Fic: Raw (SPN/DA, Wellspring 'Verse, PG-13)
Title: Raw
Author: scourgeofeurope
Rating: PG-13
Fandoms: Supernatural, Dark Angel
Universe: Wellspring
Summary: Sight can be a terrible thing.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: This could probably be called Defective II, but I decided to share it anyway.
_________________________________________
Ben feels naked. He shouldn’t. Sam stuffed him into a coat before they left Bobby’s, fitted a fleece hat over his head before gently guiding him out the door.
Still, he feels stripped and violated because this diner is infested with people and people have eyes, eyes that look at Ben like they know things they shouldn’t know, like they can see things they shouldn’t see - like the crimson staining his pale fingers, or the teeth that used to be in his pocket. People have eyes that can see back months ago, when Ben was constantly flooding the Impala and the motel rooms with his tears, when he was clinging to Dean, to Sam, stealing them from Alec, showering their shoulders with his childish inadequacies because when you’re Ben, it never stops hurting.
“And what can I get for you, sweetie?” The waitress is beautiful and so is her smile, but Ben feels sick and it stings in a way he can’t comprehend, like his skin is being flayed from his flesh and his flesh from his bones and she can see it all, every single part of him, everything that he runs on, bones that are too strong and emotions that are too weak, the anger and the sadness and the need. She can see the picture he used to keep in the waistband of his cotton pants, worn and tearing and bending at the corners because Ben took it out and looked at it all the time,used to close his eyes and rub his thumb over her image, his lady who wasn’t real. Not for him.
“Benny?” Dean’s voice is above him and Ben vaguely feels the fleece being peeled from his head. “What d’ya want to eat, kiddo?”
Eat. They’re here to eat. Ben has to open his mouth and verbalize a food or it’s going to become even more clear to her than it already is. He parts his lips but sound doesn’t come out and Sam’s on the other side of the table looking concerned and Alec’s cocking his head like an inquisitive animal. They know already, they’ve known for a long time, but Ben’s guts are spilling out again and he’s making a mess and he’s a burden, he doesn’t want to be a burden, not again, and he doesn’t want this waitress to see him for what he is.
He buries his face into the worn brown leather of Dean’s sleeve, doesn’t look up, not even when he hears Dean inquiring about the different flavors of oatmeal, not even when Alec demands to know what the fuck is wrong with him, not even when Sam and Dean say “Alec” in that way that usually has Ben jumping to his brother’s defense.
He hears Alec huff and ask,“Is he breathing alright, at least?”
“He’s breathing fine, kitten. Benny?”
Ben won’t. Ben can’t. There are eleven patrons and four workers in this diner right now, Ben counted them as soon as he came in and that’s thirty eyes, thirty eyes that can see everything that he is and isn’t and he can’t. He won’t.
Dean doesn’t move his arm until the waitress comes back with their food and even then, when Ben refuses to move his face, he ceases his attempts.
“You gotta eat, kid.”
Ben can’t.
“C’mon, Ghandi.”
Ben won’t.
“I promise I’ll give into your social protests just as soon as we get back to the car.”
Ben doesn’t. He smells the sausage, hears as it enters Dean’s mouth, the sound of it being ground between hungry teeth. The mastication is still occurring when he feels Dean’s body gently nudging him out of the booth, when he relents and keeps his head bent to the ground, plants his feet on the diner floor.
Thirty eyes.
Two hands, on his shoulders pushing him past tables and out the door, leading him over the sidewalk and Ben’s eyes haven’t left his shoes. He’s walking blind, only stopping when the hands squeeze and pull him back, catch him under the arms and now he’s in the air with his eyes closed, set on a surface of black alloy. He smoothes his palms over her hood and she’s cold and familiar and real.
“Better?”
Ben counts to three, takes three breaths before prying his lids open and there’s no one in the parking lot but him and Dean. Four eyes, and Dean’s are okay. Dean’s are always okay even if Ben’s still scared of them sometimes.
“There were too many people,” Ben mumbles. “I couldn’t eat.”
“Or speak?”
“Or look.”
Eyes are like pliers pulling him apart, but he doesn’t tell Dean this. He doesn’t need Dean thinking he’s any more of a freak than he already does and-
“I get you, kid. People are assholes even when they’re not saying anything. And you never know what they’re capable of so you don’t want them looking at you.”
Dean understands on some level, even if it’s a different one. Ben’s arms move on their own accord, wrap like greedy snakes around the hunter’s neck and Dean snorts, pats Ben’s back with a warm hand.
“Most people would think that was an unhealthy sentiment. Sometimes it pays to have clones.”
“I don’t like their eyes,” Ben says, and it doesn’t even feel like a confession, like he has to be ashamed because Dean hates them, too, Ben knows he does. “Their eyes are the worst kinds of bastards.” The word slips out. He doesn’t feel the need to take it back. He can feel Dean’s grin even if he can’t see it.
Dean doesn’t even verbally acknowledge the swear. “You ready to eat, yet?”
“I-“
“M’not gonna let them get you, you know. I’ll put a bullet in every eye in that joint if I have to.”
“There’s thirty of them. Do you have thirty bullets?”
“I have as many bullets as you need me to have.”
That’s not true. Dean would need billions of bullets for that to be true, but Ben appreciates the assertion regardless. He’s still clinging around Dean’s neck and he never wants to let go.
And he hasn’t changed. Ben’s still everything he doesn’t want people to see. He’s still needy and angry and sad and he’s not releasing Dean any time soon, and he might have allowed them to tear one lady out of his heart, but there’s another one under him, sleek and beautiful and well-loved by two hands just like his own, and God forbid if anyone ever tried to tear him out of her.
“I think it’s time for oatmeal,” Dean says.
Ben doesn’t argue. He tries to keep his head up on the way back in, manages to speak when the waitress asks him if he wants his oatmeal reheated. She tries to take it too far, though, and Ben shrinks back into that same brown leather sleeve when she starts telling him how handsome he is, just like his daddy.
Sam starts up a gruesome conversation about socialization and how they’re doing it wrong and Dean tells him to stuff it, that Ben will be fine, it’s just a bit soon after all the shit that went down, is all.
Dean slings an arm over Ben’s shoulder. Ben takes slow bites of his oatmeal, savors it, pushes into the warm body next to him. There are thirty eyes in this room, but they’re not skinning him alive anymore. Ben’s not naked. He’s got shoes and jeans, a shirt and a coat, a hat resting on the table, and he’s wearing Dean like armor.
Author: scourgeofeurope
Rating: PG-13
Fandoms: Supernatural, Dark Angel
Universe: Wellspring
Summary: Sight can be a terrible thing.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: This could probably be called Defective II, but I decided to share it anyway.
_________________________________________
Ben feels naked. He shouldn’t. Sam stuffed him into a coat before they left Bobby’s, fitted a fleece hat over his head before gently guiding him out the door.
Still, he feels stripped and violated because this diner is infested with people and people have eyes, eyes that look at Ben like they know things they shouldn’t know, like they can see things they shouldn’t see - like the crimson staining his pale fingers, or the teeth that used to be in his pocket. People have eyes that can see back months ago, when Ben was constantly flooding the Impala and the motel rooms with his tears, when he was clinging to Dean, to Sam, stealing them from Alec, showering their shoulders with his childish inadequacies because when you’re Ben, it never stops hurting.
“And what can I get for you, sweetie?” The waitress is beautiful and so is her smile, but Ben feels sick and it stings in a way he can’t comprehend, like his skin is being flayed from his flesh and his flesh from his bones and she can see it all, every single part of him, everything that he runs on, bones that are too strong and emotions that are too weak, the anger and the sadness and the need. She can see the picture he used to keep in the waistband of his cotton pants, worn and tearing and bending at the corners because Ben took it out and looked at it all the time,used to close his eyes and rub his thumb over her image, his lady who wasn’t real. Not for him.
“Benny?” Dean’s voice is above him and Ben vaguely feels the fleece being peeled from his head. “What d’ya want to eat, kiddo?”
Eat. They’re here to eat. Ben has to open his mouth and verbalize a food or it’s going to become even more clear to her than it already is. He parts his lips but sound doesn’t come out and Sam’s on the other side of the table looking concerned and Alec’s cocking his head like an inquisitive animal. They know already, they’ve known for a long time, but Ben’s guts are spilling out again and he’s making a mess and he’s a burden, he doesn’t want to be a burden, not again, and he doesn’t want this waitress to see him for what he is.
He buries his face into the worn brown leather of Dean’s sleeve, doesn’t look up, not even when he hears Dean inquiring about the different flavors of oatmeal, not even when Alec demands to know what the fuck is wrong with him, not even when Sam and Dean say “Alec” in that way that usually has Ben jumping to his brother’s defense.
He hears Alec huff and ask,“Is he breathing alright, at least?”
“He’s breathing fine, kitten. Benny?”
Ben won’t. Ben can’t. There are eleven patrons and four workers in this diner right now, Ben counted them as soon as he came in and that’s thirty eyes, thirty eyes that can see everything that he is and isn’t and he can’t. He won’t.
Dean doesn’t move his arm until the waitress comes back with their food and even then, when Ben refuses to move his face, he ceases his attempts.
“You gotta eat, kid.”
Ben can’t.
“C’mon, Ghandi.”
Ben won’t.
“I promise I’ll give into your social protests just as soon as we get back to the car.”
Ben doesn’t. He smells the sausage, hears as it enters Dean’s mouth, the sound of it being ground between hungry teeth. The mastication is still occurring when he feels Dean’s body gently nudging him out of the booth, when he relents and keeps his head bent to the ground, plants his feet on the diner floor.
Thirty eyes.
Two hands, on his shoulders pushing him past tables and out the door, leading him over the sidewalk and Ben’s eyes haven’t left his shoes. He’s walking blind, only stopping when the hands squeeze and pull him back, catch him under the arms and now he’s in the air with his eyes closed, set on a surface of black alloy. He smoothes his palms over her hood and she’s cold and familiar and real.
“Better?”
Ben counts to three, takes three breaths before prying his lids open and there’s no one in the parking lot but him and Dean. Four eyes, and Dean’s are okay. Dean’s are always okay even if Ben’s still scared of them sometimes.
“There were too many people,” Ben mumbles. “I couldn’t eat.”
“Or speak?”
“Or look.”
Eyes are like pliers pulling him apart, but he doesn’t tell Dean this. He doesn’t need Dean thinking he’s any more of a freak than he already does and-
“I get you, kid. People are assholes even when they’re not saying anything. And you never know what they’re capable of so you don’t want them looking at you.”
Dean understands on some level, even if it’s a different one. Ben’s arms move on their own accord, wrap like greedy snakes around the hunter’s neck and Dean snorts, pats Ben’s back with a warm hand.
“Most people would think that was an unhealthy sentiment. Sometimes it pays to have clones.”
“I don’t like their eyes,” Ben says, and it doesn’t even feel like a confession, like he has to be ashamed because Dean hates them, too, Ben knows he does. “Their eyes are the worst kinds of bastards.” The word slips out. He doesn’t feel the need to take it back. He can feel Dean’s grin even if he can’t see it.
Dean doesn’t even verbally acknowledge the swear. “You ready to eat, yet?”
“I-“
“M’not gonna let them get you, you know. I’ll put a bullet in every eye in that joint if I have to.”
“There’s thirty of them. Do you have thirty bullets?”
“I have as many bullets as you need me to have.”
That’s not true. Dean would need billions of bullets for that to be true, but Ben appreciates the assertion regardless. He’s still clinging around Dean’s neck and he never wants to let go.
And he hasn’t changed. Ben’s still everything he doesn’t want people to see. He’s still needy and angry and sad and he’s not releasing Dean any time soon, and he might have allowed them to tear one lady out of his heart, but there’s another one under him, sleek and beautiful and well-loved by two hands just like his own, and God forbid if anyone ever tried to tear him out of her.
“I think it’s time for oatmeal,” Dean says.
Ben doesn’t argue. He tries to keep his head up on the way back in, manages to speak when the waitress asks him if he wants his oatmeal reheated. She tries to take it too far, though, and Ben shrinks back into that same brown leather sleeve when she starts telling him how handsome he is, just like his daddy.
Sam starts up a gruesome conversation about socialization and how they’re doing it wrong and Dean tells him to stuff it, that Ben will be fine, it’s just a bit soon after all the shit that went down, is all.
Dean slings an arm over Ben’s shoulder. Ben takes slow bites of his oatmeal, savors it, pushes into the warm body next to him. There are thirty eyes in this room, but they’re not skinning him alive anymore. Ben’s not naked. He’s got shoes and jeans, a shirt and a coat, a hat resting on the table, and he’s wearing Dean like armor.