Tic Toc 2/2
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He hears voices. Laughter. Dean is only a second away from stepping away from the chair’s debris but it’s too late.
tic
The door opens, and there they are.
toc
*******************
“Dean?”
‘Sir’ he wants to say. ‘I’m sorry, I was too slow’ he wants to admit. But nothing comes out and he just hangs his head.
“Dean!” Sammy yells and scrambles past his dad. “You’re bleeding!” He grabs Dean’s wrists in his hands and yanks them in front of him, a bit forceful. Dean winces, but tries to hide it. His gaze is locked on his old man, he can only see disappointment in his eyes.
“Dad, look, he’s bleeding!” Sam holds up his brother’s hands, a furious scowl on his face. Whatever they had been laughing about just minutes before is forgotten and the only thing you can read in the fourteen year old face is anger. “It wasn’t supposed to hurt him!” And reproof.
Dad ignores his younger son, still stares into Dean’s eyes.
“Thought you could do it” he says and there is no accusation in his tone, nothing at all, really. But Dean still hears ‘I thought you were ready.’ Hears ‘Thought you were better ‘n half an hour - that’s plenty, more than anything will grant you if it comes to this’. He hears that because that’s what Dad said when he locked the cuffs.
“Half an hour, Dean. Sammy and I will go shopping, won’t take more than half an hour. You can do this” he had said and then left. Closed the door, clearly expecting to see his eldest free from binds in front of the old, abandoned house when they came back.
Not like this, still rope around his ankles and one chair-leg clutched in his bloody hand. He drops it.
Time seems to freeze. The clock is silent.
“Let me see those wrists, son.” John sighs and Dean’s so happy to hear it, he shoves his arms forward like he’d just received a birthday-present.
“Yessir” he answers, because that’s what his Dad expects.
Sam scowls some more. “I’ll get the kit” he grits out and slams the door on his way to the car.
Dad ignores it for once, checks the wounds efficiently and surprisingly gently. “Don’t look too bad. Some abrasions, nothing serious.”
Of course not. It doesn’t even hurt, not as much as the clear disappointment in his father’s face.
“Comon out, the light’s better there.”
~~~SPN~~~SPN~~~
“Does it hurt?”
Lights are out, Dad’s snoring on the couch and of course Sammy won’t sleep, won’t leave him alone.
“No”
It doesn’t. Just stings a bit. His ankles are worse because his socks had slipped down whereas his wrists’d been covered in bandages. Dad’d known he might scrape his skin against the cuffs.
His thighs hurt like a sonofabitch, though, from all the shuffle-screech-scrape. He’ll be sore for a while.
Not that it matters. No teachers to see the wincing, no counselor to call CPS because of the bandaged wrists. No hiding what he’d done over the weekend. No lying, no dodging, no weaving of tall tales.
Just more practice, tomorrow.
And a clock to put back together.
~end~
He hears voices. Laughter. Dean is only a second away from stepping away from the chair’s debris but it’s too late.
tic
The door opens, and there they are.
toc
*******************
“Dean?”
‘Sir’ he wants to say. ‘I’m sorry, I was too slow’ he wants to admit. But nothing comes out and he just hangs his head.
“Dean!” Sammy yells and scrambles past his dad. “You’re bleeding!” He grabs Dean’s wrists in his hands and yanks them in front of him, a bit forceful. Dean winces, but tries to hide it. His gaze is locked on his old man, he can only see disappointment in his eyes.
“Dad, look, he’s bleeding!” Sam holds up his brother’s hands, a furious scowl on his face. Whatever they had been laughing about just minutes before is forgotten and the only thing you can read in the fourteen year old face is anger. “It wasn’t supposed to hurt him!” And reproof.
Dad ignores his younger son, still stares into Dean’s eyes.
“Thought you could do it” he says and there is no accusation in his tone, nothing at all, really. But Dean still hears ‘I thought you were ready.’ Hears ‘Thought you were better ‘n half an hour - that’s plenty, more than anything will grant you if it comes to this’. He hears that because that’s what Dad said when he locked the cuffs.
“Half an hour, Dean. Sammy and I will go shopping, won’t take more than half an hour. You can do this” he had said and then left. Closed the door, clearly expecting to see his eldest free from binds in front of the old, abandoned house when they came back.
Not like this, still rope around his ankles and one chair-leg clutched in his bloody hand. He drops it.
Time seems to freeze. The clock is silent.
“Let me see those wrists, son.” John sighs and Dean’s so happy to hear it, he shoves his arms forward like he’d just received a birthday-present.
“Yessir” he answers, because that’s what his Dad expects.
Sam scowls some more. “I’ll get the kit” he grits out and slams the door on his way to the car.
Dad ignores it for once, checks the wounds efficiently and surprisingly gently. “Don’t look too bad. Some abrasions, nothing serious.”
Of course not. It doesn’t even hurt, not as much as the clear disappointment in his father’s face.
“Comon out, the light’s better there.”
~~~SPN~~~SPN~~~
“Does it hurt?”
Lights are out, Dad’s snoring on the couch and of course Sammy won’t sleep, won’t leave him alone.
“No”
It doesn’t. Just stings a bit. His ankles are worse because his socks had slipped down whereas his wrists’d been covered in bandages. Dad’d known he might scrape his skin against the cuffs.
His thighs hurt like a sonofabitch, though, from all the shuffle-screech-scrape. He’ll be sore for a while.
Not that it matters. No teachers to see the wincing, no counselor to call CPS because of the bandaged wrists. No hiding what he’d done over the weekend. No lying, no dodging, no weaving of tall tales.
Just more practice, tomorrow.
And a clock to put back together.
~end~