It's a fine line for girlguidejones
Title: It's a fine line.
Author: Missyjack
Recipient: girlguidejones
Rating: M
Warnings: none
Author's Notes: Title is a lyric from the Divinyl's song "Pleasure and Pain"
Summary: girlguidejones asked for some hurt/comfort. So here it is. Sort of.
It's unfamiliar, this skin against skin. Usually they're separated by layers of flannel and self-reliance; self-contained within their Winchester machismo. Now, all of that has been stripped away.
Sam's fingers trace across Dean's shoulder, over its curve and down the rise of his bicep. Dean shifts beneath Sam's touch, uncomfortable and all too aware of the need to let his brother take control.
There's hesitancy as Sam's fingers press into flesh, as he waits for reaction. Not for words, because Dean doesn't have the vocabulary. Ask him how a cheeseburger tastes and he's a poet laureate. Ask him how he feels and the mute button is pushed. But a sharp intake of breath and a tightening of the muscles beneath his hand are all Sam needs to know that Dean hurts.
** *
"FUCK A DOODLE!" Dean suddenly finds words that, while hardly nuanced, convey his feelings eloquently.
"You okay?"
"Well a giant demon badger just tried to go all Top Chef on me," Dean grabs the bottle of Jack from the table and takes a swig. "Plus I think it pissed on my boots. So no, not so fucking much."
Two jagged gouges run from the top of his blood and dirt smeared arm, like poster art for a summer slasher flick.
Sam leans over and swipes the bottle, wiping the mouth of it against his sleeve before taking a drink himself. Without warning, he tips it over Dean's shoulder.
"Son of a bitch!" Dean nearly jumps out of the chair. Sam hands the bottle back to him.
"Gonna need stiches."
** *
A wound that fails to heal, heals slowly or heals but tends to recur is known as a chronic wound. Some of the many causes of chronic wounds can be ghoul bites, childhood trauma, grief, and repression of anger. Chronic wounds need special care.
From First Aid for Hunters- Winchester Edition
** *
Sam scrubs away at Dean's wounds. They've scabbed over, and don't look too bad at first glance. Sam knows that's an illusion, that things buried can fester and poison, start rotting a body from the inside out. Sam thinks that the best thing to do is open those wounds and expose them to the air.
Sam does the same with himself, but he often works too hard at them, making the original injury worse. He envies Dean's control, his ability to shove the pain and hurt away.
Dean envies Sam's ability to feel.
** *
“That old saying, how you always hurt the one you love, well, it works both ways.”
Fight Club.
** *
Sam gets under Dean's skin. He's only trying to help, and he knows the pain he's causing is unavoidable. Dean draws in air through his teeth in a sharp whistle and swallows hard. Still, Sam pushes through, penetrating the layers of resistance his brother's body puts up.
Dean's coming apart at the seams, and a thin steel needle and thread barely seems adequate to stitch a person back together. The cotton drags against the layers of skin and muscle, and Sam bites the inside of his cheek as he pulls the sides of the gash together. He ties off a knot and realises he's forgotten to find the scissors. He leans down, and catches a whiff of the whiskey, salt edged with blood and sweat. His cheek brushes against Dean as he bites through the thread.
** *
"Try not to make me look like Frankenstein's monster." Dean cranes his neck around vainly trying to get a glimpse of Sam's handiwork.
"Bride of Frankenstein's more like it. You were the one slow dancing with the Mujina."
"Ha - Mujina, Mujina! Rhymes with …"
Sam smacks Dean on the back of the head.
"Let me get on with it. Otherwise you'll be sober by the time I finish."
** *
Sam's stiches aren't neat. They do the job, but his thick fingers weren't made for fine work. Dean's better at this. Sam’s various cuts and lacerations that Dean has worked on heal into fine white lines. Tonight's work will add another twist of skin to the scrapbook of memories on Dean's body. Never mind that it has been wiped clean twice now, he still has more scars than most.
And then there are the ones that you can't see, the ones on his soul. Sam's fingerprints are on those too.
Sam has blood on his hands.
** *
The healing process of a wound follows a predictable pattern. A wound may fail to heal if one or more of the healing stages are interrupted. Barriers to wound healing include repeated injury, infection, having all your friends killed, existential angst and brothers who insist on listening to emo indie rock shit.
Factors that can hasten the wound healing process include: steam showers, pie and sex.
From First Aid for Hunters- Winchester Edition
** *
It takes eight stiches to close the main wound. The second gash isn't as deep, and a thin line of superglue and some strategically placed steri-strips seem to do the trick.
Sam washes up and then rummages through Dean's duffle. He pulls something from the bag and holds it at arm's length, wrinkling his face as if at a bad smell. "Why would you possibly hang onto this?"
It's one of Dean's daddy issues, probably at least 15 years old, worn threadbare over the years. Sam never liked it on him.
"Coz," said Dean snatching it back. He wears it less than he used to, knows it doesn't really fit anymore. He tosses it on the bed.
Sam finds the bottle tucked inside one of Dean's socks and shakes out a couple of pills.
"Here."
"Hey - seriously injured here." Dean makes a 'gimme' sign towards the bottle. "That's hardly enough pain relief for a hangnail."
"Along with a fifth of Jack, I think it's plenty. Besides you might have a concussion as well."
** *
Dean has slid off his adrenaline high, and the pills and booze are rocking him to sleep.
After he'd showered the slurry of the hunt off, he'd pulled on his sweat pants, Sam managed to help him slip on a clean shirt, and now he's lying face down on his bed.
"Dean?"
Dean's hair is wet and tousled as he looks up at Sam. There's something in his eyes - a need, a hunger that Sam knows only he can satisfy.
"Pie. Gemme some pie." Dean slurs sleepily.
Sam grabs the car keys from the table and tosses an extra blanket in Dean's direction.
Of course, Sam won't get him pie. He'll get him a box of Twinkies, or some stale sponge cake with two inches of orange frosting.
Or hell, maybe this time he'd get him the damn pie.
Author: Missyjack
Recipient: girlguidejones
Rating: M
Warnings: none
Author's Notes: Title is a lyric from the Divinyl's song "Pleasure and Pain"
Summary: girlguidejones asked for some hurt/comfort. So here it is. Sort of.
It's unfamiliar, this skin against skin. Usually they're separated by layers of flannel and self-reliance; self-contained within their Winchester machismo. Now, all of that has been stripped away.
Sam's fingers trace across Dean's shoulder, over its curve and down the rise of his bicep. Dean shifts beneath Sam's touch, uncomfortable and all too aware of the need to let his brother take control.
There's hesitancy as Sam's fingers press into flesh, as he waits for reaction. Not for words, because Dean doesn't have the vocabulary. Ask him how a cheeseburger tastes and he's a poet laureate. Ask him how he feels and the mute button is pushed. But a sharp intake of breath and a tightening of the muscles beneath his hand are all Sam needs to know that Dean hurts.
** *
"FUCK A DOODLE!" Dean suddenly finds words that, while hardly nuanced, convey his feelings eloquently.
"You okay?"
"Well a giant demon badger just tried to go all Top Chef on me," Dean grabs the bottle of Jack from the table and takes a swig. "Plus I think it pissed on my boots. So no, not so fucking much."
Two jagged gouges run from the top of his blood and dirt smeared arm, like poster art for a summer slasher flick.
Sam leans over and swipes the bottle, wiping the mouth of it against his sleeve before taking a drink himself. Without warning, he tips it over Dean's shoulder.
"Son of a bitch!" Dean nearly jumps out of the chair. Sam hands the bottle back to him.
"Gonna need stiches."
** *
A wound that fails to heal, heals slowly or heals but tends to recur is known as a chronic wound. Some of the many causes of chronic wounds can be ghoul bites, childhood trauma, grief, and repression of anger. Chronic wounds need special care.
From First Aid for Hunters- Winchester Edition
** *
Sam scrubs away at Dean's wounds. They've scabbed over, and don't look too bad at first glance. Sam knows that's an illusion, that things buried can fester and poison, start rotting a body from the inside out. Sam thinks that the best thing to do is open those wounds and expose them to the air.
Sam does the same with himself, but he often works too hard at them, making the original injury worse. He envies Dean's control, his ability to shove the pain and hurt away.
Dean envies Sam's ability to feel.
** *
“That old saying, how you always hurt the one you love, well, it works both ways.”
Fight Club.
** *
Sam gets under Dean's skin. He's only trying to help, and he knows the pain he's causing is unavoidable. Dean draws in air through his teeth in a sharp whistle and swallows hard. Still, Sam pushes through, penetrating the layers of resistance his brother's body puts up.
Dean's coming apart at the seams, and a thin steel needle and thread barely seems adequate to stitch a person back together. The cotton drags against the layers of skin and muscle, and Sam bites the inside of his cheek as he pulls the sides of the gash together. He ties off a knot and realises he's forgotten to find the scissors. He leans down, and catches a whiff of the whiskey, salt edged with blood and sweat. His cheek brushes against Dean as he bites through the thread.
** *
"Try not to make me look like Frankenstein's monster." Dean cranes his neck around vainly trying to get a glimpse of Sam's handiwork.
"Bride of Frankenstein's more like it. You were the one slow dancing with the Mujina."
"Ha - Mujina, Mujina! Rhymes with …"
Sam smacks Dean on the back of the head.
"Let me get on with it. Otherwise you'll be sober by the time I finish."
** *
Sam's stiches aren't neat. They do the job, but his thick fingers weren't made for fine work. Dean's better at this. Sam’s various cuts and lacerations that Dean has worked on heal into fine white lines. Tonight's work will add another twist of skin to the scrapbook of memories on Dean's body. Never mind that it has been wiped clean twice now, he still has more scars than most.
And then there are the ones that you can't see, the ones on his soul. Sam's fingerprints are on those too.
Sam has blood on his hands.
** *
The healing process of a wound follows a predictable pattern. A wound may fail to heal if one or more of the healing stages are interrupted. Barriers to wound healing include repeated injury, infection, having all your friends killed, existential angst and brothers who insist on listening to emo indie rock shit.
Factors that can hasten the wound healing process include: steam showers, pie and sex.
From First Aid for Hunters- Winchester Edition
** *
It takes eight stiches to close the main wound. The second gash isn't as deep, and a thin line of superglue and some strategically placed steri-strips seem to do the trick.
Sam washes up and then rummages through Dean's duffle. He pulls something from the bag and holds it at arm's length, wrinkling his face as if at a bad smell. "Why would you possibly hang onto this?"
It's one of Dean's daddy issues, probably at least 15 years old, worn threadbare over the years. Sam never liked it on him.
"Coz," said Dean snatching it back. He wears it less than he used to, knows it doesn't really fit anymore. He tosses it on the bed.
Sam finds the bottle tucked inside one of Dean's socks and shakes out a couple of pills.
"Here."
"Hey - seriously injured here." Dean makes a 'gimme' sign towards the bottle. "That's hardly enough pain relief for a hangnail."
"Along with a fifth of Jack, I think it's plenty. Besides you might have a concussion as well."
** *
Dean has slid off his adrenaline high, and the pills and booze are rocking him to sleep.
After he'd showered the slurry of the hunt off, he'd pulled on his sweat pants, Sam managed to help him slip on a clean shirt, and now he's lying face down on his bed.
"Dean?"
Dean's hair is wet and tousled as he looks up at Sam. There's something in his eyes - a need, a hunger that Sam knows only he can satisfy.
"Pie. Gemme some pie." Dean slurs sleepily.
Sam grabs the car keys from the table and tosses an extra blanket in Dean's direction.
Of course, Sam won't get him pie. He'll get him a box of Twinkies, or some stale sponge cake with two inches of orange frosting.
Or hell, maybe this time he'd get him the damn pie.