Fic: You'll wonder where the yellow went
Title: You'll wonder where the yellow went
Author: wave_obscura
Genre: Gen, H/C
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1500
Summary: For neonchica's hoodie_time meme prompt: Dean gets tortured. (This fic contains no actual torture) Every finger in both hands is meticulously (and creatively) broken, and yet he still manages to somehow escape. Unfortunately, the aftermath means a very long and painful recovery requiring lots of assistance from Sam for some very basic ADL's (activities of daily living). On top of that, there was nerve damage, and the doctors aren't putting out much hope that he will make a full recovery. The boys learn to compensate.
Warnings/Spoilers: permanently injured!Dean, language.
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.
Note: I wrote this for roque_clasique so she would write me stuttering!Dean. And she did. And it's awesome. Go read it.
You’ll wonder where the yellow went
By wave obscura
Sam wakes up an hour before Dean. He showers, dresses, cooks, wakes Dean up, gives him his pills, puts him in a clean shirt, takes him to the bathroom, washes his hands, walks him to the kitchen table, sits him down, pours him a cup of coffee, puts a straw in the coffee and finally sits down to breakfast himself.
Dean picks up his toast with the only truly mobile part of either of his hands, the pointer and middle finger on his left, which will pinch together into a modest grip.
He takes a bite. “Not enough butter.”
“My deepest apologies,” Sam replies, taking in a mouthful of black-as-tar coffee. He doesn’t bother to get offended by Dean’s criticisms anymore. Dean seems to find it amusing to tell Sam he’s doing absolutely everything wrong-- it makes it all less serious for him somehow. So Sam’s willing to play along.
“These eggs look dry.” Dean uses the side of his hand to shovel some onto a fork. He’s an expert now at bringing utensils to his mouth. It was his number one goal, to learn to eat by himself.
“Dry as hell,” he says. “Did you add milk?”
Sam picks up the newspaper. “I added milk.”
“I think you forgot the milk.”
“I didn’t forget the milk.”
“I’ll be glad when I can cook my own eggs again.”
“I’ll be fucking thrilled,” Sam says. “Tell you what. I’ll wake you up early tomorrow. We’ll figure out a way for you to use a whisk.”
“Deal.” Dean eats a few more bites, until his hand is trembling, and the food starts to fall off the fork, and sweat is beginning to bead on his forehead.
Sam folds up the paper. “You want me to take over?”
“No. I’m full.”
Sam nods. He inspects Dean’s plate. “You ate more than yesterday.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s good.”
“Yep.”
“Still not enough, though.”
Dean rolls his shoulders. Pain flashes on his face, and he hugs his battered hands to his lap as if cradling them.
“I’m full,” he repeats quietly.
“That’s alright.” Sam wants to congratulate him just for eating as much as he did, but he’s not allowed to praise his brother. Dean doesn’t tolerate praise. “Let me know when you’re ready to brush your teeth.”
“Gimme a few minutes. These pills need to kick in.” Dean’s pale this morning, gray circles beneath his eyes.
“You didn’t sleep well, did you?”
“Christ, Sam. I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“We don’t have to talk about it.”
Dean leans over and sucks up more coffee. He gingerly pinches Sam’s newspaper between his pointer and middle finger, sliding it across the table so he can read the headlines.
Sam’s therapist always tell him that if he practices mindfulness, the memory-the memory of the night he found Dean- will eventually stop sneaking up on him unexpectedly. So far it hasn’t worked. He still sees Dean all the time, discarded in that psycho’s back bedroom, crumpled in the corner.
Dean’s fingers had looked like bloody uncooked sausages bursting from their casings. Like some evil clown had tried to twist them into balloon animals and gotten bored halfway through.
Sam has seen a lot in his life, so he doesn’t quite get why the image still haunts him. Maybe because the rest of his brother had looked so un-marred that at first Sam had thought he was simply holding something mangled, a skinned and tortured cat, or maybe a half-slaughtered piglet. But that’s not what it was. They were Dean’s god damned hands.
Sam shivers and pulls himself back to the present. Dean’s still hunched over the paper but he’s fidgeting, the gnarled hands resting on his lap, palms up. He still wants to use one hand to comfort the other, when they’re aching badly, but of course he can’t. And Sam doesn’t dare touch them except to change bandages.
“I wanna brush my own teeth today,” Dean says, looking up at him.
“Yeah?”
Dean shrugs self-consciously. “I know. I should probably learn to work a zipper first, huh? Or pull my own pants up after I take a piss.”
“Nah. Whatever you wanna do. Whatever you wanna do, I’m here to help.” Sam says it far too earnestly, and Dean glares.
Brushing is a good next goal. It won’t require the still raw, sensitive skin of Dean’s hands to rub against his clothes, like learning to dress himself would. Plus Dean’s mostly-paralyzed hands might never be able to grip a zipper anyway.
Sam doesn’t say any of this, though. “Whatever you wanna do is good,” he repeats.
“You almost make me barf every time,” Dean says. “Stabbing the back of my throat with the toothbrush and shit. And you use too much toothpaste. I’m sick of it.”
“So do it yourself.”
“I will. I’m going to.”
“Good.”
“Just give me a minute.” Dean goes back to reading the front page. Sam watches the neighbor across the street, bent over her rose bushes, until the tension drains from his brother’s shoulders, and the pain has eased.
He takes Dean’s elbow and helps him stand up. Dean walks carefully these days, his back slightly bent, always protecting his hands by keeping them pulled to his stomach. There’s no reason for it, really. He could probably walk normally, but neither of them is ready to deal with that yet.
Sam pulls a chair into the bathroom, sets the toothpaste and the toothbrush on the counter where Dean can reach. Dean sits in the chair and studies the toothpaste and the toothbrush, thinking and strategizing.
“Take the cap off the toothpaste?” He finally says. Sam complies. Dean pinches toothbrush between his pointer and middle finger, gripping it like he’d learn to grip his fork. “Water,” he says, and Sam turns on the water.
Dean sets his right fist on the tube of toothpaste and pushes down, obviously with more strength than he knew he had, because a massive blob of paste slithers out, covers the toothbrush and splatters across the bathroom.
“Damn it,” he says, and then, because Sam can’t hold back a snicker, “shut up.”
Dean brings the brush to his mouth and pauses with uncertainty. A blob of toothpaste falls into his lap. He doesn’t notice and Sam doesn’t say anything.
“Here goes,” Dean says.
“Go on. I’m right here if you start to choke on it.”
“Fuck off.”
Dean puts the brush in his mouth, for a moment just biting down on it. He carefully moves it back and forth across his bottom teeth, slow at first, then faster. After a while he moves to the other side. He brushes until his mouth fills with foam and saliva, until the hand begins to tire, its movements becoming heavier and heavier. Eventually the hand falls into Dean’s lap. He winces, and spits into the sink.
“You do the top,” he says. “And quit looking so damn proud of me. I brushed my bottom teeth. Big deal.”
Sam takes the toothbrush in one hand, his brother’s jaw by the other, and gently does the top teeth. He keeps quiet about it, but he can’t suppress a smile. Because it is a big deal. First the bottom teeth. Then the top teeth.
Then everything else.
:::
The end.
Author: wave_obscura
Genre: Gen, H/C
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~1500
Summary: For neonchica's hoodie_time meme prompt: Dean gets tortured. (This fic contains no actual torture) Every finger in both hands is meticulously (and creatively) broken, and yet he still manages to somehow escape. Unfortunately, the aftermath means a very long and painful recovery requiring lots of assistance from Sam for some very basic ADL's (activities of daily living). On top of that, there was nerve damage, and the doctors aren't putting out much hope that he will make a full recovery. The boys learn to compensate.
Warnings/Spoilers: permanently injured!Dean, language.
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.
Note: I wrote this for roque_clasique so she would write me stuttering!Dean. And she did. And it's awesome. Go read it.
You’ll wonder where the yellow went
By wave obscura
Sam wakes up an hour before Dean. He showers, dresses, cooks, wakes Dean up, gives him his pills, puts him in a clean shirt, takes him to the bathroom, washes his hands, walks him to the kitchen table, sits him down, pours him a cup of coffee, puts a straw in the coffee and finally sits down to breakfast himself.
Dean picks up his toast with the only truly mobile part of either of his hands, the pointer and middle finger on his left, which will pinch together into a modest grip.
He takes a bite. “Not enough butter.”
“My deepest apologies,” Sam replies, taking in a mouthful of black-as-tar coffee. He doesn’t bother to get offended by Dean’s criticisms anymore. Dean seems to find it amusing to tell Sam he’s doing absolutely everything wrong-- it makes it all less serious for him somehow. So Sam’s willing to play along.
“These eggs look dry.” Dean uses the side of his hand to shovel some onto a fork. He’s an expert now at bringing utensils to his mouth. It was his number one goal, to learn to eat by himself.
“Dry as hell,” he says. “Did you add milk?”
Sam picks up the newspaper. “I added milk.”
“I think you forgot the milk.”
“I didn’t forget the milk.”
“I’ll be glad when I can cook my own eggs again.”
“I’ll be fucking thrilled,” Sam says. “Tell you what. I’ll wake you up early tomorrow. We’ll figure out a way for you to use a whisk.”
“Deal.” Dean eats a few more bites, until his hand is trembling, and the food starts to fall off the fork, and sweat is beginning to bead on his forehead.
Sam folds up the paper. “You want me to take over?”
“No. I’m full.”
Sam nods. He inspects Dean’s plate. “You ate more than yesterday.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s good.”
“Yep.”
“Still not enough, though.”
Dean rolls his shoulders. Pain flashes on his face, and he hugs his battered hands to his lap as if cradling them.
“I’m full,” he repeats quietly.
“That’s alright.” Sam wants to congratulate him just for eating as much as he did, but he’s not allowed to praise his brother. Dean doesn’t tolerate praise. “Let me know when you’re ready to brush your teeth.”
“Gimme a few minutes. These pills need to kick in.” Dean’s pale this morning, gray circles beneath his eyes.
“You didn’t sleep well, did you?”
“Christ, Sam. I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“We don’t have to talk about it.”
Dean leans over and sucks up more coffee. He gingerly pinches Sam’s newspaper between his pointer and middle finger, sliding it across the table so he can read the headlines.
Sam’s therapist always tell him that if he practices mindfulness, the memory-the memory of the night he found Dean- will eventually stop sneaking up on him unexpectedly. So far it hasn’t worked. He still sees Dean all the time, discarded in that psycho’s back bedroom, crumpled in the corner.
Dean’s fingers had looked like bloody uncooked sausages bursting from their casings. Like some evil clown had tried to twist them into balloon animals and gotten bored halfway through.
Sam has seen a lot in his life, so he doesn’t quite get why the image still haunts him. Maybe because the rest of his brother had looked so un-marred that at first Sam had thought he was simply holding something mangled, a skinned and tortured cat, or maybe a half-slaughtered piglet. But that’s not what it was. They were Dean’s god damned hands.
Sam shivers and pulls himself back to the present. Dean’s still hunched over the paper but he’s fidgeting, the gnarled hands resting on his lap, palms up. He still wants to use one hand to comfort the other, when they’re aching badly, but of course he can’t. And Sam doesn’t dare touch them except to change bandages.
“I wanna brush my own teeth today,” Dean says, looking up at him.
“Yeah?”
Dean shrugs self-consciously. “I know. I should probably learn to work a zipper first, huh? Or pull my own pants up after I take a piss.”
“Nah. Whatever you wanna do. Whatever you wanna do, I’m here to help.” Sam says it far too earnestly, and Dean glares.
Brushing is a good next goal. It won’t require the still raw, sensitive skin of Dean’s hands to rub against his clothes, like learning to dress himself would. Plus Dean’s mostly-paralyzed hands might never be able to grip a zipper anyway.
Sam doesn’t say any of this, though. “Whatever you wanna do is good,” he repeats.
“You almost make me barf every time,” Dean says. “Stabbing the back of my throat with the toothbrush and shit. And you use too much toothpaste. I’m sick of it.”
“So do it yourself.”
“I will. I’m going to.”
“Good.”
“Just give me a minute.” Dean goes back to reading the front page. Sam watches the neighbor across the street, bent over her rose bushes, until the tension drains from his brother’s shoulders, and the pain has eased.
He takes Dean’s elbow and helps him stand up. Dean walks carefully these days, his back slightly bent, always protecting his hands by keeping them pulled to his stomach. There’s no reason for it, really. He could probably walk normally, but neither of them is ready to deal with that yet.
Sam pulls a chair into the bathroom, sets the toothpaste and the toothbrush on the counter where Dean can reach. Dean sits in the chair and studies the toothpaste and the toothbrush, thinking and strategizing.
“Take the cap off the toothpaste?” He finally says. Sam complies. Dean pinches toothbrush between his pointer and middle finger, gripping it like he’d learn to grip his fork. “Water,” he says, and Sam turns on the water.
Dean sets his right fist on the tube of toothpaste and pushes down, obviously with more strength than he knew he had, because a massive blob of paste slithers out, covers the toothbrush and splatters across the bathroom.
“Damn it,” he says, and then, because Sam can’t hold back a snicker, “shut up.”
Dean brings the brush to his mouth and pauses with uncertainty. A blob of toothpaste falls into his lap. He doesn’t notice and Sam doesn’t say anything.
“Here goes,” Dean says.
“Go on. I’m right here if you start to choke on it.”
“Fuck off.”
Dean puts the brush in his mouth, for a moment just biting down on it. He carefully moves it back and forth across his bottom teeth, slow at first, then faster. After a while he moves to the other side. He brushes until his mouth fills with foam and saliva, until the hand begins to tire, its movements becoming heavier and heavier. Eventually the hand falls into Dean’s lap. He winces, and spits into the sink.
“You do the top,” he says. “And quit looking so damn proud of me. I brushed my bottom teeth. Big deal.”
Sam takes the toothbrush in one hand, his brother’s jaw by the other, and gently does the top teeth. He keeps quiet about it, but he can’t suppress a smile. Because it is a big deal. First the bottom teeth. Then the top teeth.
Then everything else.
:::
The end.