'Sam.'
Sam opened his eyes, but didn't turn. He knew Gene could see full well what was going on.
'Go away.' His voice was monotonous, not at all matching with his actions. Blood kept dripping down into the bathtub, some of it hitting the floor of Gene's bathroom as well.
'Put the knife down, Sam.'
Sam didn't answer. He didn't put down the knife. His knuckles had turned white with the intensity of his grip.
'Sam.'
Gene had taken a step towards him. Sam raised the knife again, and Gene stopped.
'You don't understand.'
'Clearly I don't, no.' Gene was keeping his voice very restrained, forcibly calm. He sounded exactly the way he had done that day in the woods, when Sam had turned his gun on him. 'Care to elaborate?'
Sam raised his head a little, but didn't turn around. 'Didn't have you down as the willing listener.'
'Yeah, well.' Forced jocularity, now. 'You'd be surprised the tricks you can teach an old pony like me.'
Sam snorted, shook his head. Raised the knife further, faster, intent on cutting. He needed to get this over with quickly - the cut was bleeding and pulling uncomfortably, and soon the pain, still muted by the pills, would overwhelm him. He needed to get both wings done before that happened.
'Sam, please.'
'Shut up,' Sam snapped, for the first time glancing sideways to see Gene standing in the doorway, one hand outstretched. 'You couldn't possibly--!' He broke off, collecting himself. 'I have to do this.'
'Listen to me.'
There was an urgency to Gene's voice that made Sam pause and look at him properly. He was uncharacteristically pale, his eyes wide.
'You cut off your wings, you die. It's as simple as that. I've seen it happen.'
Sam stared at Gene. The latter took that as a sign to take another cautious step into the bathroom.
'I'm not suicidal,' Sam said, though his own voice sounded hollow to him. He just wanted his wings gone, why couldn't he for once get what he wanted?
'Could've fooled me. No need to hold onto that knife then, yeah?'
Sam looked down at the knife in his hand. 'You could just be saying this to stop me from going through with this. Because your wings are more than just dead weights on your back.'
'Sam, I'm bloody serious. Soon as you cut them off, you'll bleed to death faster than you can say 'flying piece of shit'. And even if you don't, the damage it'll do to your already cracked head will be enough to leave you a drooling mess for the rest of your life. Is that what you want, Sam?'
Sam raised his head again to see that Gene had come a lot closer - close enough to reach out to and touch. Slowly, he shook his head.
'Smashing.' Gene carefully gestured with his outstretched hand. 'The knife.'
Sam stared at the proffered hand. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was going to get rid of the wings, once and for all... But now that Gene had interrupted him, doubt began to rise inside him. His injured wing was pulsing away, the pain making him feel sick.
'I don't want them,' Sam muttered, more to himself than anything else.
'Yeah well, sometimes we have to put up with shit we don't want.'
Sam gave a little snort. 'Isn't that the truth.'
Neither of them moved for a few seconds. But finally, Sam slowly handed over the knife. Then, the tears started falling. No sobs, no sniffling, just tears filling his eyes, spilling over, dripping down his cheeks and chin, onto his shirt. The pain was becoming more and more intense, the slow yet steady blood loss making Sam feel light-headed.
He heard a faint clink. A moment later, a hand began stroking through his hair, while the other pulled him into a warm embrace. Unable to help himself, Sam pressed his face into Gene's shirt, clinging onto his back as though Gene were a lifebelt. A faint rustling, and Sam felt a soft blanket surround them, white feathers diluting the light.
How long they remained like this, Sam couldn't tell. He was distantly aware of Gene gently disentangling himself from Sam, and he must have bandaged up the half-cut wing at some point as well. The blood loss made it impossible for Sam to keep his eyes open, and when Gene tried to help him out of the bathroom, his knees buckled.
Somehow, though, he did end up in the bed. There was a steadying hand on his shoulder right until the moment Sam slipped away into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Author: little_cello
Word Count: 2400ish
Rating: Brown Cortina
Warning: AU-specific self harm, graphic depictions of said self harm. As in, blood. Take it easy if you're easily squicked/triggered.
Summary: Sam's recovery isn't as easy.
( Part 1 - Prologue)
( Part 2)
( Part 3)
( Part 4)
( Part 5)
( Part 6)
When Sam came to, he was laid out on his front in what appeared to be a very comfortable bed. The room was dark and quiet, the only sounds coming from outside - the occasional bird tweeting, and someone in a different room clattering about and whistling tunelessly.
Sam had no idea where he was, or how he had got there. So he didn't move, tried to assess his own physical state instead. Moving his head seemed possible, but quickly proved to be too troublesome and energy-consuming. His back felt... heavy. And not just because of the blanket that was covering him up to his rib cage - there was something else, weighing Sam down, almost pinning him to the mattress.
Sam tried to move his wings.
It hurt.
Through his groan, Sam could hear footsteps approaching fast. He'd pressed his head further into the pillow, but now as the door opened, he tried to look up again, he needed to see who was there, he needed to protect himself...
'Sam!'
It was Gene's voice, and a second later, the man himself appeared in Sam's line of (blurry) vision, looking unusually casual with his shirt open and revealing the vest underneath, a towel slung over his shoulder. Before Sam could try and make sense of this, Gene's hand was on his shoulder, gently but firmly coaxing him to lie down properly again.
'None of that now. You need rest.'
Sam squeezed his eyes shut. 'What...'
'You were in the wars. Your wings took a bit of a battering. Don't worry, they'll mend themselves, but they need a little help, and a lot of patience on your side - and I know you won't like that, because you're an impatient little prick, but you'll have to deal with it.'
Gene's voice was strange, and it took Sam several seconds to figure out why: He was talking in such a friendly way. Like a nurse caring for a patient, telling them that everything would be fine. He cracked one eye open, once more taking in the way Gene was dressed, then the unfamiliar room itself. Finally, he opened his mouth, though talking was surprisingly hard - it took Sam a few tries before he was able to string together a few words.
'… your house?'
Gene nodded, a little smirk making his lips twitch. 'Yeah, Casa de'l Hunt. Better enjoy that privilege while it lasts, Sammy-boy.' He rubbed Sam's shoulder (comfortingly, in a way) and added, 'Go back to sleep.'
Sam thought that that sounded very reasonable, and obliged.
**
It took a lot of sleep for Sam's wings to mend to a point where he was able to spend more than fifteen minutes awake. Apparently that was what it took - sleep, so that the bones could knit together and the feathers grow back. Gene had put the broken wing in a makeshift cast, to help the bones mend and to stop Sam from moving his wings too much. The problem with that was, Sam's nights were frequently interrupted by nightmares. Filled with a flurry of feathers dark as the abyss, a soft laugh, his own weak crying and pain, so much pain. Sam woke up screaming more often than not. Gene was there every time, stopping him from seriously hurting himself, trying to calm him down. He succeeded mostly, reminding Sam of where he was. He never could quite believe that he was safe now, though.
After several days of mending, Sam's wings still looked awkward, with so many of the primaries missing, only just budding and starting to reform. He was lucky, Gene said; it appeared to him as though Sam's wings were stuck in some kind of adolescent stage of growth, which meant that they were a lot more ready to reform bones and feathers. With Gene's own wings, he was adamant, it would be taking a whole lot longer.
Sam supposed he ought to feel relieved knowing that, and being able to watch his wings heal bit by bit. However, Sam felt nothing of the sort. No relief, no hope.
When he studied his wings in the mirror, he imagined himself without them.
He found himself wishing that Warren had cut them off altogether.
What had they ever done for him? He remembered loving them when he was a young boy, but that feeling had long since passed. No, those wings had given him nothing but grief and trouble. Had attracted unwanted attention, had very nearly gotten him killed. He'd be much better off without them, wouldn't he?
Sam kept those thoughts to himself. He was grateful for the way Gene was caring for him, though he also found it a little disconcerting, the way he insisted that Sam stay with him until he was completely healed up. He wasn't allowed to go to work until that day either, so Sam spent a lot of time alone in his Guv's home. At first, he busied himself with housework and reading, mostly, often preparing meals for the evenings (strangely enough, Gene didn't go to the pub after work as often as Sam always thought he did). He hardly ever felt like talking much. If Gene noticed, he probably put it down to either Sam being tired, or still affected by what happened.
Which was the truth, to some extent.
They didn't talk about it. Gene just concentrated on helping Sam to mend, checked whether everything was coming back together the way it should. Beyond that, he left Sam to his own devices.
But it wasn't enough. Sam couldn't stop himself sliding down a circle of depression and self-loathing, strengthened by each rustle of his healing feathers, each sting of pain when he involuntarily moved them too much. He couldn't stand them. He wanted them gone.
**
One day, Sam noticed that, in one of the upper cupboards in the kitchen, Gene had a number of unused, fairly large knives, proper meat cleavers. It set him thinking. Planning.
**
One afternoon, knowing that Gene wouldn't return for a good few hours, Sam left the house to buy painkillers (the strong kind), bandages and disinfectant. He needed to make this as clean as possible. Gene had helped him as much as he could, after all, so Sam wanted to make sure to leave as little a mess as he could.
It wouldn't be easy. The angle would be awkward, and it would hurt, despite the painkillers Sam had just chugged - as many as he dared, not wanting to impair his co-ordination and focus too badly. The bandages and bin bag were ready, the knife disinfected. All of that was familiar. He had attempted to do this when he was younger, after all. This time, however, he was going to go through with it until the end.
He was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, knife in hand, staring at the tiles of the opposite wall. Despite his grim determination, it was difficult to actually start. This entire plan would have very permanent results, after all.
Sam raised his head. He hadn't heard any more hospital sounds since he'd woken up in Gene's guest room. There were no encouragements, no indication of anyone being there. Maybe he was already dead. Maybe getting rid of the wings was the kind of shock he needed to wake up. None of that made sense, but Sam didn't care. All that mattered now was to go through with this - to take the definitive step.
Taking a deep breath, Sam picked up the knife and made sure that, whatever happened, most of the blood would end up in the tub instead of on the floor. He could see himself in the mirror - pale, although his movements were calm and measured as he reached behind himself, grabbing hold of his left wing. That was the unbroken one, though Warren had made sure to pull so many feathers from it that it had hurt far more than the other one. They still hadn't grown back completely; despite their strong regenerative ability, this wasn't something wings could recover from easily.
Sam raised the knife experimentally, trying to work out the best way to do this without causing more injuries than he already intended to. No need to chop off a finger or two as well. The detachment he felt to the entire situation almost scared Sam, but he was rather grateful for it. He didn't need anything or anyone holding him back, least of all himself.
Finally, he felt confident enough. Looking in the mirror, he could be sure that his aim would be as precise as it could get. Sam exhaled slowly.
Hide those bad feelings away, Sam.
Sam brought the knife in position. Gripped it harder.
Slashed downwards.
It hurt. Despite the painkillers, there was an initial jolt of sharp, sickening pain. Sam lurched forward, gagging, but suppressing the scream that was trying to escape him. He glanced in the mirror and saw blood dripping down from his wing. The initial pain faded away, replaced by insistent pulsing and pulling. Sam swallowed and shook his head, raising the knife again. He couldn't stop now, he needed to finish what he had started.
He hacked down again, groaning with the intense discomfort and renewed agony. Breathing hard, Sam tried to continue, but found that he needed to give himself a little time to adjust - there was a roaring in his ears and his head was spinning slightly. Blood loss and shock, probably. He closed his eyes, willing himself to remain calm, only faintly registering the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs. You can do it Sam, you can do it -
'Sam.'
Sam opened his eyes, but didn't turn. He knew Gene could see full well what was going on.
'Go away.' His voice was monotonous, not at all matching with his actions. Blood kept dripping down into the bathtub, some of it hitting the floor of Gene's bathroom as well.
'Put the knife down, Sam.'
Sam didn't answer. He didn't put down the knife. His knuckles had turned white with the intensity of his grip.
'Sam.'
Gene had taken a step towards him. Sam raised the knife again, and Gene stopped.
'You don't understand.'
'Clearly I don't, no.' Gene was keeping his voice very restrained, forcibly calm. He sounded exactly the way he had done that day in the woods, when Sam had turned his gun on him. 'Care to elaborate?'
Sam raised his head a little, but didn't turn around. 'Didn't have you down as the willing listener.'
'Yeah, well.' Forced jocularity, now. 'You'd be surprised the tricks you can teach an old pony like me.'
Sam snorted, shook his head. Raised the knife further, faster, intent on cutting. He needed to get this over with quickly - the cut was bleeding and pulling uncomfortably, and soon the pain, still muted by the pills, would overwhelm him. He needed to get both wings done before that happened.
'Sam, please.'
'Shut up,' Sam snapped, for the first time glancing sideways to see Gene standing in the doorway, one hand outstretched. 'You couldn't possibly--!' He broke off, collecting himself. 'I have to do this.'
'Listen to me.'
There was an urgency to Gene's voice that made Sam pause and look at him properly. He was uncharacteristically pale, his eyes wide.
'You cut off your wings, you die. It's as simple as that. I've seen it happen.'
Sam stared at Gene. The latter took that as a sign to take another cautious step into the bathroom.
'I'm not suicidal,' Sam said, though his own voice sounded hollow to him. He just wanted his wings gone, why couldn't he for once get what he wanted?
'Could've fooled me. No need to hold onto that knife then, yeah?'
Sam looked down at the knife in his hand. 'You could just be saying this to stop me from going through with this. Because your wings are more than just dead weights on your back.'
'Sam, I'm bloody serious. Soon as you cut them off, you'll bleed to death faster than you can say 'flying piece of shit'. And even if you don't, the damage it'll do to your already cracked head will be enough to leave you a drooling mess for the rest of your life. Is that what you want, Sam?'
Sam raised his head again to see that Gene had come a lot closer - close enough to reach out to and touch. Slowly, he shook his head.
'Smashing.' Gene carefully gestured with his outstretched hand. 'The knife.'
Sam stared at the proffered hand. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was going to get rid of the wings, once and for all... But now that Gene had interrupted him, doubt began to rise inside him. His injured wing was pulsing away, the pain making him feel sick.
'I don't want them,' Sam muttered, more to himself than anything else.
'Yeah well, sometimes we have to put up with shit we don't want.'
Sam gave a little snort. 'Isn't that the truth.'
Neither of them moved for a few seconds. But finally, Sam slowly handed over the knife. Then, the tears started falling. No sobs, no sniffling, just tears filling his eyes, spilling over, dripping down his cheeks and chin, onto his shirt. The pain was becoming more and more intense, the slow yet steady blood loss making Sam feel light-headed.
He heard a faint clink. A moment later, a hand began stroking through his hair, while the other pulled him into a warm embrace. Unable to help himself, Sam pressed his face into Gene's shirt, clinging onto his back as though Gene were a lifebelt. A faint rustling, and Sam felt a soft blanket surround them, white feathers diluting the light.
How long they remained like this, Sam couldn't tell. He was distantly aware of Gene gently disentangling himself from Sam, and he must have bandaged up the half-cut wing at some point as well. The blood loss made it impossible for Sam to keep his eyes open, and when Gene tried to help him out of the bathroom, his knees buckled.
Somehow, though, he did end up in the bed. There was a steadying hand on his shoulder right until the moment Sam slipped away into a deep, dreamless sleep.