Fic: Picking up the Pieces (SPN) Chapter Three
Genre: Sick!fic, hurt/comfort, Epic, Slightly AU
Category: Gen
Rating: T
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby, Cas, a few OCs
Warning: Very mild language. Descriptions of Hell. Can be considered slightly AU as Dean is not healed from his old wounds when Castiel raised him from perdition. Angst. Descriptions of panic attacks and mental health content.
Disclaimer: They're pretty, but they're not mine.
Summary: Sequel to the story 'Taking Some Time'. Sam and Dean have found a little piece of normality in their messed up world, but Dean's still healing, physically and mentally.
Chapter Three
Dean bent over his brother, pressing his hand to his sweaty forehead. He was still a little warm but not alarmingly so.
"Dean?"
Sam's bleary eyes opened and he curled on his side as he coughed.
"Hey, Sammy. How ya feeling?" Dean couldn't stay bent over forever so he dumped himself heavily onto the edge of Sam's bed.
"I'm okay," Sam rubbed his eyes with his hand, "What did the doctor say?"
"Said I'm good to drive," Dean winked.
"Oh... That's good."
Dean huffed, of course Sam would be upset about that.
"Yeah, and I don't have to use that stupid cane anymore."
"But..."
"No buts, Sammy. I'm heading out now. You gonna be alright?"
Sam's eyes were already closed.
"Mm," he moaned.
"Tissues right here, there's Tylenol on the nightstand and a glass of water. You hungry?"
Sam shook his head.
"Well, make sure you get yourself some dinner later."
"Where're you going?" Sam mumbled sleepily.
"Got a date," Dean lied.
"With who?"
"Katie.”
“The girl from rehab?” Sam asked, opening one eye.
“That’s her. Now go to sleep."
"Thanks, Dean," Sam muttered before he drifted off to sleep.
Dean hated that he'd lied to his brother but he couldn't exactly tell Sam he was going to work his shift. Nothing would upset him more, or get him out of the bed quicker.
"G'night, Sammy,” Dean gave Sam’s back a pat and a rub.
Then got up, put on his jacket, walked out of the house without a cane, and drove himself to the bar. Things were looking up already.
...
He thought working would be good. He thought it would at least be a distraction. He was high on drugs, the painkillers making him a little slow, a little forgetful. But even then the pain seeped through the thick fog, dull, muted somehow, but never gone. Riley fixed him with assessing glances every now and again, but it was busy, and she couldn’t watch him all the time. He lined up some shots for a group of loud, obnoxious kids. Did one with them when he knew Riley wasn’t watching. He needed to feel something. His chest felt empty, cold, hard ribs encasing nothing, because he had nothing inside.
He’d used his shoulder more than he ever had since this whole thing and his arm felt like it was going to fall off. His fingers started to tingle… on both hands.
He sucked in a breath. One of those girls looked familiar to him. It must have been someone who looked just like her, that he’d tortured in hell. He remembered how she screamed and how that made him slice even harder.
“Dean? Are you alright?” Riley’s hand was on his hip, fingers almost reaching around to his scar.
The world went kind of hazy.
“Okay, come sit down.”
She directed him out the back, sat him down on something hard.
“Do you need to take something?”
Dean put his head in his hands.
No. He’d taken his pills.
His eyes drifted shut.
“Dean.”
Riley’s hand rested on the back of his neck, “When was the last time you slept?”
Hey, that was a good question.
Dean had no trouble falling asleep in his car, or taking a nap on the couch after he’d taken his heavy dose of pain pills, but the last time he’d slept through the night? He couldn’t even remember. He was probably running on about 4 hours sleep in the last 72. The only time he slept at night now was when he got himself black out drunk.
“Dean?” she asked again, squatting down in front of him.
He took a few more slow breaths, slaved off another panic attack that took almost all of his energy, and tried to press up to his feet.
Riley helped him, but he was solid once he was up.
“Sorry,” he said, trying a smirk, “I’m good.”
“I think you should go home.”
Well, he thought as much.
“I can finish up…”
“Baby steps, Winchester,” she said, playfully.
Baby steps are for babies, he thought bitterly, his self-loathing kicking it up a notch, which had to be virtually impossible by now.
“Should I call Sam?”
“No.”
He turned angry eyes on Riley and he swore for a second she looked scared of him. He was used to that look. But it disappeared quickly, replaced with understanding… pity. That was worse.
“Honey, you look exhausted. Thanks for your help tonight, but you need to go to bed.”
Dean was hit with pain and panic randomly, the force of it changing his expression before he could think about it. Her hand was on his chest.
“You okay?”
Dean swallowed, forcing himself to focus on her hand, the pressure and warmth of it there. He slid his hand down, starting at her hip, ghosting over the curves of her backside. He left his hand there, gave her a tug so her chest was pressing against his. He breathed into her ear.
"Come with me."
Because Dean was on the edge. On the edge of what he had no idea. But he needed something. Sometimes alcohol filled it. Sometimes driving really fast, punching holes in the wall, ganking some fugly. Tonight it was women. A woman. This woman. He needed to feel something.
She licked her lips, could probably sense the primal urgency he was giving off, despite the fact he was frail. Broken.
"Are you -"
He knew what she was going to say. Are you okay to? Are you sure? Are you going to break? Are you going to cry? The answer to all of them was yes.
He pressed his mouth against hers, almost violently, to stop the words coming out. He couldn't hear it. He couldn't hear it right now.
She turned soft under his hands and he knew he'd won.
The night was winding down, the busy spell over. So she told Joe to lock up.
She slipped her hand into the back pocket of Dean's jeans, hugging to his side, her shoulder tucked in under his own, so to anyone looking it didn't look like she was helping him, didn't look like she was holding him up.
He insisted on driving. Because not everything could be taken from him at once. Not when he had so little left.
They went to her place. It wasn't even a discussion. He'd never brought her into that house. He couldn't bring anyone in there. That was the place he was most vulnerable. She'd never questioned it, never even suggested. Like she knew.
...
Sam woke up and it was dark outside his window. He felt groggy, off kilter from sleeping the entire day away. He snuffled, realizing he was still congested. Swallowing, his throat was a little scratchy, but nothing like it had been that morning. At least his headache was gone, the fog lifting.
“Dean?” he called, clearing his throat loudly.
Belatedly he looked at his nightstand.
Went out. Eat something. Be back late tonight. Don’t freak out, I can look after myself. Take Tylenol.
- D
Sam rubbed a hand over his face, then swept it back through his hair. He cleared his throat again and got out of bed.
After a shower and some left over pizza he felt almost human. He swiped a tissue under his running nose. Well, almost.
Shit, he thought. He hadn’t even called work to let them know he wasn’t going to be in. Maybe Dean had done it for him. He was sure he would have, but it was just polite to let your employer know yourself. He grabbed his phone and called the bar. Joe answered.
“Hey, Joe,” man, his voice was rough.
“Sam? That you?”
“Yeah, how ya been?”
“Better than you by the sounds of it. You calling for Dean?”
Sam furrowed his brow. “N-no… Why? Is Dean there?”
“You just missed him. He left with Riley about a half hour ago. He was a little ragged but it was a great help having him here. We appreciated him stepping up.”
“Wait… You - you lost me. What was Dean doing there?”
“Working the bar. Sam, are you sure you’re all right? You sound a little out of it?”
Sam could feel his face heating up, “I’m fine. You said he left with Riley? Was he doing okay?”
“Well, at one stage he looked ready to drop. Riley sent him home but ended up leaving with him,” he laughed, “But we all saw that coming.”
“Thanks. I’ll talk to you later,” Sam hung up as Joe was saying goodbye.
Son. Of. A. Bitch.
…
He picked up the rusty jagged blade and forced it into her side. Feeling the skin tear. He gave it a twist just to make her scream again. He liked it when they screamed, her face contorting in pain and fear. He felt almost high from it, his body warming up, blood boiling, turning black… like his eyes. Black. Black. Black.
“Dean?”
Dean started away, bringing his arms up over his face, ready to lash out.
Oh God, it wasn’t Sam. It wasn’t Sam.
Riley had moved away from him, getting out of reach. She looked shocked, frightened.
“Sorry,” he panted, breathing rapidly, sweat beading on his chest. His heart was pounding.
“Are you okay?”
Dean closed his eyes, he needed to calm down.
He’d never fallen asleep at her place before. He didn’t trust himself to. She’d never seen him like this.
“You were… shouting out.”
He cursed internally, “I’m sorry, Riley. I’m sorry.”
“Hey,” she crawled back beside him, “It’s okay.”
“You don’t need this,” he said, pushing her away gently and trying to get up.
“Dean, stop. You don’t need to be embarrassed about it.”
“You have no idea,” he groaned levering himself up. God, his back.
“You don’t have to explain,” she put a hand on his neck.
It didn’t comfort him.
“I need to go. My brother’s sick.”
“He can look after himself,” she smiled, “You can stay.”
“No, I can’t,” he dropped his head.
“I don’t mind.”
He shook his head, swallowing hard.
“Is this why you’ve never stayed over?” she asked, gently, her breath soft on the back of his neck.
Dean couldn’t hold his emotions in anymore.
“Hey,” she cooed, running a hand through his hair. She sat beside him and and pulled him against her, his head against her chest, “Shhh. It’s okay… You’re okay.”
He didn’t know how long the tears flowed for. He didn’t allow himself to sob. It was just a steady leak.
He left.
She begged him to stay.
“Don’t go like this. Take some time.”
He was done with taking time.
…
Sam sat at the dining table, fuming, steam almost coming out his ears. Dean had gone to work at the bar, because he couldn’t. Dean, who was 3 weeks post spinal surgery, 2 months post shoulder recon, had taken a shift because he had a cold. He was angry at himself for being so weak, angry at Dean for doing what he always did and thinking that everyone else had to come before himself. He tensed up when he heard the keys in the front door, ready to scream his lungs out at his stubborn, idiot, jerk of a brother… until he saw him.
“Dean?” the word felt like it came out of a six year old’s mouth and not his own.
Dean cast bloodshot eyes at him. His face was pale, dark smudges under his red-rimmed eyes. He knew he’d been crying, knew he was done.
“Hey, Sammy,” he managed a weak, sad smile, “You look better.”
Sam was up and grabbing him as he stumbled, leaning against the wall.
“Come on, dude,” Sam whispered, “I got you.”
…
Category: Gen
Rating: T
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby, Cas, a few OCs
Warning: Very mild language. Descriptions of Hell. Can be considered slightly AU as Dean is not healed from his old wounds when Castiel raised him from perdition. Angst. Descriptions of panic attacks and mental health content.
Disclaimer: They're pretty, but they're not mine.
Summary: Sequel to the story 'Taking Some Time'. Sam and Dean have found a little piece of normality in their messed up world, but Dean's still healing, physically and mentally.
Chapter Three
Dean bent over his brother, pressing his hand to his sweaty forehead. He was still a little warm but not alarmingly so.
"Dean?"
Sam's bleary eyes opened and he curled on his side as he coughed.
"Hey, Sammy. How ya feeling?" Dean couldn't stay bent over forever so he dumped himself heavily onto the edge of Sam's bed.
"I'm okay," Sam rubbed his eyes with his hand, "What did the doctor say?"
"Said I'm good to drive," Dean winked.
"Oh... That's good."
Dean huffed, of course Sam would be upset about that.
"Yeah, and I don't have to use that stupid cane anymore."
"But..."
"No buts, Sammy. I'm heading out now. You gonna be alright?"
Sam's eyes were already closed.
"Mm," he moaned.
"Tissues right here, there's Tylenol on the nightstand and a glass of water. You hungry?"
Sam shook his head.
"Well, make sure you get yourself some dinner later."
"Where're you going?" Sam mumbled sleepily.
"Got a date," Dean lied.
"With who?"
"Katie.”
“The girl from rehab?” Sam asked, opening one eye.
“That’s her. Now go to sleep."
"Thanks, Dean," Sam muttered before he drifted off to sleep.
Dean hated that he'd lied to his brother but he couldn't exactly tell Sam he was going to work his shift. Nothing would upset him more, or get him out of the bed quicker.
"G'night, Sammy,” Dean gave Sam’s back a pat and a rub.
Then got up, put on his jacket, walked out of the house without a cane, and drove himself to the bar. Things were looking up already.
...
He thought working would be good. He thought it would at least be a distraction. He was high on drugs, the painkillers making him a little slow, a little forgetful. But even then the pain seeped through the thick fog, dull, muted somehow, but never gone. Riley fixed him with assessing glances every now and again, but it was busy, and she couldn’t watch him all the time. He lined up some shots for a group of loud, obnoxious kids. Did one with them when he knew Riley wasn’t watching. He needed to feel something. His chest felt empty, cold, hard ribs encasing nothing, because he had nothing inside.
He’d used his shoulder more than he ever had since this whole thing and his arm felt like it was going to fall off. His fingers started to tingle… on both hands.
He sucked in a breath. One of those girls looked familiar to him. It must have been someone who looked just like her, that he’d tortured in hell. He remembered how she screamed and how that made him slice even harder.
“Dean? Are you alright?” Riley’s hand was on his hip, fingers almost reaching around to his scar.
The world went kind of hazy.
“Okay, come sit down.”
She directed him out the back, sat him down on something hard.
“Do you need to take something?”
Dean put his head in his hands.
No. He’d taken his pills.
His eyes drifted shut.
“Dean.”
Riley’s hand rested on the back of his neck, “When was the last time you slept?”
Hey, that was a good question.
Dean had no trouble falling asleep in his car, or taking a nap on the couch after he’d taken his heavy dose of pain pills, but the last time he’d slept through the night? He couldn’t even remember. He was probably running on about 4 hours sleep in the last 72. The only time he slept at night now was when he got himself black out drunk.
“Dean?” she asked again, squatting down in front of him.
He took a few more slow breaths, slaved off another panic attack that took almost all of his energy, and tried to press up to his feet.
Riley helped him, but he was solid once he was up.
“Sorry,” he said, trying a smirk, “I’m good.”
“I think you should go home.”
Well, he thought as much.
“I can finish up…”
“Baby steps, Winchester,” she said, playfully.
Baby steps are for babies, he thought bitterly, his self-loathing kicking it up a notch, which had to be virtually impossible by now.
“Should I call Sam?”
“No.”
He turned angry eyes on Riley and he swore for a second she looked scared of him. He was used to that look. But it disappeared quickly, replaced with understanding… pity. That was worse.
“Honey, you look exhausted. Thanks for your help tonight, but you need to go to bed.”
Dean was hit with pain and panic randomly, the force of it changing his expression before he could think about it. Her hand was on his chest.
“You okay?”
Dean swallowed, forcing himself to focus on her hand, the pressure and warmth of it there. He slid his hand down, starting at her hip, ghosting over the curves of her backside. He left his hand there, gave her a tug so her chest was pressing against his. He breathed into her ear.
"Come with me."
Because Dean was on the edge. On the edge of what he had no idea. But he needed something. Sometimes alcohol filled it. Sometimes driving really fast, punching holes in the wall, ganking some fugly. Tonight it was women. A woman. This woman. He needed to feel something.
She licked her lips, could probably sense the primal urgency he was giving off, despite the fact he was frail. Broken.
"Are you -"
He knew what she was going to say. Are you okay to? Are you sure? Are you going to break? Are you going to cry? The answer to all of them was yes.
He pressed his mouth against hers, almost violently, to stop the words coming out. He couldn't hear it. He couldn't hear it right now.
She turned soft under his hands and he knew he'd won.
The night was winding down, the busy spell over. So she told Joe to lock up.
She slipped her hand into the back pocket of Dean's jeans, hugging to his side, her shoulder tucked in under his own, so to anyone looking it didn't look like she was helping him, didn't look like she was holding him up.
He insisted on driving. Because not everything could be taken from him at once. Not when he had so little left.
They went to her place. It wasn't even a discussion. He'd never brought her into that house. He couldn't bring anyone in there. That was the place he was most vulnerable. She'd never questioned it, never even suggested. Like she knew.
...
Sam woke up and it was dark outside his window. He felt groggy, off kilter from sleeping the entire day away. He snuffled, realizing he was still congested. Swallowing, his throat was a little scratchy, but nothing like it had been that morning. At least his headache was gone, the fog lifting.
“Dean?” he called, clearing his throat loudly.
Belatedly he looked at his nightstand.
Went out. Eat something. Be back late tonight. Don’t freak out, I can look after myself. Take Tylenol.
- D
Sam rubbed a hand over his face, then swept it back through his hair. He cleared his throat again and got out of bed.
After a shower and some left over pizza he felt almost human. He swiped a tissue under his running nose. Well, almost.
Shit, he thought. He hadn’t even called work to let them know he wasn’t going to be in. Maybe Dean had done it for him. He was sure he would have, but it was just polite to let your employer know yourself. He grabbed his phone and called the bar. Joe answered.
“Hey, Joe,” man, his voice was rough.
“Sam? That you?”
“Yeah, how ya been?”
“Better than you by the sounds of it. You calling for Dean?”
Sam furrowed his brow. “N-no… Why? Is Dean there?”
“You just missed him. He left with Riley about a half hour ago. He was a little ragged but it was a great help having him here. We appreciated him stepping up.”
“Wait… You - you lost me. What was Dean doing there?”
“Working the bar. Sam, are you sure you’re all right? You sound a little out of it?”
Sam could feel his face heating up, “I’m fine. You said he left with Riley? Was he doing okay?”
“Well, at one stage he looked ready to drop. Riley sent him home but ended up leaving with him,” he laughed, “But we all saw that coming.”
“Thanks. I’ll talk to you later,” Sam hung up as Joe was saying goodbye.
Son. Of. A. Bitch.
…
He picked up the rusty jagged blade and forced it into her side. Feeling the skin tear. He gave it a twist just to make her scream again. He liked it when they screamed, her face contorting in pain and fear. He felt almost high from it, his body warming up, blood boiling, turning black… like his eyes. Black. Black. Black.
“Dean?”
Dean started away, bringing his arms up over his face, ready to lash out.
Oh God, it wasn’t Sam. It wasn’t Sam.
Riley had moved away from him, getting out of reach. She looked shocked, frightened.
“Sorry,” he panted, breathing rapidly, sweat beading on his chest. His heart was pounding.
“Are you okay?”
Dean closed his eyes, he needed to calm down.
He’d never fallen asleep at her place before. He didn’t trust himself to. She’d never seen him like this.
“You were… shouting out.”
He cursed internally, “I’m sorry, Riley. I’m sorry.”
“Hey,” she crawled back beside him, “It’s okay.”
“You don’t need this,” he said, pushing her away gently and trying to get up.
“Dean, stop. You don’t need to be embarrassed about it.”
“You have no idea,” he groaned levering himself up. God, his back.
“You don’t have to explain,” she put a hand on his neck.
It didn’t comfort him.
“I need to go. My brother’s sick.”
“He can look after himself,” she smiled, “You can stay.”
“No, I can’t,” he dropped his head.
“I don’t mind.”
He shook his head, swallowing hard.
“Is this why you’ve never stayed over?” she asked, gently, her breath soft on the back of his neck.
Dean couldn’t hold his emotions in anymore.
“Hey,” she cooed, running a hand through his hair. She sat beside him and and pulled him against her, his head against her chest, “Shhh. It’s okay… You’re okay.”
He didn’t know how long the tears flowed for. He didn’t allow himself to sob. It was just a steady leak.
He left.
She begged him to stay.
“Don’t go like this. Take some time.”
He was done with taking time.
…
Sam sat at the dining table, fuming, steam almost coming out his ears. Dean had gone to work at the bar, because he couldn’t. Dean, who was 3 weeks post spinal surgery, 2 months post shoulder recon, had taken a shift because he had a cold. He was angry at himself for being so weak, angry at Dean for doing what he always did and thinking that everyone else had to come before himself. He tensed up when he heard the keys in the front door, ready to scream his lungs out at his stubborn, idiot, jerk of a brother… until he saw him.
“Dean?” the word felt like it came out of a six year old’s mouth and not his own.
Dean cast bloodshot eyes at him. His face was pale, dark smudges under his red-rimmed eyes. He knew he’d been crying, knew he was done.
“Hey, Sammy,” he managed a weak, sad smile, “You look better.”
Sam was up and grabbing him as he stumbled, leaning against the wall.
“Come on, dude,” Sam whispered, “I got you.”
…