Filled: "Were It Not That I Have Bad Dreams" (1/2)
anonymous
November 3 2017, 07:56:07 UTC
Okay, I got some inspiration out of the blue! I really hope other people fill this too. Warnings for references to torture/self injury.
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He’s cold. He’s on his back. He hurts, all over. His face is somehow both numb and in horrific pain, all at once. He’s too stiff and weak to move, and every gasping breath he takes sets off a flare of lancing agony that arcs up through his chest, making his eyes sting and more tears leak out. There is a hand carding through his hair. It’s gentle. He doesn’t have the energy to flinch away.
“What will it be, Sam? Your ball game today, or not?”
His stomach drops, and he tries to turn his head away despite himself. The hand in his hair tightens, just a little bit, not to hurt, just to keep his face upturned.
“C’mon, roomie, you know the rules. Pick your poison.”
“P-please.” His voice cracks.
“It’s your choice, Sam. I know that’s important to you. Yes or no?"
He feels his face twist, involuntary, a shudder. “I-I don’t know. Please.”
“Not even gonna give it the old college try?”
He forces open his mouth, but can’t summon words.
“Hm. Perfectly understandable. In that case, I’m happy to think up something new.”
His stomach curdles, he fumbles to lift beseeching arms, he chokes on the pain, rasps, “Wait. Wait.”
A heavy pause. “What’s the magic word?”
The satisfaction in the question makes him sick, makes his broken feet curl inward.
“Yes,” he croaks.
“Up and at ‘em, then, tiger."
He forces himself to his knees, weathers the pain, lets it crest and plateau. Crawls forward on fragmented shins. He doesn’t need to look up to know where he’s going He stops in the center of the Cage.
He lifts his head, blinks to clear tears and blood from his vision, and accepts the proffered knife with a shuddering hand.
“Your old record is around 9 hours, 21 minutes. I think you can make ten this time.”
He positions the blade. Takes a shaky breath in. Holds. Lets it out on a short sob, as he draws the knife down his abdomen, slowly, in a wavering vertical slice. Ten hours to go.
Sam wakes up curled into himself, his fists clutched to his stomach and his face wet (tears, not blood). The bedsheets are tangled around his legs (not like chains). He’s gasping and sobbing like it just happened, like Lucifer's hands are still on him, like it wasn’t just another fucked-up dream in a long line of fucked-up dreams (not dreams, memories).
It takes long, shuddering minutes before he gets the energy to force himself to uncurl and stand. He scrubs his hands roughly over his face and glances at the clock. 4:13 am- that’s late enough to conceivably be up, early enough Dean will still be asleep. He moves on shaking legs through the bunker (where Lucifer walked, not so long ago) to the kitchen, focusing on his bare feet against the concrete floor and breathing deep to keep from crying again.
Sound and motion and light. He freezes in the doorway to the kitchen.
RE: Filled: "Were It Not That I Have Bad Dreams" (1/2)
anonymous
November 3 2017, 08:23:50 UTC
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Dean’s given up on sleep for the night. Mom’s gone, Lucifer's in the wind, the British are a bunch of poncy assholes, and altogether he just can’t bring himself to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling anymore tonight. This morning. Whatever.
He's rummaging through the coffee cabinet when he hears a scuffing noise. He jerks around, reflex, but it’s just Sam. Sam who’s standing pale and frozen, lingering half in the dimness of the hallway, staring into the brightness of the kitchen like it’s going to bite him.
Dean's surprise gives way to alarm. “Sam. Hey, whoa-hey. You, ah. You okay?"
Sam jerks and clears his throat, wide eyes focusing on Dean, which Dean is willing to count as a win. “Yeah. Yeah, no, just-just wanted something to drink,” he says. His voice is hoarse and wrecked.
Dean moves to him, makes to take his arm without thinking. Sam flinches away from his touch like it's fire. He closes his eyes and pulls away, half-collapsing into the wall, breaths jagged, raising his arms weakly in something like surrender. Something cold and sick twists in Dean’s gut. “Sam. It’s just me."
A few long, long moments pass, but he doesn’t try to touch Sam again. Finally, with visible effort, Sam opens his eyes and says, “Dean. Sorry. I’m fine." He forces a twisted little half-smile that Dean’s sure is meant to be reassuring, but has exactly the opposite effect.
Dean backs a little further back before offering his hand again. “Fine. Yeah, try that line when you weren’t just hugging the kitchen wall. Sit down, okay?”
This time, Sam takes the help, and Dean levers him upright. This close, Dean can feel him trembling. Together, they make it to the kitchen table and Sam shakily lowers himself into a chair. He’s staring at the table like he can’t meet Dean’s eyes.
Dean clears his throat. "You sound like you just gargled marbles. I’ll grab you some water.”
Sam jolts a little, but when he looks up he’s more present. “Um, yeah. Thanks.”
Dean grabs the glass, fills it, keeps up a running monologue. “Honestly, best thing about this place is the water. None of that nasty, tepid shit from motel faucets. Like rinsing your mouth out with lukewarm armpits."
He turns. Sam’s back to looking at the table like it personally wronged him. “Your water. Unless you wanted it in, like, a crystal glass or whatever."
“Actually, it’d be great if you added some cucumber slices.” Sam’s still not looking up, but he’s with it enough to bitch. There, basic cognitive function verified.
“Yeah, you wish, princess.” Dean sits across from him. Sam wraps a big hand around the glass, but he doesn’t move to drink.
"So. Nightmare, or something else?”
“Just a nightmare.” Sam finally takes a sip of water.
“They’re getting worse, lately.” It’s not a question. Ever since Lucifer invaded the bunker, filling the warded hallways with his cruel petulance and bad music, Dean’s imagined a change to the atmosphere. A chill aftertaste of power in the air, a fetid prickle of unease that lingered long after the asshole was gone. And if he’s feeling it, he can’t conceive what Sam’s feeling. Whenever he wonders, he's been picturing Alastair sitting in the map room and quickly deciding he really doesn’t want to conceive it.
RE: Filled: "Were It Not That I Have Bad Dreams" (3/3)
anonymous
November 3 2017, 08:25:13 UTC
Sam just shrugs, though.
“You wanna. You know. If you want to talk about it.” Please don’t tell me, he thinks, I don’t want to know.
Sam finally looks up at him, his forehead creased in a half-frown. “You don’t want to talk about it.”
Dean manages a little laugh. It’s not funny. “Yeah, but maybe it’d be, y’know, good for you. What with him being out and about, and everything.”
Sam looks back down, and Dean figures that’s the end of the after school special. But then Sam speaks. "He liked to give me choices, sometimes.”
Dean's spine prickles. “Yeah?” he hears himself say.
Sam’s voice is too soft and even, too conversational. But his eyes are glassy and far away, and the look on his face makes Dean go cold. “I mean. They weren’t choices. Not really. But then, then he could say. Would say that I chose it, what he did. Because I said yes."
Dean’s throat closes. He doesn’t trust himself to move without screaming, or maybe sobbing.
Sam takes another drink of water, and bends his head back down. Like he’s fucking embarrassed that he’s messed up about this shit. “Anyway, I-I think it’s just worse right now because-well, like you said. And there’s Mom and the British to worry about too. But I’m okay, really--"
Dean finds his voice. “You didn’t.”
Sam stops his ramble. “Didn’t what?” he says uncertainly.
“You didn’t choose it, okay. Whatever he said,” Dean says. “Just. He’s a lying asshole, that’s all."
Sam opens his mouth, and closes it again. His mouth twists at the corner.
Dean’s on a roll, now, because he needs to wipe that sick, wounded look off Sam’s face. “And we are gonna kick his ass back to the Cage. For good this time. Or who knows, maybe the stick up the Brits' asses is gonna turn out to be an archangel blade, and you can stab him right in the smarmy face.”
Sam’s got a weird, pinched expression, and for a second Dean isn’t sure if he’s going to laugh or cry. Then, his mouth curves up in a smile, a real one this time. “Sounds good to me, Dean."
RE: Filled: "Were It Not That I Have Bad Dreams" (3/3)cowboyguyJanuary 8 2018, 04:09:36 UTC
Oh, man, that was awesome. I love the quietness of this, of just the two of them, awake way too early in the morning, and the current of tension and pain that's running underneath it all. Sam's nightmares are heartbreaking, and I love Dean's way of dealing with it, still talking to his brother and helping him even though he's not sure quite what to say or whether he really wants to know more.
Job well done! (And sorry for the ridiculously late comment.)
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He’s cold. He’s on his back. He hurts, all over. His face is somehow both numb and in horrific pain, all at once. He’s too stiff and weak to move, and every gasping breath he takes sets off a flare of lancing agony that arcs up through his chest, making his eyes sting and more tears leak out. There is a hand carding through his hair. It’s gentle. He doesn’t have the energy to flinch away.
“What will it be, Sam? Your ball game today, or not?”
His stomach drops, and he tries to turn his head away despite himself. The hand in his hair tightens, just a little bit, not to hurt, just to keep his face upturned.
“C’mon, roomie, you know the rules. Pick your poison.”
“P-please.” His voice cracks.
“It’s your choice, Sam. I know that’s important to you. Yes or no?"
He feels his face twist, involuntary, a shudder. “I-I don’t know. Please.”
“Not even gonna give it the old college try?”
He forces open his mouth, but can’t summon words.
“Hm. Perfectly understandable. In that case, I’m happy to think up something new.”
His stomach curdles, he fumbles to lift beseeching arms, he chokes on the pain, rasps, “Wait. Wait.”
A heavy pause. “What’s the magic word?”
The satisfaction in the question makes him sick, makes his broken feet curl inward.
“Yes,” he croaks.
“Up and at ‘em, then, tiger."
He forces himself to his knees, weathers the pain, lets it crest and plateau. Crawls forward on fragmented shins. He doesn’t need to look up to know where he’s going He stops in the center of the Cage.
He lifts his head, blinks to clear tears and blood from his vision, and accepts the proffered knife with a shuddering hand.
“Your old record is around 9 hours, 21 minutes. I think you can make ten this time.”
He positions the blade. Takes a shaky breath in. Holds. Lets it out on a short sob, as he draws the knife down his abdomen, slowly, in a wavering vertical slice. Ten hours to go.
Sam wakes up curled into himself, his fists clutched to his stomach and his face wet (tears, not blood). The bedsheets are tangled around his legs (not like chains). He’s gasping and sobbing like it just happened, like Lucifer's hands are still on him, like it wasn’t just another fucked-up dream in a long line of fucked-up dreams (not dreams, memories).
It takes long, shuddering minutes before he gets the energy to force himself to uncurl and stand. He scrubs his hands roughly over his face and glances at the clock. 4:13 am- that’s late enough to conceivably be up, early enough Dean will still be asleep. He moves on shaking legs through the bunker (where Lucifer walked, not so long ago) to the kitchen, focusing on his bare feet against the concrete floor and breathing deep to keep from crying again.
Sound and motion and light. He freezes in the doorway to the kitchen.
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Dean’s given up on sleep for the night. Mom’s gone, Lucifer's in the wind, the British are a bunch of poncy assholes, and altogether he just can’t bring himself to lie in bed and stare at the ceiling anymore tonight. This morning. Whatever.
He's rummaging through the coffee cabinet when he hears a scuffing noise. He jerks around, reflex, but it’s just Sam. Sam who’s standing pale and frozen, lingering half in the dimness of the hallway, staring into the brightness of the kitchen like it’s going to bite him.
Dean's surprise gives way to alarm. “Sam. Hey, whoa-hey. You, ah. You okay?"
Sam jerks and clears his throat, wide eyes focusing on Dean, which Dean is willing to count as a win. “Yeah. Yeah, no, just-just wanted something to drink,” he says. His voice is hoarse and wrecked.
Dean moves to him, makes to take his arm without thinking. Sam flinches away from his touch like it's fire. He closes his eyes and pulls away, half-collapsing into the wall, breaths jagged, raising his arms weakly in something like surrender. Something cold and sick twists in Dean’s gut. “Sam. It’s just me."
A few long, long moments pass, but he doesn’t try to touch Sam again. Finally, with visible effort, Sam opens his eyes and says, “Dean. Sorry. I’m fine." He forces a twisted little half-smile that Dean’s sure is meant to be reassuring, but has exactly the opposite effect.
Dean backs a little further back before offering his hand again. “Fine. Yeah, try that line when you weren’t just hugging the kitchen wall. Sit down, okay?”
This time, Sam takes the help, and Dean levers him upright. This close, Dean can feel him trembling. Together, they make it to the kitchen table and Sam shakily lowers himself into a chair. He’s staring at the table like he can’t meet Dean’s eyes.
Dean clears his throat. "You sound like you just gargled marbles. I’ll grab you some water.”
Sam jolts a little, but when he looks up he’s more present. “Um, yeah. Thanks.”
Dean grabs the glass, fills it, keeps up a running monologue. “Honestly, best thing about this place is the water. None of that nasty, tepid shit from motel faucets. Like rinsing your mouth out with lukewarm armpits."
He turns. Sam’s back to looking at the table like it personally wronged him. “Your water. Unless you wanted it in, like, a crystal glass or whatever."
“Actually, it’d be great if you added some cucumber slices.” Sam’s still not looking up, but he’s with it enough to bitch. There, basic cognitive function verified.
“Yeah, you wish, princess.” Dean sits across from him. Sam wraps a big hand around the glass, but he doesn’t move to drink.
"So. Nightmare, or something else?”
“Just a nightmare.” Sam finally takes a sip of water.
“They’re getting worse, lately.” It’s not a question. Ever since Lucifer invaded the bunker, filling the warded hallways with his cruel petulance and bad music, Dean’s imagined a change to the atmosphere. A chill aftertaste of power in the air, a fetid prickle of unease that lingered long after the asshole was gone. And if he’s feeling it, he can’t conceive what Sam’s feeling. Whenever he wonders, he's been picturing Alastair sitting in the map room and quickly deciding he really doesn’t want to conceive it.
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“You wanna. You know. If you want to talk about it.” Please don’t tell me, he thinks, I don’t want to know.
Sam finally looks up at him, his forehead creased in a half-frown. “You don’t want to talk about it.”
Dean manages a little laugh. It’s not funny. “Yeah, but maybe it’d be, y’know, good for you. What with him being out and about, and everything.”
Sam looks back down, and Dean figures that’s the end of the after school special. But then Sam speaks. "He liked to give me choices, sometimes.”
Dean's spine prickles. “Yeah?” he hears himself say.
Sam’s voice is too soft and even, too conversational. But his eyes are glassy and far away, and the look on his face makes Dean go cold. “I mean. They weren’t choices. Not really. But then, then he could say. Would say that I chose it, what he did. Because I said yes."
Dean’s throat closes. He doesn’t trust himself to move without screaming, or maybe sobbing.
Sam takes another drink of water, and bends his head back down. Like he’s fucking embarrassed that he’s messed up about this shit. “Anyway, I-I think it’s just worse right now because-well, like you said. And there’s Mom and the British to worry about too. But I’m okay, really--"
Dean finds his voice. “You didn’t.”
Sam stops his ramble. “Didn’t what?” he says uncertainly.
“You didn’t choose it, okay. Whatever he said,” Dean says. “Just. He’s a lying asshole, that’s all."
Sam opens his mouth, and closes it again. His mouth twists at the corner.
Dean’s on a roll, now, because he needs to wipe that sick, wounded look off Sam’s face. “And we are gonna kick his ass back to the Cage. For good this time. Or who knows, maybe the stick up the Brits' asses is gonna turn out to be an archangel blade, and you can stab him right in the smarmy face.”
Sam’s got a weird, pinched expression, and for a second Dean isn’t sure if he’s going to laugh or cry. Then, his mouth curves up in a smile, a real one this time. “Sounds good to me, Dean."
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I've cleaned and posted this fill at AO3 here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12841185
Sorry I'm replying so late, but I really appreciate all your lovely comments!!
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Job well done! (And sorry for the ridiculously late comment.)
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