Désolé
Title: Désolé
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1300
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: Post 7x10 - Dean mixes his whiskey with the pills for his messed up leg and almost pulls a Jimi Hendrix.
Written for the Winter/Holiday themed Dean-focused h/c comment-fic meme on hoodie_time. Fill for 'Asphyxiation' on my hc_bingo card, which means what people? BLACKOUT!
I'll go compile that post right now and crosspost everything I wrote this month next year when people are actually around to read it. Until then I'll just have to ignore the messed up, emo kid inside me who keeps telling me how much I suck at writing, just because the number of comments has dropped. *rolls eyes at self*
All Sam says is "you gotta be careful with those".
He says it with his back turned, hunched over his duffel, like he's more concerned with finding fresh underwear than Dean's stupid pain meds.
Dean glares at Sam's back and mumbles something that Sam can take as affirmation if he wants. He shakes the little orange bottle and limps towards the door.
"Where are you going?" Sam demands, loud and tall and broad shoulders, taking up too much space in the tiny cabin.
"Out." Dean grits his teeth. He knows his fists are shaking and the room around him is getting so small and his fucked up knee doesn't let him walk fast enough. "Takin' a piss if that's fine with you."
He does. Take a piss that is. Out in the cold where the snow is whipping up all around him until he's sure his balls are retracting all the way back into his body. The pipes of their cabin must have frozen over weeks ago, long before Bobby circled it on his map of places safe to hide and now Dean is thinking of Bobby again and he gets all messed up between tugging himself back in and padding his jacket down for his flask.
His balance is all blown to hell and his bad knee can't support him when he stumbles to the left and then he's lying in the snow, sucking in desperate gulps of air around the small gasps of pain he can't allow to get any louder or Sam will hear.
His fingers finally close around the flask in his jacket and Dean's sigh of relief is shaky, but he knows he'll feel better soon enough.
He unscrews the new orange bottle they stole from the free clinic down in Batesland and shakes out three pills, washes them down with all he's got left in the flask.
:: :: ::
Sam hurries over to grab Dean's elbow as soon as he sees him standing in the doorway, shivering and soaking wet with snow stuck in his hair. Then he smells the booze on Dean's breath and Dean glimpses disgust and anger flash across Sam's face before he's deposited on the couch.
:: :: ::
It wouldn't be so bad if they had something to eat.
There's a couple of Hershey bars in one of their duffels, but that's hardly what Dean needs right now.
"Less go for burg'rs," he suggests with a grin that bares his teeth more than usual.
"Snowstorm."
Sam doesn't even turn around, just keeps sitting there at the desk that's almost falling apart, hacking away angrily on his laptop. Dean wonders if he's gonna have to deal with some sort of panic attack once Sam realizes he's only got one battery left.
"How 'out pizza then?"
It's a harmless enough question, but suddenly Sam's passive aggressive hacking is gone and he turns around in his chair, elbow hooked over the backrest and Dean's got no idea what he did to deserve being yelled in the face like that. "Fuck you, Dean," Sam shouts. "We’re not driving around in a fucking snowstorm in the middle of the night on roads we don’t know."
Sam isn’t really mad about the snowstorm or the food. It’s just easier to get angry at those, rather than Dean miscalculating the amount of Codeine vs whiskey to have on an empty stomach. Sam's screaming starts running together in Dean's head, but it's already too late. The words are all over his insides, clawing at every single one of the bloody pieces of broken glass that used to be Dean’s soul and Dean has never needed a drink more in his life.
Sam doesn't even try to stop him when he hooks his fingers in the handles of his duffel to pull it closer until he can pull out a quarter-empty bottle of cheap whiskey.
:: :: ::
The cabin is a sad, unsaturated, brownish sort of color that isn’t even really there. It starts leaking together with the cold outside and Sam’s irritated huffs and it’s all kind of fitting with the way Dean’s life has lost all traces of color anyway.
Sometimes they’ll be driving through a nice, suburban neighborhood and it takes all Dean’s got not to slam on the brakes and take his 1911 to every single one of the happy, blinking light bulbs, until the red and green and blue are all just greyish black again.
:: :: ::
He wakes up to Sam slapping his face and then quickly sinks back under again, wondering when he fell asleep in the first place.
:: :: ::
Sam’s got one giant hand cupping the back of Dean’s head, the other one pounding on his back and Dean realizes he’s gagging and choking and not really breathing at all. Who ever knew he’d die like this? Bobby would call him an idjit, pulling a Jimi Hendrix on Sam like that, but Bobby’s dead, so what does he know?
Sam says “no” and “fuck” a lot, all the while slapping his paw down on Dean’s back and the black spots in Dean’s vision slowly turn into spots of vision in Dean’s black.
Sam’s hands are all over him and the world starts turning and Dean’s heart is in his throat and then there’s the shock of cold against his side.
Sam doesn’t let him curl into a ball around his throbbing knee and burning, empty lungs. He locks Dean down in the wet snow, elbows on Dean’s chest, one leg on top of Dean’s thighs and then his throat is fighting against Sam’s finger and it hurts all the way down to his empty, empty chest.
Dean tries to turn away, but his chin is locked too, somewhere in Sam’s grip and the finger stabs at his throat again and then his front is suddenly pressed into the cold and he’s throwing up into the perfect white darkness of the snow.
It hurts like hell and Sam starts smashing his hand against Dean’s back again when he gets mixed up between throwing up and gasping in oxygen. He’s shaking all over by the time he’s done, trembling and clutching his chest and his cheeks are sore and wet from the wind and snow whipping against it.
“I hate you,” Sam says quietly, his hands soft now, moving up and down Dean’s back, before he picks him up, just like that and Dean’s knee throbs like hell when it bounces against Sam’s arm. “I hate you so fucking much right now.”
Sam carries him back inside and lies him down on the couch, peels off Dean’s snow cold clothes and wraps him up in one of their emergency blankets and all the while Dean can’t even open his eyes, just lies there, shivering and leaning into Sam’s touch and not dead.
He falls asleep like that, curled against Sam’s side, blood rushing through his ears, loud and drowning out everything else.
:: :: ::
He wakes up with his mouth dry and his tongue too big and his knee shooting electric shocks all the way up into his hip. He starts patting himself down for his pills, which feels all wrong and foreign and then he remembers he’s naked and with that come the memories of everything else.
Dean opens one eye, closes it again against the bright light that’s coming at him from every direction. He must have groaned or stirred or made some other kind of noise, because he can feel Sam’s eyes on him.
“Sorry,” he forces out and immediately winces because his voice sounds small and beat to hell and the single word is enough to set his throat on fire. He’s glad the bottle he polished off last night wasn't his last.
“You’re always sorry,” Sam says, flat and sad.
Dean snorts, looks at Sam out of tiny slits for eyes that won’t focus for shit.
“You almost died,” Sam says and Dean pulls his blanket higher up over his shoulder. “Promise me you won’t do that again.”
Dean closes his eyes and feigns sleep.
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1300
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: Post 7x10 - Dean mixes his whiskey with the pills for his messed up leg and almost pulls a Jimi Hendrix.
Written for the Winter/Holiday themed Dean-focused h/c comment-fic meme on hoodie_time. Fill for 'Asphyxiation' on my hc_bingo card, which means what people? BLACKOUT!
I'll go compile that post right now and crosspost everything I wrote this month next year when people are actually around to read it. Until then I'll just have to ignore the messed up, emo kid inside me who keeps telling me how much I suck at writing, just because the number of comments has dropped. *rolls eyes at self*
All Sam says is "you gotta be careful with those".
He says it with his back turned, hunched over his duffel, like he's more concerned with finding fresh underwear than Dean's stupid pain meds.
Dean glares at Sam's back and mumbles something that Sam can take as affirmation if he wants. He shakes the little orange bottle and limps towards the door.
"Where are you going?" Sam demands, loud and tall and broad shoulders, taking up too much space in the tiny cabin.
"Out." Dean grits his teeth. He knows his fists are shaking and the room around him is getting so small and his fucked up knee doesn't let him walk fast enough. "Takin' a piss if that's fine with you."
He does. Take a piss that is. Out in the cold where the snow is whipping up all around him until he's sure his balls are retracting all the way back into his body. The pipes of their cabin must have frozen over weeks ago, long before Bobby circled it on his map of places safe to hide and now Dean is thinking of Bobby again and he gets all messed up between tugging himself back in and padding his jacket down for his flask.
His balance is all blown to hell and his bad knee can't support him when he stumbles to the left and then he's lying in the snow, sucking in desperate gulps of air around the small gasps of pain he can't allow to get any louder or Sam will hear.
His fingers finally close around the flask in his jacket and Dean's sigh of relief is shaky, but he knows he'll feel better soon enough.
He unscrews the new orange bottle they stole from the free clinic down in Batesland and shakes out three pills, washes them down with all he's got left in the flask.
:: :: ::
Sam hurries over to grab Dean's elbow as soon as he sees him standing in the doorway, shivering and soaking wet with snow stuck in his hair. Then he smells the booze on Dean's breath and Dean glimpses disgust and anger flash across Sam's face before he's deposited on the couch.
:: :: ::
It wouldn't be so bad if they had something to eat.
There's a couple of Hershey bars in one of their duffels, but that's hardly what Dean needs right now.
"Less go for burg'rs," he suggests with a grin that bares his teeth more than usual.
"Snowstorm."
Sam doesn't even turn around, just keeps sitting there at the desk that's almost falling apart, hacking away angrily on his laptop. Dean wonders if he's gonna have to deal with some sort of panic attack once Sam realizes he's only got one battery left.
"How 'out pizza then?"
It's a harmless enough question, but suddenly Sam's passive aggressive hacking is gone and he turns around in his chair, elbow hooked over the backrest and Dean's got no idea what he did to deserve being yelled in the face like that. "Fuck you, Dean," Sam shouts. "We’re not driving around in a fucking snowstorm in the middle of the night on roads we don’t know."
Sam isn’t really mad about the snowstorm or the food. It’s just easier to get angry at those, rather than Dean miscalculating the amount of Codeine vs whiskey to have on an empty stomach. Sam's screaming starts running together in Dean's head, but it's already too late. The words are all over his insides, clawing at every single one of the bloody pieces of broken glass that used to be Dean’s soul and Dean has never needed a drink more in his life.
Sam doesn't even try to stop him when he hooks his fingers in the handles of his duffel to pull it closer until he can pull out a quarter-empty bottle of cheap whiskey.
:: :: ::
The cabin is a sad, unsaturated, brownish sort of color that isn’t even really there. It starts leaking together with the cold outside and Sam’s irritated huffs and it’s all kind of fitting with the way Dean’s life has lost all traces of color anyway.
Sometimes they’ll be driving through a nice, suburban neighborhood and it takes all Dean’s got not to slam on the brakes and take his 1911 to every single one of the happy, blinking light bulbs, until the red and green and blue are all just greyish black again.
:: :: ::
He wakes up to Sam slapping his face and then quickly sinks back under again, wondering when he fell asleep in the first place.
:: :: ::
Sam’s got one giant hand cupping the back of Dean’s head, the other one pounding on his back and Dean realizes he’s gagging and choking and not really breathing at all. Who ever knew he’d die like this? Bobby would call him an idjit, pulling a Jimi Hendrix on Sam like that, but Bobby’s dead, so what does he know?
Sam says “no” and “fuck” a lot, all the while slapping his paw down on Dean’s back and the black spots in Dean’s vision slowly turn into spots of vision in Dean’s black.
Sam’s hands are all over him and the world starts turning and Dean’s heart is in his throat and then there’s the shock of cold against his side.
Sam doesn’t let him curl into a ball around his throbbing knee and burning, empty lungs. He locks Dean down in the wet snow, elbows on Dean’s chest, one leg on top of Dean’s thighs and then his throat is fighting against Sam’s finger and it hurts all the way down to his empty, empty chest.
Dean tries to turn away, but his chin is locked too, somewhere in Sam’s grip and the finger stabs at his throat again and then his front is suddenly pressed into the cold and he’s throwing up into the perfect white darkness of the snow.
It hurts like hell and Sam starts smashing his hand against Dean’s back again when he gets mixed up between throwing up and gasping in oxygen. He’s shaking all over by the time he’s done, trembling and clutching his chest and his cheeks are sore and wet from the wind and snow whipping against it.
“I hate you,” Sam says quietly, his hands soft now, moving up and down Dean’s back, before he picks him up, just like that and Dean’s knee throbs like hell when it bounces against Sam’s arm. “I hate you so fucking much right now.”
Sam carries him back inside and lies him down on the couch, peels off Dean’s snow cold clothes and wraps him up in one of their emergency blankets and all the while Dean can’t even open his eyes, just lies there, shivering and leaning into Sam’s touch and not dead.
He falls asleep like that, curled against Sam’s side, blood rushing through his ears, loud and drowning out everything else.
:: :: ::
He wakes up with his mouth dry and his tongue too big and his knee shooting electric shocks all the way up into his hip. He starts patting himself down for his pills, which feels all wrong and foreign and then he remembers he’s naked and with that come the memories of everything else.
Dean opens one eye, closes it again against the bright light that’s coming at him from every direction. He must have groaned or stirred or made some other kind of noise, because he can feel Sam’s eyes on him.
“Sorry,” he forces out and immediately winces because his voice sounds small and beat to hell and the single word is enough to set his throat on fire. He’s glad the bottle he polished off last night wasn't his last.
“You’re always sorry,” Sam says, flat and sad.
Dean snorts, looks at Sam out of tiny slits for eyes that won’t focus for shit.
“You almost died,” Sam says and Dean pulls his blanket higher up over his shoulder. “Promise me you won’t do that again.”
Dean closes his eyes and feigns sleep.