FIC: Empty Spaces
Title: Empty Spaces
Genre: gen
Word Count: 4300
Warnings: some sad hell stuff.
Summary: Hell? Consistent. He knew what to expect. Now, topside, everything is different. The world he used to know forty years ago is almost completely unfamiliar. AKA, the adjustment period in season four that we never got.
Notes: For jaimeykay. Ali, I was going to write you something where Dean tears his Achilles tendon and Sam takes care of him and send healing vibes your way, but then a certain scene bit me with a bug so you got this instead. I figured you wouldn’t mind!
Naturally, this goes AU with 4x01.
As soon as he takes his first breath, he knows something is wrong.
When Dean opens his eyes, he nearly cries out as the light burns. He slams them shut again and takes a breath, and another, and another. God, it’s bright. It’s never this bright. He hasn’t felt fear in a long time (except when he did, but he knows how to not let that show, he learned) but suddenly he’s bombarded with it, overwhelmed with it. He stays still, waiting for someone to come get him, but maybe no one is. Maybe it’s a test.
That’s what it is. A test. He can do those. He’s been doing those for - well. Forever.
This time, he opens his eyes more slowly, blinking, letting them adjust. The colors are so vivid that he can’t stare at one spot for too long. His eyes have long been dulled to them and they protest as he takes in his surroundings.
Where - where is he?
*
He walks.
He walks, and he grows tired.
He walks, and he sweats. Heat beats on the back of his neck and his mouth goes dry. This heat is different. It’s not as deep. His blood doesn’t boil. His skin doesn’t peel.
That fear is back; he’s not - he’s not home anymore.
There’s a structure. It looks empty. Long empty. He halts his steps, wondering if there’s some sort of hint. Some sort of sign that tells him where to go next.
He looks. Runs his fingers along each surface, each crevasse. Nothing jumps out at him. Nothing holds any significance.
Dean makes his way back outside and takes a lap. He opens a door and steps inside, gently lifting something into his hand. This - this feels a little right.
His fingers dance across the keys, one step ahead of his thoughts, and suddenly there’s a voice, demanding, impatient. He wants to speak, to answer, but all he can do is breathe. The voice goes quiet, and Dean wonders if it knows something he doesn’t.
*
He’s not sure how he ends up here, but he stands on a porch, his palm flat against the front door. He hopes this is a hint, but his stomach rolls. His skin prickles.
When the door is open, he’s met with a man who stares at him with his mouth wide open. Dean takes a step back; this isn’t who he wants. He doesn’t think he’s going to find the answers he wants here.
When he turns to leave, the man grabs him by the forearm and tugs him inside. He’s talking but Dean’s not listening. Water splashes on his face and he doesn’t flinch. He stands obediently when a knife is taken to his skin, when blood is spilt. He sighs, feeling at ease - maybe he was right to come here.
Suddenly the knife is gone and Dean almost whimpers at the loss. Bobby - the name jumps in his head, it’s Bobby - hugs him and Dean stiffens in the embrace. He’s constricted, arms by his sides, and he stares over Bobby’s shoulder, counting his heart beats because it is, his heart is beating, when’s the last time he heard it? He saw it, he saw it almost every day, cradled almost gently in Alastair’s palm as it pulses weakly before going limp.
That’s mine, Dean wants to say, but the words don’t come, they never do.
But now it beats in his chest where it belongs, beats against Bobby’s chest, and his skin crawls. He wants Bobby to let go. He needs Bobby to let go.
Bobby speaks now, but the words are muddled. They don’t make sense. Dean tilts his head, focuses, but there’s no semblance to the syllables. Bobby lays a palm on his cheek, furrowing his brow. The touch is warm. Dean doesn’t like it. He can only stand there, staring at the top button of Bobby’s flannel shirt.
Bobby falls quiet.
*
Dean sits on Bobby’s couch on the very edge of the cushion. It’s soft. His muscles loosen; his eyes blink slowly. He wrenches them open again and shifts. It doesn’t hurt. He doesn’t know how he should feel. It doesn’t make sense.
Bobby talks in the other room and Dean lets the words sink over him. He still doesn’t know what Bobby is saying, but he raises his voice sometimes and lowers it at others. Dean hopes that whoever he’s talking to will come and take him back home.
He waits. He’s patient.
(And stubborn. So stubborn, boy. I won’t take that fire away from you. It needs you. I need you.)
Bobby fidgets near him, asking him questions, but Dean’s not listening. It’s not important. After a while Bobby stops and sits back in his armchair, showing no signs of leaving. Time no longer exists. It goes dark and light again once, then there’s a knock on the door; Bobby jumps to his feet, but Dean doesn’t turn his head to follow his steps. He doesn’t look up when someone kneels in front of him, when someone places their hands on his face and tilts his chin up.
“Dean,” Sam says. “Dean.”
Dean hums low in his throat. His name rolls so easily off of Sam’s tongue, Sam, who’s still young, as young as Dean remembers him being when Dean left. It hurts too much to think about that so he stops, pushing that to the back of his mind where he stows everything else. He’s folded against Sam’s chest, and while it’s uncomfortable, this touch he’s not used to, this touch he doesn’t think he wants, he lets Sam hold him.
*
Sam takes him away, but Bobby doesn’t look happy. Sam’s touch is firm, almost possessive, and it settles Dean’s nerves. This touch he’s used to.
“I need -” Sam says, but that’s all he needs to say, because Bobby nods. There’s some sort of unspoken pact between them before Dean loses time for a bit, coming out of his daze when he hears a door close. He blinks, and they’re in some sort of room, with two beds, yellow wallpaper.
“I miss him,” Dean says suddenly, the words spilling out of him before he can stop it. But he does. It hurts.
“You miss who?” Sam frowns. “No, man. You don’t. I don’t know who you’re talking about, but you don’t.”
“I do,” Dean says, and it doesn’t make sense that Sam is confused. Sam shouldn’t be confused. Dean isn’t.
“You need to eat,” Sam says instead. His voice is wobbly. Dean doesn’t like that. “Can you eat?”
Dean frowns. “I can do anything.” He can. He doesn’t know what Sam is asking but he can learn. A quick study, Alastair used to say.
Sam looks confused, but he pulls out a bag and tears it open. Dean wrinkles his nose at the smell, which he can’t place, and watches as Sam sets the bag in Dean’s hands. Dean stares at it, then at Sam, then at the bag. Sam makes a noise in his throat and pulls out some of its contents, holding it up to Dean’s mouth.
“You have to -” Sam begins, then stops. He taps on Dean’s jaw. Dean catches on and opens his mouth, letting Sam stick the food - because that’s what it is, food, food to be consumed for nutritional value, for pleasure, he remembers now, okay - inside. Dean lets it sit on his tongue before he gives an experimental chew, and flavor explodes in his mouth.
He thinks. It tastes like - cheese. It’s cheese.
“All I have are chips,” Sam says, sounding almost apologetic, “but I’m going to order a pizza, okay?”
“Pizza,” Dean says. Sam’s mouth tightens.
“Yeah. You like pizza.”
“Okay,” Dean says. He doesn’t think that’s the response Sam wanted.
Dean remains seated on the bed while Sam stares at him. Sam doesn’t know what to do with him.
Dean’s not made for Sam anymore.
*
Sam closes his eyes in the bed next to him and doesn’t move. The room is dark. Sam told Dean to lay down, so he is. He didn’t tell Dean what to do next. Dean almost asks, but he gets the feeling he shouldn’t.
It’s harder to move. His body feels slow and sluggish. There’s a blanket pulled halfway up his chest. It feels good. He squirms. He’s not supposed to feel good. Feeling good is a weakness he can’t afford. He has too much to learn. (Come on, Dean. You’re slacking. Straighten that left arm.)
Somehow Dean’s eyes close, and he reopens them of his own accord for the first time he can remember. The room is lighter. Cringing, he waits for his orders, his schedule for the day - although each day is the same. He grits his teeth and his fingers curl automatically, but when nothing comes, he lets his eyes scan the room. He starts when he sees Sam - only Sam, he’s still alone - sit on his own bed, tying his shoes.
The air feels so fresh. Clean. Unsullied.
“Time for breakfast,” Sam says. His gaze turns pleading. “You can get whatever you want.”
“Whatever,” Dean echoes. Breakfast. The first meal of the day. His teeth feel loose. “Okay. What are you getting?”
“You don’t like what I’m getting.”
“Why not?”
Sam rubs his temples. “Because you don’t. You like bacon. Pancakes. You want pancakes?”
(Sam doesn’t know what you like, Dean. You don’t like pancakes. Remember?)
“I don’t like pancakes.”
“Yes, you do,” Sam says. He bares his teeth.
(Who’s known you longer, me or him? Who are you going to believe?)
“I don’t want pancakes.”
Sam blows out a breath. “Okay, Fine. Bacon?”
No. Nonono, he doesn’t want bacon, he feels sick, he doesn’t want bacon, no -
“Okay, okay,” Sam hurries. “No bacon. No bacon, okay? Toast, maybe?”
(Take the toast. That’s okay. You can have toast. Calm down, lamb. No need to get upset.)
“Toast,” Dean nods.
“Okay,” Sam’s lips turn up at the corners. Dean tries to mirror him, but it only makes Sam’s mouth straighten again.
*
Sam takes Dean with him. He sits obediently in the seat, running his fingers along the window. Sam looks hopeful - expectant - when Dean opens the door to the car, but Dean slides in without a word. Sam pauses for a moment before he follows suit, but his shoulders are tense; his eyes cast down.
“Did I mess up?” Dean asks.
Sam doesn’t answer at first. “No,” he says finally. “No, you’re - okay.”
Sam says ‘okay’ a lot.
The car is noisy. It makes Dean uneasy.
“I just thought,” Sam begins, his hands tight on the steering wheel, “that this would help. The car. You don’t remember the car.”
Dean thinks, but there’s nothing. No familiarity. He can’t remember ever having been here before. “Should I?”
Sam makes a choked noise, and Dean freezes.
(Shards. Shards of glass in his throat. He can’t swallow, can only taste the blood that’s pooling in his stomach. Stop. Stop.
You know what will make it stop, lamb.)
Before he knows it, his fingers are on Sam’s throat. Sam is still in his seat, his eyes wide.
“You need to swallow it down,” Dean says.
“Swallow what?” Sam says, barely moving his lips.
Dean frowns. “The glass.”
Sam closes his eyes briefly. “There is no glass. No glass, Dean.”
Sam’s pulse is quick against Dean’s fingers. “Are you sure?”
Sam blinks rapidly. “I’m sure.”
Dean pulls away, slow and uncertain. Maybe Sam doesn’t know. That’s good. It hurts. It really hurts. “Okay. Okay. Okay okay.”
“Stop saying ‘okay’.”
Okay, Dean wants to say, but he turns in his seat and stares out the window. Sam watches him. “What happened to you?” he hears Sam whisper.
Dean doesn’t answer. Those words haven’t been invented yet. They never will be.
*
Dean has two slices of toast before he has to stop. He feels unpleasant. Sam doesn’t look like he likes that, but he eats his own food without comment. Dean simply watches drops of water slide down his glass, wetting the coaster that sits underneath it. His stomach protests. He might throw up. He doesn’t want to throw up. Only blood comes out. That makes it worse. That makes it come faster.
When they get back to their room, Dean resumes his place on the bed and waits. It’s taking too long. The longer it takes, the worse it is.
“You need to shower,” Sam says.
“I need to wait,” Dean says, tapping his toes on the ground.
“Wait for what?”
Too long. It’s too long. His skin is whole. His organs nicely organized. Something’s wrong.
“Nothing is wrong,” Sam says, and Dean blinks. “There’s nothing to wait for, all right? Look, you’re - you’re really dirty. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. Okay?”
“Stop saying ‘okay’,” Dean says, and there’s that upward twitch to Sam’s lips again. It eases the knots in Dean’s stomach. He likes that.
“Up,” Sam says, holding out his hand. Dean stares at it until Sam wraps his hand around Dean’s wrist and tugs him to his feet. Sam bites his lip. “Can you get undressed on your own?”
“Why?”
“Because,” Sam sighs, “that’s what you do for a shower. You get undressed.”
“I can do that,” Dean says, but he doesn’t move.
Sam makes that choked noise again and Dean flinches, causing Sam to flinch in return. “I’m sorry,” he swallows. “It’s all right. I’m fine, see? You’re fine.”
Dean says nothing. Sam rolls his bottom lip in his mouth. His fingers start tugging on the buttons of Dean’s shirt, pulling it off his shoulders.
Dean’s a quick study. The shower is easy. Rub the shampoo in his hair. The soap over his body. Easy. Sam looks relieved when Dean reemerges, dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants. They’re big on him.
“I’m done,” Dean announces.
“I can see that,” Sam laughs, and that sound is even more pleasing. Sam’s eyes are brighter;h e moves more easily. His smile falters when he holds out Dean’s toothbrush and Dean doesn’t take it right away, but when Dean slowly takes it and pushes out some toothpaste on the brush, Sam smiles again.
This time, when Sam turns off the light, Dean closes his eyes immediately.
(This time is familiar. This time is better. The clanking of chains. The smell of burnt pork.
I miss you.
Feather-light touches on his neck still manage to draw blood. The glow of white eyes.
Come back.)
When he opens his eyes, it’s still dark. Sam shakes his shoulders, calling out his name, and Dean realizes that he’s shaking, his breath coming fast and wheezy. Every nerve fiber feels like it’s on fire and he wants to scream but his throat is raw. His skin is flayed, it has to be, but it’s whole and unblemished when he looks down. He shakes so hard that he feels dizzy, feels his stomach shift around his insides.
“I need him. He can make this go away. Can you bring him back?”
Sam’s forehead creases. “I don’t know who you’re talking about, but I’m not bringing anyone, understand? It’s only me and you. Just me and you.”
“It’s not enough,” Dean says, his voice raspy. “I need it. I can’t do this without him.”
Sam’s eyes look wet. “You can. You can, I promise. You’re strong. I can help.”
“You can’t,” Dean says tonelessly. “Only he can.”
“Who is he?”
Dean clamps his mouth shut. He’s not supposed to tell. His name doesn’t belong up here. His breath comes faster; his fingers curl into fists. There’s an emptiness that sits deep in his chest, a loneliness he’s never felt before.
“You’re bleeding,” Sam manages, and he is, just little stripes running down his forearms.
Dean laughs. And laughs. “Sam,” he says, and with a jolt he realizes it’s the first time he’s said his brother’s name out loud. Suddenly he can’t stop. “Sam. Sam. This is right. It’s right.” He doesn’t feel as far from home anymore.
“Be quiet,” Sam breathes, which only makes Dean laugh harder. “Stop. Stop it.”
“He’s coming back anyway,” Dean says, letting Sam hold part of the sheet against his forearm. “He wouldn’t leave me.”
“What makes you think I will?” Sam says through gritted teeth, his grip tightening.
Dean frowns. “I don’t think you should come.”
“I’m not. And neither are you. You’re staying with me.”
Dean sighs and stays silent. Maybe tomorrow he’ll come. Maybe tonight is the last night. It has to be a test. A test of loyalty.
*
The next day, Dean’s still alone. Well. Not alone, but alone. He tugs the covers over his head and slams his eyes closed.
(You’re giving up way too easily, sweetheart. Look at you. Look at how pathetic you are without me. Stop wallowing and wait.)
“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers. He sees one white eye wink at him.
This time, Dean showers without Sam’s reminder. He can play by the rules of this world. He’s a quick study. He can adapt to anything. Whatever he has to do. He even smiles when he sees Sam wake up, but it feels frozen on his face. Fake. He hasn’t mastered that yet.
“You can’t want to go back,” Sam says abruptly, and Dean freezes with the toothbrush in his mouth. He doesn’t answer. “You can’t. It’s - it’s hell. It’s horrible. You’re so messed up you don’t even realize how messed up you are.”
“I’m fixed,” Dean says, voice dull.
Sam laughs. “Are you listening to yourself? Who brainwashed you down there, man? I get that they’re really damn good at mindfucks. Really good. I know that four months is a long time.”
Dean blinks. “Four months?” It’s his turn to laugh. “It wasn’t four months.”
“What?” Sam barks, his eyes wide. “I promise you it was. I counted every damn day.”
“Not down there,” Dean says. “Not down there. Not down there.”
Sam holds up his hand. “How long was it?”
“Long. A long time. A long long time.”
“How long?” Sam presses.
Dean drags his eyes up to the mirror and sees his unaged face, the smooth skin, the light brown hair. His eyes, dull, the lighting almost making them appear black.
“A long time,” he repeats.
*
Two weeks pass, but it’s somehow longer than a stretch of time in hell. He forgets to eat most meals, his body not used to needing it, not used to feeling hunger. Sam’s bottom lip is almost bitten bloody as he sets food down, but he stays quiet. Dean can’t eat much, and he can almost feel his skin sinking into his bones.
He doesn’t have any energy.
“You should be better,” Sam says quietly. Dean wonders if he’s supposed to be asleep. “You shouldn't be depressed after you got out. Out of hell, man. You’re not supposed to be missing it.”
I don’t miss it, Dean wants to say.
(Only me.
White eyes, pale and callous.)
I don’t miss you.
(But you need me.)
“What do you want?”
Dean starts; he’s surprised to hear Sam’s voice. “Huh?”
“Tell me what you want. You can’t keep going like this, man. You’re going to - I can’t - you need to tell me.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me. You can give me that much, okay? I’ve tried to stay out of your way, let you get used to everything again. It’s not working. You’re getting worse, and I have no idea why. I need a chance to understand. Start slow. His name, maybe?”
His body is heavy. His skin turns hot, but his blood freezes in his veins.
“You have nightmares. I hear you. Every fucking night.”
His lungs squeeze.
“He hurt you. Badly. I know. For God knows how long. Years, I don’t know. Too long. Messed you up so badly that you believe you need him. Wanted to make you dependent on him. I don’t know why that is, either. You might know. You probably do know. But you’re not going back. Ever. And I’ll fucking kill him if he ever shows up here.”
Dean tries to slow his breathing but spots dance in front of his eyes; he feels dizzy even though he’s flat on his back. When he blinks, the ceiling moves above him and his stomach rolls.
Don’t, he wants to say. I don’t want you to. But when he tries to speak, he knows he’d be lying.
*
Sam doesn’t press him anymore, and Dean tries to stop looking over his shoulder. Tries to stop looking out every window. The feeling of being watched doesn’t decrease, but if he keeps going, he can ignore it. He doesn’t even dream; rather, he doesn’t remember them, and he’s not sure if he’s relieved, or -
When Sam suggests they go see Bobby, Dean shrugs. He still can’t place any real sense of familiarity with Bobby; not as much as with Sam, anyway. Dean’s not stupid enough to figure out that he’s been kept away from everyone, but he can’t ignore the logic behind it. He hasn’t felt the need to see anyone. He had long since given up on them even being - anywhere. He doesn’t ask about them, and Sam doesn’t offer information.
Bobby smiles when they pull up to his house, his beard thicker and lighter than Dean (faintly) remembers it. “You look better, kid. Skinny, though. Damn.”
Dean holds back his flinch as Bobby lays a hand on his shoulder, and it looks like Bobby wants to hug him again. Sam makes a soft noise and Bobby withdraws the hand, shoving it in his pocket.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ve got some dinner on the grill. Steak. Some greens.”
Sam digs into the food with gusto; they’ve lived on nothing but pizza and Chinese for the last month, and even Dean knows that’s excessive for what they did years - months? - ago. Dean can only stick a green bean in his mouth, watching the steak ooze blood on his plate. He swallows and shifts his gaze. His appetite for meat - even the topside kind - is gone.
(A smile. Teeth. So much teeth. Piercing white eyes.
I don’t want to have to do this, but you just. Won’t. Learn.)
Dean sets his fork down beside his plate.
(You need to show your gratitude, boy. Someone took the time to prepare this for you. Come on, open up.)
“Thank you,” Dean hears himself say. “But I’m not hungry right now.”
Bobby’s eyes widen. “You need to eat, boy. You’re skin and bones.”
He feels the color leave his face, his heart beating in his ears. Sam pushes his chair away from the table and pulls him into the bathroom, shutting the door.
“Not gonna puke.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“I’m fine,” Dean says, his voice flat to his own ears.
Sam sighs and rubs his eyes, and when Dean offers nothing further, he opens the door and flips off the light.
Bobby waits for them in the kitchen, all traces of the dinner gone. “Got the guest bedroom set up for you,” Bobby says. His gaze wonders; his weight shifts. “Uh. New sheets and everything.”
“I hate that bed,” Sam groans. “My legs hang off the edge.”
Sam looks at Dean out of the corner of his eye, and Dean realizes that this is probably familiar banter between them, but he has no idea what his response should be. Sam’s shoulders slump when Dean stays quiet, but he hefts their bags over his shoulder and takes off upstairs. Dean follows him, his steps slow and clumsy. He can’t stop blinking.
God, he’s tired.
The beds are small, and a smile almost creeps on Dean’s face when he imagines Sam curled into a ball on one of them. He knows the memories are there, knows he’s seen Sam sleep on one of these very beds, but - it was a lifetime ago. Sometimes he wonders if it ever happens. Sometimes he wonders which memories are real.
“Focus on what’s here now,” Sam says quietly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Sam nods and sets their bags down. “I’m gonna go brush my teeth. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Dean smiles wryly. “I’ll be okay.”
Sam nods again, pulling his stuff out of his bag.
“Hey -”
Sam stops, turns around. He raises an eyebrow.
“I don’t - I don’t want to go back. And I’ll tell you what happened if you want.”
“Only if you want to,” Sam counters immediately. “I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to.” He can’t hide the eagerness in his eyes.
Of course he doesn’t want to. But he knows he needs to. Dean simply nods, and Sam’s smile is encouraging, patting him on the shoulder before he forces himself to head to the bathroom.
A month, and Dean’s still not quite used to a bed. He’s too antsy; he doesn’t want to stay still for so long. It’s a vulnerable position; he can’t watch his back, he can’t watch for anything. Knowing that he’s out and that anything can happen is sickening.
(And you don’t deserve one. You don’t deserve the rest, lamb.)
He counts his heart beats. It’s somehow soothing, consistent. Sam putters around in the bathroom, opening and shutting cabinets, the sound of running water. Dean blows out a breath and tries to close his eyes.
His skin starts prickling. He counts faster; his chest feels heavier. He just needs a second to catch his breath. Only a second. A second is nothing. He needs to be okay by the time Sam gets back. He’s going to be okay by the time Sam gets back. Rolling on his side doesn’t seem to help and he lets his gaze drift.
White eyes glow outside his window.
Genre: gen
Word Count: 4300
Warnings: some sad hell stuff.
Summary: Hell? Consistent. He knew what to expect. Now, topside, everything is different. The world he used to know forty years ago is almost completely unfamiliar. AKA, the adjustment period in season four that we never got.
Notes: For jaimeykay. Ali, I was going to write you something where Dean tears his Achilles tendon and Sam takes care of him and send healing vibes your way, but then a certain scene bit me with a bug so you got this instead. I figured you wouldn’t mind!
Naturally, this goes AU with 4x01.
As soon as he takes his first breath, he knows something is wrong.
When Dean opens his eyes, he nearly cries out as the light burns. He slams them shut again and takes a breath, and another, and another. God, it’s bright. It’s never this bright. He hasn’t felt fear in a long time (except when he did, but he knows how to not let that show, he learned) but suddenly he’s bombarded with it, overwhelmed with it. He stays still, waiting for someone to come get him, but maybe no one is. Maybe it’s a test.
That’s what it is. A test. He can do those. He’s been doing those for - well. Forever.
This time, he opens his eyes more slowly, blinking, letting them adjust. The colors are so vivid that he can’t stare at one spot for too long. His eyes have long been dulled to them and they protest as he takes in his surroundings.
Where - where is he?
*
He walks.
He walks, and he grows tired.
He walks, and he sweats. Heat beats on the back of his neck and his mouth goes dry. This heat is different. It’s not as deep. His blood doesn’t boil. His skin doesn’t peel.
That fear is back; he’s not - he’s not home anymore.
There’s a structure. It looks empty. Long empty. He halts his steps, wondering if there’s some sort of hint. Some sort of sign that tells him where to go next.
He looks. Runs his fingers along each surface, each crevasse. Nothing jumps out at him. Nothing holds any significance.
Dean makes his way back outside and takes a lap. He opens a door and steps inside, gently lifting something into his hand. This - this feels a little right.
His fingers dance across the keys, one step ahead of his thoughts, and suddenly there’s a voice, demanding, impatient. He wants to speak, to answer, but all he can do is breathe. The voice goes quiet, and Dean wonders if it knows something he doesn’t.
*
He’s not sure how he ends up here, but he stands on a porch, his palm flat against the front door. He hopes this is a hint, but his stomach rolls. His skin prickles.
When the door is open, he’s met with a man who stares at him with his mouth wide open. Dean takes a step back; this isn’t who he wants. He doesn’t think he’s going to find the answers he wants here.
When he turns to leave, the man grabs him by the forearm and tugs him inside. He’s talking but Dean’s not listening. Water splashes on his face and he doesn’t flinch. He stands obediently when a knife is taken to his skin, when blood is spilt. He sighs, feeling at ease - maybe he was right to come here.
Suddenly the knife is gone and Dean almost whimpers at the loss. Bobby - the name jumps in his head, it’s Bobby - hugs him and Dean stiffens in the embrace. He’s constricted, arms by his sides, and he stares over Bobby’s shoulder, counting his heart beats because it is, his heart is beating, when’s the last time he heard it? He saw it, he saw it almost every day, cradled almost gently in Alastair’s palm as it pulses weakly before going limp.
That’s mine, Dean wants to say, but the words don’t come, they never do.
But now it beats in his chest where it belongs, beats against Bobby’s chest, and his skin crawls. He wants Bobby to let go. He needs Bobby to let go.
Bobby speaks now, but the words are muddled. They don’t make sense. Dean tilts his head, focuses, but there’s no semblance to the syllables. Bobby lays a palm on his cheek, furrowing his brow. The touch is warm. Dean doesn’t like it. He can only stand there, staring at the top button of Bobby’s flannel shirt.
Bobby falls quiet.
*
Dean sits on Bobby’s couch on the very edge of the cushion. It’s soft. His muscles loosen; his eyes blink slowly. He wrenches them open again and shifts. It doesn’t hurt. He doesn’t know how he should feel. It doesn’t make sense.
Bobby talks in the other room and Dean lets the words sink over him. He still doesn’t know what Bobby is saying, but he raises his voice sometimes and lowers it at others. Dean hopes that whoever he’s talking to will come and take him back home.
He waits. He’s patient.
(And stubborn. So stubborn, boy. I won’t take that fire away from you. It needs you. I need you.)
Bobby fidgets near him, asking him questions, but Dean’s not listening. It’s not important. After a while Bobby stops and sits back in his armchair, showing no signs of leaving. Time no longer exists. It goes dark and light again once, then there’s a knock on the door; Bobby jumps to his feet, but Dean doesn’t turn his head to follow his steps. He doesn’t look up when someone kneels in front of him, when someone places their hands on his face and tilts his chin up.
“Dean,” Sam says. “Dean.”
Dean hums low in his throat. His name rolls so easily off of Sam’s tongue, Sam, who’s still young, as young as Dean remembers him being when Dean left. It hurts too much to think about that so he stops, pushing that to the back of his mind where he stows everything else. He’s folded against Sam’s chest, and while it’s uncomfortable, this touch he’s not used to, this touch he doesn’t think he wants, he lets Sam hold him.
*
Sam takes him away, but Bobby doesn’t look happy. Sam’s touch is firm, almost possessive, and it settles Dean’s nerves. This touch he’s used to.
“I need -” Sam says, but that’s all he needs to say, because Bobby nods. There’s some sort of unspoken pact between them before Dean loses time for a bit, coming out of his daze when he hears a door close. He blinks, and they’re in some sort of room, with two beds, yellow wallpaper.
“I miss him,” Dean says suddenly, the words spilling out of him before he can stop it. But he does. It hurts.
“You miss who?” Sam frowns. “No, man. You don’t. I don’t know who you’re talking about, but you don’t.”
“I do,” Dean says, and it doesn’t make sense that Sam is confused. Sam shouldn’t be confused. Dean isn’t.
“You need to eat,” Sam says instead. His voice is wobbly. Dean doesn’t like that. “Can you eat?”
Dean frowns. “I can do anything.” He can. He doesn’t know what Sam is asking but he can learn. A quick study, Alastair used to say.
Sam looks confused, but he pulls out a bag and tears it open. Dean wrinkles his nose at the smell, which he can’t place, and watches as Sam sets the bag in Dean’s hands. Dean stares at it, then at Sam, then at the bag. Sam makes a noise in his throat and pulls out some of its contents, holding it up to Dean’s mouth.
“You have to -” Sam begins, then stops. He taps on Dean’s jaw. Dean catches on and opens his mouth, letting Sam stick the food - because that’s what it is, food, food to be consumed for nutritional value, for pleasure, he remembers now, okay - inside. Dean lets it sit on his tongue before he gives an experimental chew, and flavor explodes in his mouth.
He thinks. It tastes like - cheese. It’s cheese.
“All I have are chips,” Sam says, sounding almost apologetic, “but I’m going to order a pizza, okay?”
“Pizza,” Dean says. Sam’s mouth tightens.
“Yeah. You like pizza.”
“Okay,” Dean says. He doesn’t think that’s the response Sam wanted.
Dean remains seated on the bed while Sam stares at him. Sam doesn’t know what to do with him.
Dean’s not made for Sam anymore.
*
Sam closes his eyes in the bed next to him and doesn’t move. The room is dark. Sam told Dean to lay down, so he is. He didn’t tell Dean what to do next. Dean almost asks, but he gets the feeling he shouldn’t.
It’s harder to move. His body feels slow and sluggish. There’s a blanket pulled halfway up his chest. It feels good. He squirms. He’s not supposed to feel good. Feeling good is a weakness he can’t afford. He has too much to learn. (Come on, Dean. You’re slacking. Straighten that left arm.)
Somehow Dean’s eyes close, and he reopens them of his own accord for the first time he can remember. The room is lighter. Cringing, he waits for his orders, his schedule for the day - although each day is the same. He grits his teeth and his fingers curl automatically, but when nothing comes, he lets his eyes scan the room. He starts when he sees Sam - only Sam, he’s still alone - sit on his own bed, tying his shoes.
The air feels so fresh. Clean. Unsullied.
“Time for breakfast,” Sam says. His gaze turns pleading. “You can get whatever you want.”
“Whatever,” Dean echoes. Breakfast. The first meal of the day. His teeth feel loose. “Okay. What are you getting?”
“You don’t like what I’m getting.”
“Why not?”
Sam rubs his temples. “Because you don’t. You like bacon. Pancakes. You want pancakes?”
(Sam doesn’t know what you like, Dean. You don’t like pancakes. Remember?)
“I don’t like pancakes.”
“Yes, you do,” Sam says. He bares his teeth.
(Who’s known you longer, me or him? Who are you going to believe?)
“I don’t want pancakes.”
Sam blows out a breath. “Okay, Fine. Bacon?”
No. Nonono, he doesn’t want bacon, he feels sick, he doesn’t want bacon, no -
“Okay, okay,” Sam hurries. “No bacon. No bacon, okay? Toast, maybe?”
(Take the toast. That’s okay. You can have toast. Calm down, lamb. No need to get upset.)
“Toast,” Dean nods.
“Okay,” Sam’s lips turn up at the corners. Dean tries to mirror him, but it only makes Sam’s mouth straighten again.
*
Sam takes Dean with him. He sits obediently in the seat, running his fingers along the window. Sam looks hopeful - expectant - when Dean opens the door to the car, but Dean slides in without a word. Sam pauses for a moment before he follows suit, but his shoulders are tense; his eyes cast down.
“Did I mess up?” Dean asks.
Sam doesn’t answer at first. “No,” he says finally. “No, you’re - okay.”
Sam says ‘okay’ a lot.
The car is noisy. It makes Dean uneasy.
“I just thought,” Sam begins, his hands tight on the steering wheel, “that this would help. The car. You don’t remember the car.”
Dean thinks, but there’s nothing. No familiarity. He can’t remember ever having been here before. “Should I?”
Sam makes a choked noise, and Dean freezes.
(Shards. Shards of glass in his throat. He can’t swallow, can only taste the blood that’s pooling in his stomach. Stop. Stop.
You know what will make it stop, lamb.)
Before he knows it, his fingers are on Sam’s throat. Sam is still in his seat, his eyes wide.
“You need to swallow it down,” Dean says.
“Swallow what?” Sam says, barely moving his lips.
Dean frowns. “The glass.”
Sam closes his eyes briefly. “There is no glass. No glass, Dean.”
Sam’s pulse is quick against Dean’s fingers. “Are you sure?”
Sam blinks rapidly. “I’m sure.”
Dean pulls away, slow and uncertain. Maybe Sam doesn’t know. That’s good. It hurts. It really hurts. “Okay. Okay. Okay okay.”
“Stop saying ‘okay’.”
Okay, Dean wants to say, but he turns in his seat and stares out the window. Sam watches him. “What happened to you?” he hears Sam whisper.
Dean doesn’t answer. Those words haven’t been invented yet. They never will be.
*
Dean has two slices of toast before he has to stop. He feels unpleasant. Sam doesn’t look like he likes that, but he eats his own food without comment. Dean simply watches drops of water slide down his glass, wetting the coaster that sits underneath it. His stomach protests. He might throw up. He doesn’t want to throw up. Only blood comes out. That makes it worse. That makes it come faster.
When they get back to their room, Dean resumes his place on the bed and waits. It’s taking too long. The longer it takes, the worse it is.
“You need to shower,” Sam says.
“I need to wait,” Dean says, tapping his toes on the ground.
“Wait for what?”
Too long. It’s too long. His skin is whole. His organs nicely organized. Something’s wrong.
“Nothing is wrong,” Sam says, and Dean blinks. “There’s nothing to wait for, all right? Look, you’re - you’re really dirty. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up. Okay?”
“Stop saying ‘okay’,” Dean says, and there’s that upward twitch to Sam’s lips again. It eases the knots in Dean’s stomach. He likes that.
“Up,” Sam says, holding out his hand. Dean stares at it until Sam wraps his hand around Dean’s wrist and tugs him to his feet. Sam bites his lip. “Can you get undressed on your own?”
“Why?”
“Because,” Sam sighs, “that’s what you do for a shower. You get undressed.”
“I can do that,” Dean says, but he doesn’t move.
Sam makes that choked noise again and Dean flinches, causing Sam to flinch in return. “I’m sorry,” he swallows. “It’s all right. I’m fine, see? You’re fine.”
Dean says nothing. Sam rolls his bottom lip in his mouth. His fingers start tugging on the buttons of Dean’s shirt, pulling it off his shoulders.
Dean’s a quick study. The shower is easy. Rub the shampoo in his hair. The soap over his body. Easy. Sam looks relieved when Dean reemerges, dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants. They’re big on him.
“I’m done,” Dean announces.
“I can see that,” Sam laughs, and that sound is even more pleasing. Sam’s eyes are brighter;h e moves more easily. His smile falters when he holds out Dean’s toothbrush and Dean doesn’t take it right away, but when Dean slowly takes it and pushes out some toothpaste on the brush, Sam smiles again.
This time, when Sam turns off the light, Dean closes his eyes immediately.
(This time is familiar. This time is better. The clanking of chains. The smell of burnt pork.
I miss you.
Feather-light touches on his neck still manage to draw blood. The glow of white eyes.
Come back.)
When he opens his eyes, it’s still dark. Sam shakes his shoulders, calling out his name, and Dean realizes that he’s shaking, his breath coming fast and wheezy. Every nerve fiber feels like it’s on fire and he wants to scream but his throat is raw. His skin is flayed, it has to be, but it’s whole and unblemished when he looks down. He shakes so hard that he feels dizzy, feels his stomach shift around his insides.
“I need him. He can make this go away. Can you bring him back?”
Sam’s forehead creases. “I don’t know who you’re talking about, but I’m not bringing anyone, understand? It’s only me and you. Just me and you.”
“It’s not enough,” Dean says, his voice raspy. “I need it. I can’t do this without him.”
Sam’s eyes look wet. “You can. You can, I promise. You’re strong. I can help.”
“You can’t,” Dean says tonelessly. “Only he can.”
“Who is he?”
Dean clamps his mouth shut. He’s not supposed to tell. His name doesn’t belong up here. His breath comes faster; his fingers curl into fists. There’s an emptiness that sits deep in his chest, a loneliness he’s never felt before.
“You’re bleeding,” Sam manages, and he is, just little stripes running down his forearms.
Dean laughs. And laughs. “Sam,” he says, and with a jolt he realizes it’s the first time he’s said his brother’s name out loud. Suddenly he can’t stop. “Sam. Sam. This is right. It’s right.” He doesn’t feel as far from home anymore.
“Be quiet,” Sam breathes, which only makes Dean laugh harder. “Stop. Stop it.”
“He’s coming back anyway,” Dean says, letting Sam hold part of the sheet against his forearm. “He wouldn’t leave me.”
“What makes you think I will?” Sam says through gritted teeth, his grip tightening.
Dean frowns. “I don’t think you should come.”
“I’m not. And neither are you. You’re staying with me.”
Dean sighs and stays silent. Maybe tomorrow he’ll come. Maybe tonight is the last night. It has to be a test. A test of loyalty.
*
The next day, Dean’s still alone. Well. Not alone, but alone. He tugs the covers over his head and slams his eyes closed.
(You’re giving up way too easily, sweetheart. Look at you. Look at how pathetic you are without me. Stop wallowing and wait.)
“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers. He sees one white eye wink at him.
This time, Dean showers without Sam’s reminder. He can play by the rules of this world. He’s a quick study. He can adapt to anything. Whatever he has to do. He even smiles when he sees Sam wake up, but it feels frozen on his face. Fake. He hasn’t mastered that yet.
“You can’t want to go back,” Sam says abruptly, and Dean freezes with the toothbrush in his mouth. He doesn’t answer. “You can’t. It’s - it’s hell. It’s horrible. You’re so messed up you don’t even realize how messed up you are.”
“I’m fixed,” Dean says, voice dull.
Sam laughs. “Are you listening to yourself? Who brainwashed you down there, man? I get that they’re really damn good at mindfucks. Really good. I know that four months is a long time.”
Dean blinks. “Four months?” It’s his turn to laugh. “It wasn’t four months.”
“What?” Sam barks, his eyes wide. “I promise you it was. I counted every damn day.”
“Not down there,” Dean says. “Not down there. Not down there.”
Sam holds up his hand. “How long was it?”
“Long. A long time. A long long time.”
“How long?” Sam presses.
Dean drags his eyes up to the mirror and sees his unaged face, the smooth skin, the light brown hair. His eyes, dull, the lighting almost making them appear black.
“A long time,” he repeats.
*
Two weeks pass, but it’s somehow longer than a stretch of time in hell. He forgets to eat most meals, his body not used to needing it, not used to feeling hunger. Sam’s bottom lip is almost bitten bloody as he sets food down, but he stays quiet. Dean can’t eat much, and he can almost feel his skin sinking into his bones.
He doesn’t have any energy.
“You should be better,” Sam says quietly. Dean wonders if he’s supposed to be asleep. “You shouldn't be depressed after you got out. Out of hell, man. You’re not supposed to be missing it.”
I don’t miss it, Dean wants to say.
(Only me.
White eyes, pale and callous.)
I don’t miss you.
(But you need me.)
“What do you want?”
Dean starts; he’s surprised to hear Sam’s voice. “Huh?”
“Tell me what you want. You can’t keep going like this, man. You’re going to - I can’t - you need to tell me.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me. You can give me that much, okay? I’ve tried to stay out of your way, let you get used to everything again. It’s not working. You’re getting worse, and I have no idea why. I need a chance to understand. Start slow. His name, maybe?”
His body is heavy. His skin turns hot, but his blood freezes in his veins.
“You have nightmares. I hear you. Every fucking night.”
His lungs squeeze.
“He hurt you. Badly. I know. For God knows how long. Years, I don’t know. Too long. Messed you up so badly that you believe you need him. Wanted to make you dependent on him. I don’t know why that is, either. You might know. You probably do know. But you’re not going back. Ever. And I’ll fucking kill him if he ever shows up here.”
Dean tries to slow his breathing but spots dance in front of his eyes; he feels dizzy even though he’s flat on his back. When he blinks, the ceiling moves above him and his stomach rolls.
Don’t, he wants to say. I don’t want you to. But when he tries to speak, he knows he’d be lying.
*
Sam doesn’t press him anymore, and Dean tries to stop looking over his shoulder. Tries to stop looking out every window. The feeling of being watched doesn’t decrease, but if he keeps going, he can ignore it. He doesn’t even dream; rather, he doesn’t remember them, and he’s not sure if he’s relieved, or -
When Sam suggests they go see Bobby, Dean shrugs. He still can’t place any real sense of familiarity with Bobby; not as much as with Sam, anyway. Dean’s not stupid enough to figure out that he’s been kept away from everyone, but he can’t ignore the logic behind it. He hasn’t felt the need to see anyone. He had long since given up on them even being - anywhere. He doesn’t ask about them, and Sam doesn’t offer information.
Bobby smiles when they pull up to his house, his beard thicker and lighter than Dean (faintly) remembers it. “You look better, kid. Skinny, though. Damn.”
Dean holds back his flinch as Bobby lays a hand on his shoulder, and it looks like Bobby wants to hug him again. Sam makes a soft noise and Bobby withdraws the hand, shoving it in his pocket.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ve got some dinner on the grill. Steak. Some greens.”
Sam digs into the food with gusto; they’ve lived on nothing but pizza and Chinese for the last month, and even Dean knows that’s excessive for what they did years - months? - ago. Dean can only stick a green bean in his mouth, watching the steak ooze blood on his plate. He swallows and shifts his gaze. His appetite for meat - even the topside kind - is gone.
(A smile. Teeth. So much teeth. Piercing white eyes.
I don’t want to have to do this, but you just. Won’t. Learn.)
Dean sets his fork down beside his plate.
(You need to show your gratitude, boy. Someone took the time to prepare this for you. Come on, open up.)
“Thank you,” Dean hears himself say. “But I’m not hungry right now.”
Bobby’s eyes widen. “You need to eat, boy. You’re skin and bones.”
He feels the color leave his face, his heart beating in his ears. Sam pushes his chair away from the table and pulls him into the bathroom, shutting the door.
“Not gonna puke.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“I’m fine,” Dean says, his voice flat to his own ears.
Sam sighs and rubs his eyes, and when Dean offers nothing further, he opens the door and flips off the light.
Bobby waits for them in the kitchen, all traces of the dinner gone. “Got the guest bedroom set up for you,” Bobby says. His gaze wonders; his weight shifts. “Uh. New sheets and everything.”
“I hate that bed,” Sam groans. “My legs hang off the edge.”
Sam looks at Dean out of the corner of his eye, and Dean realizes that this is probably familiar banter between them, but he has no idea what his response should be. Sam’s shoulders slump when Dean stays quiet, but he hefts their bags over his shoulder and takes off upstairs. Dean follows him, his steps slow and clumsy. He can’t stop blinking.
God, he’s tired.
The beds are small, and a smile almost creeps on Dean’s face when he imagines Sam curled into a ball on one of them. He knows the memories are there, knows he’s seen Sam sleep on one of these very beds, but - it was a lifetime ago. Sometimes he wonders if it ever happens. Sometimes he wonders which memories are real.
“Focus on what’s here now,” Sam says quietly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Sam nods and sets their bags down. “I’m gonna go brush my teeth. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Dean smiles wryly. “I’ll be okay.”
Sam nods again, pulling his stuff out of his bag.
“Hey -”
Sam stops, turns around. He raises an eyebrow.
“I don’t - I don’t want to go back. And I’ll tell you what happened if you want.”
“Only if you want to,” Sam counters immediately. “I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to.” He can’t hide the eagerness in his eyes.
Of course he doesn’t want to. But he knows he needs to. Dean simply nods, and Sam’s smile is encouraging, patting him on the shoulder before he forces himself to head to the bathroom.
A month, and Dean’s still not quite used to a bed. He’s too antsy; he doesn’t want to stay still for so long. It’s a vulnerable position; he can’t watch his back, he can’t watch for anything. Knowing that he’s out and that anything can happen is sickening.
(And you don’t deserve one. You don’t deserve the rest, lamb.)
He counts his heart beats. It’s somehow soothing, consistent. Sam putters around in the bathroom, opening and shutting cabinets, the sound of running water. Dean blows out a breath and tries to close his eyes.
His skin starts prickling. He counts faster; his chest feels heavier. He just needs a second to catch his breath. Only a second. A second is nothing. He needs to be okay by the time Sam gets back. He’s going to be okay by the time Sam gets back. Rolling on his side doesn’t seem to help and he lets his gaze drift.
White eyes glow outside his window.