Fic: Plaster and Parmesan 1/1
Title: Plaster and Parmesan
Author: wave_obscura and shangrilada
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1500
Summary: For the 7.03 fix it comment fic meme, based on the prompt Maybe when Dean's sleeping, Sam writes hilarious/annoying things on his cast. Bonus points if they have little conversations on it that they don't necessarily acknowledge out loud. But it got muy angsty, of course.
Warnings/Spoilers: Through current episode. hurt!Sam, hurt!Dean
Disclaimer: For everyone’s sick pleasure. No copyright infringement intended.
Note: A co-write by me and my lovely new friend shangrilada. Hope you enjoy <33333
Plaster and Parmesan
by wave obscura and shangrilada
Dean and Bobby don’t notice anything is wrong, not at first. But, to be honest, they’re not exactly looking for problems. Sam’s out of bed, walking and talking, and right now that’s good enough, right?
Right?
And so what if Sam’s zoning out every once in a while, yeah? The kid’s mind was already in pieces before he took a crowbar to the head, so he has a right to need some time to get his bearings. Even if that includes a little time with Lucifer. Dean will keep pressing on his hand and talking in that low voice that just so ISN’T him, and they’ll deal with that for as long as they need to. It’s nothing new. It’s not scary.
The night they’re eating dinner and Sam tries to say “pass the parmesan” and it comes out gibberish instead? That’s scary.
At first Dean thinks he’s choking on his pizza. “Puh,” he keeps saying, in between these gross gravely gurgling throat noises. “puh-- puh--”
“Sammy?”
Sam keeps trying for a minute longer, stuck on the same syllable, and Bobby looks at Dean and Dean looks at Bobby and they very deliberately do NOT look at Sam, but then Sam slams his elbows on the table and his head into his hands and stays there, very still.
He manages to say, “Shit,” without any trouble, so there’s that.
They all enjoy a painfully awkward silence after that, in which Dean shovels so much pizza in his mouth it dribbles down his chin, and Bobby sucks on his beer like it’s the last one on earth.
“I--” Sam says, blinking. “The. I need. Dean?”
Christ, Dean can’t take that look. He studies the pool of grease on his plate. “You uh-- you want some pepper flakes, Sammy?”
Sam blinks again. Opens his mouth. Closes it. “Not the pepper flakes.” He waves his hand in front of his face. “The-- the fucking.”
Thus begins a frantic guessing game.
A napkin, Bobby guesses.
A fork, Dean tries.
Another beer?
“Cheese,” Sam finally spits out, “Fucking cheese. Puh-- puh--”
Just stop, Dean thinks. Please. “Parmesan,” he says, presenting Sam with a whole fistful of the little packets, “of course. Yes. Here. Parmesan.”
Sam doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t open the packets, either. He stacks them all on top of each other and stares at the tower as it falls over and doesn’t touch his food.
Dean shares a look with Bobby that is very obviously, we’re going to pretend that didn’t happen, right?
Until Sam gets up to do the dishes and says, “Where the hell is the dih...shit. Dih...”
It takes them two minutes to figure out dish towel, and Sam’s starting to shake, so Dean says, “Hey, Sam? Do you want to write it down?” He doesn’t say next time it happens, but it hangs there in the space between them.
Sam nods a little, looking down. Dean finds a Sharpie can’t for the life of him find a piece of paper that isn’t a photocopy of one of Bobby’s books, and he’s pretty sure that wouldn’t go over too well with Bobby, even if he is standing there with his arms crossed and that expression that he probably thinks is blank but they both know means something is wrong with one of my boys, and Dean looks down to check the table one more time and there’s that piece of plaster on his leg, white and blank because I’m not twelve years old, Sammy, you’re not writing on my fucking cast.
He breathes out and hands Sammy the Sharpie.
Sam catches on pretty quick for a kid who can’t get his nouns out.
“I don’t have anything to say right now,” he says, quietly, but hey, it’s Sam, that won’t last long.
Which is why Dean isn’t too surprised when he wakes up from a post-pizza nap and there’s something scrawled around his ankle.
Was gonna draw dirty shit when you fell asleep, then you go & make some meaningful gesture out of the whole thing, jerk.
Dean smiles to himself. He’s alone in the living room, but Sam left the Sharpie, so Dean scrawls bitch across his foot before he falls back asleep.
When he wakes up, Sam is gone again, but bitchis crossed off so hard Dean can’t read it, and he’s kind of glad Sam isn’t here so they don’t have to talk about that. But he crosses it off himself, more, for good measure.
He writes, where the fuck were you? and a few minutes later when Sam sits down beside him and turns on the TV, he carefully lifts Dean’s leg into his lap and writes Bobby said he needed help outside. Was a trick. He wanted a heart to heart.
He lets the pen roll out of his fingers. Dean picks it up.
You didn’t?
He hands the pen to Sam this time. They’re looking at the TV and not each other, but Dean can’t help but see how long it takes Sam to get a grip on the pen, how slow he is to form the words. Shit, writing was supposed to help.
He needs me to tell him I’m doin and then he stops writing mid-word and jerks alert and starts staring somewhere over Dean’s shoulder and isn’t that just terrific.
Sam holds tight to Dean’s cast, like it’s keeping him grounded somehow but he’s long gone, eyes and brain and soul on a different planet.
“Come on, Sam,” Dean says, much more harshly than he intended. “There’s nothing there, goddamn it.”
“I--” Sam begins, but his mouth closes. Still staring off into the depths of imagined hell, he writes I’ve taken his voice. I’m going to take everything.
Dean slumps into the sofa, unthinking and unfunctioning. It’s one of those moments-- he’s far too familiar -- where everything is so fucked he almost feels like laughing. Laughing until his head splits and they cart him off to the nuthouse.
But he doesn’t have the luxury. And not just because he’s a gimp, and Sam is holding his leg hostage. Because Sam’s gone all pale and his hands are shaking and if Dean isn’t here to be the damn witness to the whole thing, who the fuck is gonna be? What the hell is Sam supposed to do?
“Sammy.” He takes Sam’s hand. The one gripping the cast. He holds it, runs his thumb along the jagged scar. Just gently, for now. “Sammy. Can you look at me?”
I’ll take his eyes, the other hand writes.
"He can't do that, Sammy," Dean says, "He's not there. He doesn't control you, do you understand me? Sam?"
Sam's eyes are wet now, round and scared. With effort he points his gaze at Dean, just as the tears begin to spill.
"I--" he spits, "Dean, I-- I--"
He chokes on the vowel, over and over, until Dean presses a black bruise into the palm of his hand, until he's slumped over Dean's shoulder, babbling what makes no kind of sense.
But at least they're words, Dean tells himself, over and over. At least they're words.
--
The most comfortable way to do it is for Dean to sit against the headboard, propped up on some pillows, and for Sam to stretch out next to him and try to find blank spaces left that Dean can see. Dean’s not going to think about what happens when they run out of space.
You’ve been out of it more lately Dean writes. He squeezes the beer can in his other hand.
Sam starts writing immediately. Yeah. Dunno why. Not enough sleep?
Talking about this shouldn’t be this easy. They’re Winchesters. Nothing should be this easy.
Nightmares? Dean writes.
Yeah. And hearing stuff. Think it’s real stuff, just...too loud. Wish I knew what was TBI and what’s just in my head.
Dean taps the Sharpie against the cast for a minute, thinking.
Either way, he writes, it’ll get better, because the rules for reassuring Sam are the same for speech and for writing, he figures. Sometimes all it takes is a good platitude (or a bad platitude, whatever) and Sam’s back in fighting shape again.
And Sam looks up at him and gives him that, ‘" know, I trust you" baby brother smile, but then it slowly slips off and he writes, What if I’m like this forever?
Dean looks down at the cast.
“Then I’ll break the other one,” he says.
::::
The end.
Author: wave_obscura and shangrilada
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1500
Summary: For the 7.03 fix it comment fic meme, based on the prompt Maybe when Dean's sleeping, Sam writes hilarious/annoying things on his cast. Bonus points if they have little conversations on it that they don't necessarily acknowledge out loud. But it got muy angsty, of course.
Warnings/Spoilers: Through current episode. hurt!Sam, hurt!Dean
Disclaimer: For everyone’s sick pleasure. No copyright infringement intended.
Note: A co-write by me and my lovely new friend shangrilada. Hope you enjoy <33333
Plaster and Parmesan
by wave obscura and shangrilada
Dean and Bobby don’t notice anything is wrong, not at first. But, to be honest, they’re not exactly looking for problems. Sam’s out of bed, walking and talking, and right now that’s good enough, right?
Right?
And so what if Sam’s zoning out every once in a while, yeah? The kid’s mind was already in pieces before he took a crowbar to the head, so he has a right to need some time to get his bearings. Even if that includes a little time with Lucifer. Dean will keep pressing on his hand and talking in that low voice that just so ISN’T him, and they’ll deal with that for as long as they need to. It’s nothing new. It’s not scary.
The night they’re eating dinner and Sam tries to say “pass the parmesan” and it comes out gibberish instead? That’s scary.
At first Dean thinks he’s choking on his pizza. “Puh,” he keeps saying, in between these gross gravely gurgling throat noises. “puh-- puh--”
“Sammy?”
Sam keeps trying for a minute longer, stuck on the same syllable, and Bobby looks at Dean and Dean looks at Bobby and they very deliberately do NOT look at Sam, but then Sam slams his elbows on the table and his head into his hands and stays there, very still.
He manages to say, “Shit,” without any trouble, so there’s that.
They all enjoy a painfully awkward silence after that, in which Dean shovels so much pizza in his mouth it dribbles down his chin, and Bobby sucks on his beer like it’s the last one on earth.
“I--” Sam says, blinking. “The. I need. Dean?”
Christ, Dean can’t take that look. He studies the pool of grease on his plate. “You uh-- you want some pepper flakes, Sammy?”
Sam blinks again. Opens his mouth. Closes it. “Not the pepper flakes.” He waves his hand in front of his face. “The-- the fucking.”
Thus begins a frantic guessing game.
A napkin, Bobby guesses.
A fork, Dean tries.
Another beer?
“Cheese,” Sam finally spits out, “Fucking cheese. Puh-- puh--”
Just stop, Dean thinks. Please. “Parmesan,” he says, presenting Sam with a whole fistful of the little packets, “of course. Yes. Here. Parmesan.”
Sam doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t open the packets, either. He stacks them all on top of each other and stares at the tower as it falls over and doesn’t touch his food.
Dean shares a look with Bobby that is very obviously, we’re going to pretend that didn’t happen, right?
Until Sam gets up to do the dishes and says, “Where the hell is the dih...shit. Dih...”
It takes them two minutes to figure out dish towel, and Sam’s starting to shake, so Dean says, “Hey, Sam? Do you want to write it down?” He doesn’t say next time it happens, but it hangs there in the space between them.
Sam nods a little, looking down. Dean finds a Sharpie can’t for the life of him find a piece of paper that isn’t a photocopy of one of Bobby’s books, and he’s pretty sure that wouldn’t go over too well with Bobby, even if he is standing there with his arms crossed and that expression that he probably thinks is blank but they both know means something is wrong with one of my boys, and Dean looks down to check the table one more time and there’s that piece of plaster on his leg, white and blank because I’m not twelve years old, Sammy, you’re not writing on my fucking cast.
He breathes out and hands Sammy the Sharpie.
Sam catches on pretty quick for a kid who can’t get his nouns out.
“I don’t have anything to say right now,” he says, quietly, but hey, it’s Sam, that won’t last long.
Which is why Dean isn’t too surprised when he wakes up from a post-pizza nap and there’s something scrawled around his ankle.
Was gonna draw dirty shit when you fell asleep, then you go & make some meaningful gesture out of the whole thing, jerk.
Dean smiles to himself. He’s alone in the living room, but Sam left the Sharpie, so Dean scrawls bitch across his foot before he falls back asleep.
When he wakes up, Sam is gone again, but bitchis crossed off so hard Dean can’t read it, and he’s kind of glad Sam isn’t here so they don’t have to talk about that. But he crosses it off himself, more, for good measure.
He writes, where the fuck were you? and a few minutes later when Sam sits down beside him and turns on the TV, he carefully lifts Dean’s leg into his lap and writes Bobby said he needed help outside. Was a trick. He wanted a heart to heart.
He lets the pen roll out of his fingers. Dean picks it up.
You didn’t?
He hands the pen to Sam this time. They’re looking at the TV and not each other, but Dean can’t help but see how long it takes Sam to get a grip on the pen, how slow he is to form the words. Shit, writing was supposed to help.
He needs me to tell him I’m doin and then he stops writing mid-word and jerks alert and starts staring somewhere over Dean’s shoulder and isn’t that just terrific.
Sam holds tight to Dean’s cast, like it’s keeping him grounded somehow but he’s long gone, eyes and brain and soul on a different planet.
“Come on, Sam,” Dean says, much more harshly than he intended. “There’s nothing there, goddamn it.”
“I--” Sam begins, but his mouth closes. Still staring off into the depths of imagined hell, he writes I’ve taken his voice. I’m going to take everything.
Dean slumps into the sofa, unthinking and unfunctioning. It’s one of those moments-- he’s far too familiar -- where everything is so fucked he almost feels like laughing. Laughing until his head splits and they cart him off to the nuthouse.
But he doesn’t have the luxury. And not just because he’s a gimp, and Sam is holding his leg hostage. Because Sam’s gone all pale and his hands are shaking and if Dean isn’t here to be the damn witness to the whole thing, who the fuck is gonna be? What the hell is Sam supposed to do?
“Sammy.” He takes Sam’s hand. The one gripping the cast. He holds it, runs his thumb along the jagged scar. Just gently, for now. “Sammy. Can you look at me?”
I’ll take his eyes, the other hand writes.
"He can't do that, Sammy," Dean says, "He's not there. He doesn't control you, do you understand me? Sam?"
Sam's eyes are wet now, round and scared. With effort he points his gaze at Dean, just as the tears begin to spill.
"I--" he spits, "Dean, I-- I--"
He chokes on the vowel, over and over, until Dean presses a black bruise into the palm of his hand, until he's slumped over Dean's shoulder, babbling what makes no kind of sense.
But at least they're words, Dean tells himself, over and over. At least they're words.
--
The most comfortable way to do it is for Dean to sit against the headboard, propped up on some pillows, and for Sam to stretch out next to him and try to find blank spaces left that Dean can see. Dean’s not going to think about what happens when they run out of space.
You’ve been out of it more lately Dean writes. He squeezes the beer can in his other hand.
Sam starts writing immediately. Yeah. Dunno why. Not enough sleep?
Talking about this shouldn’t be this easy. They’re Winchesters. Nothing should be this easy.
Nightmares? Dean writes.
Yeah. And hearing stuff. Think it’s real stuff, just...too loud. Wish I knew what was TBI and what’s just in my head.
Dean taps the Sharpie against the cast for a minute, thinking.
Either way, he writes, it’ll get better, because the rules for reassuring Sam are the same for speech and for writing, he figures. Sometimes all it takes is a good platitude (or a bad platitude, whatever) and Sam’s back in fighting shape again.
And Sam looks up at him and gives him that, ‘" know, I trust you" baby brother smile, but then it slowly slips off and he writes, What if I’m like this forever?
Dean looks down at the cast.
“Then I’ll break the other one,” he says.
::::
The end.