Ugly Side
Author's Note: I'm dedicated this story to Ridley C James, who inspired me to give it one last try. I've had this idea floating around in my head for months. I've even attemtpted to write it on more than one occasion without much luck. But I think I've figured it out. I hope you enjoy!
Title: Ugly Side
Show: Supernatural
Beta: shuffles and i_paint_the_sky
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Brotherhood AU
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: +/- 2 798
Characters: Dean
Brotherhood: Mackland Ames
Spoilers: General knowledge of season 4
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters from Supernatural or the Brotherhood
Summary: Unable to forget what happened to him in Hell, Dean searches for the illusion of peace at the bottom of a bottle. -Set between Wishful Thinking and I Know What You Did Last Summer-
“I only want you to see
My favorite part of me
And not my ugly side
And not my ugly side”
- Blue October
Dean sat virtually alone in the quiet bar. There were only a few customers lingering at the bar, while a pair of boys-students most likely-played a game of pool on the small establishment’s lone table. It was too late in the morning for any partiers to still be out; but far too early for the ‘regulars’ coming in off work. Dean preferred the busier times to this near silence. His presence was less likely to be noticed in a crowded bar, nor the amount of alcohol he was drinking.
As it was the bartender had already given him a couple of long considering looks but he clearly hadn’t taken up the profession to be a counselor. Not that the hunter would have given a shit if the man had asked. He and Sam had just finished a hunt for a particularly nasty wraith who only liked to show himself at the dead of night. It had taken them four days of working straight through the night to find the bloody thing. Why it had been so hard for them when its earlier victims had simply stumbled across it, Dean would never know.
Quite frankly he was beginning to think the entire world was out to screw with him.
Dean held up the small shot glass before his eyes, watching the way the early morning sunlight flickered through the amber liquid, vibrating slightly in his trembling hand. He hadn’t even bothered to keep count of the number of shots he was drinking, preferring instead to just buy the bottle, leaving him in ‘peace.’
Downing the shot without so much as a wince, Dean placed the glass carefully back on the table and poured himself another round. He was tired though, Dean thought quickly, tired didn’t even begin to cover it. He was fucking exhausted.
Bone weary, ready to just throw in the towel. Because there really was no recovering. He might have been raised from the pit but Dean knew he hadn’t really escaped. He’d left a part of himself there or taken a part of it with him; he couldn’t decide which and what did it really matter anyways?
Dean tossed back another shot, because there was nothing else he could do. He wasn’t going to regain his footing in this ‘game’ if he couldn’t even find the simple peace of sleep. Even with the ‘help’ of alcohol to numb his senses, Dean would still dream but he didn’t know of anything else he could try.
Swallowing another mouthful of rye, Dean leaned back against the bench, pulling his head out of the pool of sunlight. He finally felt the warmth of alcohol begin to spread through his body. That was the downside to his regular drinking; it seemed to take more and more to achieve the same result, which was one of the reasons he didn’t hesitate to drink this early or on an empty stomach.
He just wanted to be numb.
He knew it was too much to hope for reversing it all. What he’d done Dean knew he’d carry for the rest of his life. All he could do now was try and deal.
Deal…deals…that’s what started this whole bloody mess in the first place. Dean slammed the shot glass back on the table harder than was strictly necessary, garnering him another long look from the bartender.
Pulling a hand slowly down his face, Dean felt the rough stubble coating his jaw and could only imagine what he actually looked like to the casual observer. He wasn’t ready yet to stumble back to the motel room where he’d left Sam more than an hour ago; ideally Dean wanted his little brother asleep by the time he got back. He didn’t want to deal with Sam’s worry because lately his brother was putting it in all the wrong places.
Dean heard the bell above the door jingle as he was reaching for the bottle.
“Is this seat taken?”
It took Dean a moment to realize the voice was speaking to him and even longer to figure out what it said. He looked up, surprised to see Mackland Ames standing at the other side of the booth. Dean just nodded towards the empty bench as he poured another shot. The Scholar slid into the booth, taking up position right next to the window so the sun cast his shadow across Dean’s face.
The younger hunter raised his glass in a silent thanks before tipping it to his lips. Dean kept a causal eye on the doctor. As surprised as he was to see Mac in this out of the way establishment he was even more suspicious. It wasn’t just a chance encounter; he’d been called in.
“So,” he said finally, “who was it? Sam? Caleb? Both?”
Mackland continued to watch him for several long moments, brow furrowed in what Dean hoped was concern; he wasn’t about to take pity from anyone. “You’re angry at their worries?” he asked instead.
“I’m fine, Mac.”
He didn’t know how much more plainly he could say it. Dean Winchester was as fine as he was ever going to get and no amount of talking was going to change what happened; he couldn’t go back in time to take back what he’d done. Time itself might be flexible, as Castiel had showed him, but whoever was keeping score wasn’t. Dean hadn’t been able to change the fate of his family; he seriously doubted he could ever change the fate of the world.
“You certainly don’t look fine,” Mac told him flatly.
Dean shrugged one shoulder, spinning the empty shot glass idly on the table. “It’s been a long couple of days.” That wasn’t the half of it, more like months, but he knew it didn’t have to be said; they both already knew it.
In the silence that followed Dean poured himself another drink before tipping the mouth of the bottle towards the older man. “Care for a belt?” he asked casually.
“Little early to be drinking the hard stuff.”
“Noon somewhere in the world,” Dean replied dryly before tossing back his shot.
Mac released a breath and Dean could guess immediately what was coming. “We’re all worried about you, Dean--”
“Well you don’t need to be,” he cut in sharply; in the back of his mind, Dean acknowledged how wrong that statement was but he quashed the thought immediately. “I can still do my job.” That’s what really mattered.
“Before or after the drinks?” Mackland asked calmly, pointing a finger towards the bottle.
Dean straightened in his seat. “Are you asking as the Scholar or a doctor?” he demanded defensively, keeping his voice low in the quiet bar.
“Why not someone who loves you like a son?” was Mac’s immediate reply, tone almost pleading.
Dean looked away, the raw and gaping hole inside of him aching with renewed vigor. He wanted nothing more than to reach for the bottle, to drown the pain in numbness again, as fleeting as it might be. But Mackland had taken hold of it, pulling it subtly towards his side of the table.
“None of us ever expected you to deal with this on your own,” the doctor pointed out in a reasoning tone.
Dean tossed his left arm onto the back of the bench; he was making an attempt to look fine, to appear better than he felt. The alcohol he’d already consumed went a long way towards easing the ache in his side where he’d been clipped by the wraith. “None of you can help me with it either,” he said firmly, “or didn’t Sammy tell you that part?”
Mackland rubbed two fingers slowly across his brow. “You haven’t really let us try.”
“You don’t think I’d know best?” he returned quickly.
The Scholar was silent for a moment. “I think it’s natural to want to internalize--”
“Don’t psychoanalyze me, Mac,” Dean cut in with a frustrated sigh.
“You’re not really leaving us many other options,” he took a slow breath. “You want me to believe the alcohol is helping?”
“It’s not hurting me,” the words were out of his mouth in a defensive tone before Dean even had time to really think about them.
Mac looked affronted. “Not from where I’m sitting,” for a second he sounded sad. “You’re running yourself ragged.”
Dean decided he liked the defensive position; it might well have been proving Mackland’s point for him but it was the best his mind could offer right now, with little sleep and too much alcohol. “End of the world an’ all that in case you’d forgotten.”
“Are you trying to race the world? See who ends it first?” Mac shot back. His patience could be exceptionally long but it was never endless.
“I think the Angels might have something to say about that,” he replied sarcastically.
“Oh,” the doctor said in astonishment, “right, I’d forgotten about them.” His tone quickly turned to equal parts sarcasm and frustration. “So this gives you carte blanche to do whatever you want and to hell with what the people who care about you think?”
Dean was taken aback by the Scholar’s tone. “I didn’t say that,” he said softly, tiredly.
“No?” Mackland asked with a raised brow.
Dropping his arm off the back of the bench Dean scrubbed at his face with both hands; trying to both wake himself up and block out the world. He felt more than saw Mac lean across the table.
“What happens when the alcohol doesn’t give you what you need?” Mac asked gently.
He released a frustrated breath, folding his arms protectively over his chest. “Trying not to think about that.” He was a little surprised at his own honesty.
The Scholar offered him a smile; it was small but genuine. “What do you plan to do?” The tone of the question caught Dean. Mac wasn’t just speaking to a member of his family, he was talking to the future Guardian, a man who needed to think about more than just his own pain.
Dean looked away. Sometimes he could forget, in the mess of angels and demons, the breaking of seals and the coming apocalypse, that he also had a role to play in the Triad. Dean touched his thumb to the silver ring on his right hand. Pastor Jim had chosen Dean to take his place; the writing on the inside of the band meant that he was the next Guardian. Dean remembered dreaming about the role he’d play in the Brotherhood once he was old enough but he’d never expected that he’d be a part of the Triad. The excitement and novelty had quickly worn off now that Dean felt like he was being pulled in two different directions.
With a shake of his head Dean felt the world wobble around him. He didn’t have an answer to Mac’s question and maybe that was the real problem; all Dean knew for sure was that he wasn’t clear headed enough to deal with it. The hunter raised his right hand, moving it towards his face, when Mackland’s hand suddenly stopped him.
“What happened?” the words left the doctor’s mouth a split second before his hand came to rest on Dean’s wrist.
For an instant Dean saw himself in Mackland’s light brown eyes but it wasn’t the face he wore now. Blood and darkness stared back: he was hardly human at all, broken, torturing himself as much as the souls before him. Their screams became a kind of sick, gratifying music; he had so much pain to repay, such rage that he was near blinded by it. Decades of tortures had left him more monster than man.
Dean blinked, yanking his arm back across the table. Sweat stood out on his forehead and upper lip as he continued to stare at the Scholar; horror, shame, and pain washed over him in overpowering waves.
Mackland was white, eyes wide, hand trembling where it hovered near the center of the table, fingers still curled as though still holding Dean’s wrist. The hunter bit down on his lip, tearing his eyes away. He looked down at his right hand, shocked to see it stained with blood. Dean drew a sharp breath but all he could smell was sulfur and blood; the mix caused his lungs to shut tight, his stomach dropping and all he could hear was the roar of his own heart in his ears. Twisting sharply Dean felt himself vomit, heard the spray of liquid hitting the floor but was hardly aware of anything else.
Coughing with each attempt he made to draw breath, Dean’s vision began to fade to grey.
“Easy, son,” Mackland’s worried voice pierced the white noise. “Just breathe, nice and slow…”
Dean listened more to the murmur than actual words and found that he could finally pull small amounts of oxygen into his lungs. That was all his body needed; instincts told him to get the hell out of there, that he wasn’t safe. Limbs moving of their own accord, Dean scrambled up from the booth, narrowly missing the impressive mess he’d just made.
He didn’t stop to think until he was standing outside in the parking lot, on the far side of the bar, back pressed tightly against the cold grey bricks. Dean’s legs shook but he remained upright and slowly looked back down at his right hand. What blood had been there before was smeared, darker red still outlining the palm of his hand. He swallowed thickly as he pulled aside his coat beginning his search for the source.
Dean’s shirt was soaked clean through, the black material making the blood impossible to see on its own. Standing out in the cold, breathing the fresh air, woke Dean’s brain and he could feel the cold wetness down his side as a breeze swept passed. Lifting the hem of his shirt, Dean stared at his ribs, dumbfounded by the once white gauze now completely red. He’d taken care of the injury before leaving the motel, it should have been fine.
“Alcohol thins the blood,” Mackland pointed out as he came around the building.
Dean dropped his shirt quickly, looking at the Scholar but not wanting to meet his eyes. Dean didn’t want to see what he knew would be there now: disappointment and no doubt disgust too. He wanted them to understand, if only so they knew there was nothing any of them could say or do to make this better. But his throat froze over the words; he couldn’t bring himself to actually say what he’d done that could never be forgiven. Say it and it was real, permanent, could never be taken back.
“Dean, I’m sorry.”
“What?” Dean asked completely surprised.
The Scholar reached out a tentative hand for Dean’s shoulder. “It’s too much for you to carry alone.” He sounded so sure that Dean knew there was no hope Mackland hadn’t seen it all. Maybe it was too much to process at the moment but the man would in time.
“Pity won’t make it any easier,” Dean replied clearing his throat sharply.
Mac squeezed Dean’s shoulder. “Pity isn’t the four letter word you all think it is,” he offered with a smile Dean didn’t seriously expect to see again.
Dean stiffened a little as a new thought crossed his mind. “What are you going to tell them?”
Mackland sighed as he pulled a large white handkerchief out of his suit pocket and proceeded to lift Dean’s shirt so he could examine the bleeding wound. “We only want to help you, Dean,” he said, pressing the now stained material rather hard against Dean’s side. “But I won’t say anything though I really think you should.”
Despite his best efforts Dean met the doctor’s eyes, though he looked away quickly. Dean took some small comfort in that he hadn’t seen hatred or disgust reflected back at him. “I’ll think about it,” he conceded finally though he felt pretty sure they both knew it was a lie, at least for the moment.
“Good,” Mac smiled again, attention moving back to Dean’s side. “This is going to take a few sutures.”
Dean nodded in understanding. “Tell me something I don’t know…” he sighed, pressing his left hand against the bloodied cloth as he stepped away from the wall.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Mackland told him firmly, without a hint of doubt.
Dean opened his mouth-to deny, refute or beg forgiveness, he didn’t know which-and in the end no words actually came. He dropped his head, watching the scuffed toes of his boots as he walked across the loose gravel between the bar and the motel.
“No one would blame you, Dean,” the Scholar tried again.
“I blame me,” he whispered tiredly, unsure if Mac even heard as they continued in silence back to the motel.
Thanks for reading!
Title: Ugly Side
Show: Supernatural
Beta: shuffles and i_paint_the_sky
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Brotherhood AU
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: +/- 2 798
Characters: Dean
Brotherhood: Mackland Ames
Spoilers: General knowledge of season 4
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters from Supernatural or the Brotherhood
Summary: Unable to forget what happened to him in Hell, Dean searches for the illusion of peace at the bottom of a bottle. -Set between Wishful Thinking and I Know What You Did Last Summer-
“I only want you to see
My favorite part of me
And not my ugly side
And not my ugly side”
- Blue October
Dean sat virtually alone in the quiet bar. There were only a few customers lingering at the bar, while a pair of boys-students most likely-played a game of pool on the small establishment’s lone table. It was too late in the morning for any partiers to still be out; but far too early for the ‘regulars’ coming in off work. Dean preferred the busier times to this near silence. His presence was less likely to be noticed in a crowded bar, nor the amount of alcohol he was drinking.
As it was the bartender had already given him a couple of long considering looks but he clearly hadn’t taken up the profession to be a counselor. Not that the hunter would have given a shit if the man had asked. He and Sam had just finished a hunt for a particularly nasty wraith who only liked to show himself at the dead of night. It had taken them four days of working straight through the night to find the bloody thing. Why it had been so hard for them when its earlier victims had simply stumbled across it, Dean would never know.
Quite frankly he was beginning to think the entire world was out to screw with him.
Dean held up the small shot glass before his eyes, watching the way the early morning sunlight flickered through the amber liquid, vibrating slightly in his trembling hand. He hadn’t even bothered to keep count of the number of shots he was drinking, preferring instead to just buy the bottle, leaving him in ‘peace.’
Downing the shot without so much as a wince, Dean placed the glass carefully back on the table and poured himself another round. He was tired though, Dean thought quickly, tired didn’t even begin to cover it. He was fucking exhausted.
Bone weary, ready to just throw in the towel. Because there really was no recovering. He might have been raised from the pit but Dean knew he hadn’t really escaped. He’d left a part of himself there or taken a part of it with him; he couldn’t decide which and what did it really matter anyways?
Dean tossed back another shot, because there was nothing else he could do. He wasn’t going to regain his footing in this ‘game’ if he couldn’t even find the simple peace of sleep. Even with the ‘help’ of alcohol to numb his senses, Dean would still dream but he didn’t know of anything else he could try.
Swallowing another mouthful of rye, Dean leaned back against the bench, pulling his head out of the pool of sunlight. He finally felt the warmth of alcohol begin to spread through his body. That was the downside to his regular drinking; it seemed to take more and more to achieve the same result, which was one of the reasons he didn’t hesitate to drink this early or on an empty stomach.
He just wanted to be numb.
He knew it was too much to hope for reversing it all. What he’d done Dean knew he’d carry for the rest of his life. All he could do now was try and deal.
Deal…deals…that’s what started this whole bloody mess in the first place. Dean slammed the shot glass back on the table harder than was strictly necessary, garnering him another long look from the bartender.
Pulling a hand slowly down his face, Dean felt the rough stubble coating his jaw and could only imagine what he actually looked like to the casual observer. He wasn’t ready yet to stumble back to the motel room where he’d left Sam more than an hour ago; ideally Dean wanted his little brother asleep by the time he got back. He didn’t want to deal with Sam’s worry because lately his brother was putting it in all the wrong places.
Dean heard the bell above the door jingle as he was reaching for the bottle.
“Is this seat taken?”
It took Dean a moment to realize the voice was speaking to him and even longer to figure out what it said. He looked up, surprised to see Mackland Ames standing at the other side of the booth. Dean just nodded towards the empty bench as he poured another shot. The Scholar slid into the booth, taking up position right next to the window so the sun cast his shadow across Dean’s face.
The younger hunter raised his glass in a silent thanks before tipping it to his lips. Dean kept a causal eye on the doctor. As surprised as he was to see Mac in this out of the way establishment he was even more suspicious. It wasn’t just a chance encounter; he’d been called in.
“So,” he said finally, “who was it? Sam? Caleb? Both?”
Mackland continued to watch him for several long moments, brow furrowed in what Dean hoped was concern; he wasn’t about to take pity from anyone. “You’re angry at their worries?” he asked instead.
“I’m fine, Mac.”
He didn’t know how much more plainly he could say it. Dean Winchester was as fine as he was ever going to get and no amount of talking was going to change what happened; he couldn’t go back in time to take back what he’d done. Time itself might be flexible, as Castiel had showed him, but whoever was keeping score wasn’t. Dean hadn’t been able to change the fate of his family; he seriously doubted he could ever change the fate of the world.
“You certainly don’t look fine,” Mac told him flatly.
Dean shrugged one shoulder, spinning the empty shot glass idly on the table. “It’s been a long couple of days.” That wasn’t the half of it, more like months, but he knew it didn’t have to be said; they both already knew it.
In the silence that followed Dean poured himself another drink before tipping the mouth of the bottle towards the older man. “Care for a belt?” he asked casually.
“Little early to be drinking the hard stuff.”
“Noon somewhere in the world,” Dean replied dryly before tossing back his shot.
Mac released a breath and Dean could guess immediately what was coming. “We’re all worried about you, Dean--”
“Well you don’t need to be,” he cut in sharply; in the back of his mind, Dean acknowledged how wrong that statement was but he quashed the thought immediately. “I can still do my job.” That’s what really mattered.
“Before or after the drinks?” Mackland asked calmly, pointing a finger towards the bottle.
Dean straightened in his seat. “Are you asking as the Scholar or a doctor?” he demanded defensively, keeping his voice low in the quiet bar.
“Why not someone who loves you like a son?” was Mac’s immediate reply, tone almost pleading.
Dean looked away, the raw and gaping hole inside of him aching with renewed vigor. He wanted nothing more than to reach for the bottle, to drown the pain in numbness again, as fleeting as it might be. But Mackland had taken hold of it, pulling it subtly towards his side of the table.
“None of us ever expected you to deal with this on your own,” the doctor pointed out in a reasoning tone.
Dean tossed his left arm onto the back of the bench; he was making an attempt to look fine, to appear better than he felt. The alcohol he’d already consumed went a long way towards easing the ache in his side where he’d been clipped by the wraith. “None of you can help me with it either,” he said firmly, “or didn’t Sammy tell you that part?”
Mackland rubbed two fingers slowly across his brow. “You haven’t really let us try.”
“You don’t think I’d know best?” he returned quickly.
The Scholar was silent for a moment. “I think it’s natural to want to internalize--”
“Don’t psychoanalyze me, Mac,” Dean cut in with a frustrated sigh.
“You’re not really leaving us many other options,” he took a slow breath. “You want me to believe the alcohol is helping?”
“It’s not hurting me,” the words were out of his mouth in a defensive tone before Dean even had time to really think about them.
Mac looked affronted. “Not from where I’m sitting,” for a second he sounded sad. “You’re running yourself ragged.”
Dean decided he liked the defensive position; it might well have been proving Mackland’s point for him but it was the best his mind could offer right now, with little sleep and too much alcohol. “End of the world an’ all that in case you’d forgotten.”
“Are you trying to race the world? See who ends it first?” Mac shot back. His patience could be exceptionally long but it was never endless.
“I think the Angels might have something to say about that,” he replied sarcastically.
“Oh,” the doctor said in astonishment, “right, I’d forgotten about them.” His tone quickly turned to equal parts sarcasm and frustration. “So this gives you carte blanche to do whatever you want and to hell with what the people who care about you think?”
Dean was taken aback by the Scholar’s tone. “I didn’t say that,” he said softly, tiredly.
“No?” Mackland asked with a raised brow.
Dropping his arm off the back of the bench Dean scrubbed at his face with both hands; trying to both wake himself up and block out the world. He felt more than saw Mac lean across the table.
“What happens when the alcohol doesn’t give you what you need?” Mac asked gently.
He released a frustrated breath, folding his arms protectively over his chest. “Trying not to think about that.” He was a little surprised at his own honesty.
The Scholar offered him a smile; it was small but genuine. “What do you plan to do?” The tone of the question caught Dean. Mac wasn’t just speaking to a member of his family, he was talking to the future Guardian, a man who needed to think about more than just his own pain.
Dean looked away. Sometimes he could forget, in the mess of angels and demons, the breaking of seals and the coming apocalypse, that he also had a role to play in the Triad. Dean touched his thumb to the silver ring on his right hand. Pastor Jim had chosen Dean to take his place; the writing on the inside of the band meant that he was the next Guardian. Dean remembered dreaming about the role he’d play in the Brotherhood once he was old enough but he’d never expected that he’d be a part of the Triad. The excitement and novelty had quickly worn off now that Dean felt like he was being pulled in two different directions.
With a shake of his head Dean felt the world wobble around him. He didn’t have an answer to Mac’s question and maybe that was the real problem; all Dean knew for sure was that he wasn’t clear headed enough to deal with it. The hunter raised his right hand, moving it towards his face, when Mackland’s hand suddenly stopped him.
“What happened?” the words left the doctor’s mouth a split second before his hand came to rest on Dean’s wrist.
For an instant Dean saw himself in Mackland’s light brown eyes but it wasn’t the face he wore now. Blood and darkness stared back: he was hardly human at all, broken, torturing himself as much as the souls before him. Their screams became a kind of sick, gratifying music; he had so much pain to repay, such rage that he was near blinded by it. Decades of tortures had left him more monster than man.
Dean blinked, yanking his arm back across the table. Sweat stood out on his forehead and upper lip as he continued to stare at the Scholar; horror, shame, and pain washed over him in overpowering waves.
Mackland was white, eyes wide, hand trembling where it hovered near the center of the table, fingers still curled as though still holding Dean’s wrist. The hunter bit down on his lip, tearing his eyes away. He looked down at his right hand, shocked to see it stained with blood. Dean drew a sharp breath but all he could smell was sulfur and blood; the mix caused his lungs to shut tight, his stomach dropping and all he could hear was the roar of his own heart in his ears. Twisting sharply Dean felt himself vomit, heard the spray of liquid hitting the floor but was hardly aware of anything else.
Coughing with each attempt he made to draw breath, Dean’s vision began to fade to grey.
“Easy, son,” Mackland’s worried voice pierced the white noise. “Just breathe, nice and slow…”
Dean listened more to the murmur than actual words and found that he could finally pull small amounts of oxygen into his lungs. That was all his body needed; instincts told him to get the hell out of there, that he wasn’t safe. Limbs moving of their own accord, Dean scrambled up from the booth, narrowly missing the impressive mess he’d just made.
He didn’t stop to think until he was standing outside in the parking lot, on the far side of the bar, back pressed tightly against the cold grey bricks. Dean’s legs shook but he remained upright and slowly looked back down at his right hand. What blood had been there before was smeared, darker red still outlining the palm of his hand. He swallowed thickly as he pulled aside his coat beginning his search for the source.
Dean’s shirt was soaked clean through, the black material making the blood impossible to see on its own. Standing out in the cold, breathing the fresh air, woke Dean’s brain and he could feel the cold wetness down his side as a breeze swept passed. Lifting the hem of his shirt, Dean stared at his ribs, dumbfounded by the once white gauze now completely red. He’d taken care of the injury before leaving the motel, it should have been fine.
“Alcohol thins the blood,” Mackland pointed out as he came around the building.
Dean dropped his shirt quickly, looking at the Scholar but not wanting to meet his eyes. Dean didn’t want to see what he knew would be there now: disappointment and no doubt disgust too. He wanted them to understand, if only so they knew there was nothing any of them could say or do to make this better. But his throat froze over the words; he couldn’t bring himself to actually say what he’d done that could never be forgiven. Say it and it was real, permanent, could never be taken back.
“Dean, I’m sorry.”
“What?” Dean asked completely surprised.
The Scholar reached out a tentative hand for Dean’s shoulder. “It’s too much for you to carry alone.” He sounded so sure that Dean knew there was no hope Mackland hadn’t seen it all. Maybe it was too much to process at the moment but the man would in time.
“Pity won’t make it any easier,” Dean replied clearing his throat sharply.
Mac squeezed Dean’s shoulder. “Pity isn’t the four letter word you all think it is,” he offered with a smile Dean didn’t seriously expect to see again.
Dean stiffened a little as a new thought crossed his mind. “What are you going to tell them?”
Mackland sighed as he pulled a large white handkerchief out of his suit pocket and proceeded to lift Dean’s shirt so he could examine the bleeding wound. “We only want to help you, Dean,” he said, pressing the now stained material rather hard against Dean’s side. “But I won’t say anything though I really think you should.”
Despite his best efforts Dean met the doctor’s eyes, though he looked away quickly. Dean took some small comfort in that he hadn’t seen hatred or disgust reflected back at him. “I’ll think about it,” he conceded finally though he felt pretty sure they both knew it was a lie, at least for the moment.
“Good,” Mac smiled again, attention moving back to Dean’s side. “This is going to take a few sutures.”
Dean nodded in understanding. “Tell me something I don’t know…” he sighed, pressing his left hand against the bloodied cloth as he stepped away from the wall.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Mackland told him firmly, without a hint of doubt.
Dean opened his mouth-to deny, refute or beg forgiveness, he didn’t know which-and in the end no words actually came. He dropped his head, watching the scuffed toes of his boots as he walked across the loose gravel between the bar and the motel.
“No one would blame you, Dean,” the Scholar tried again.
“I blame me,” he whispered tiredly, unsure if Mac even heard as they continued in silence back to the motel.
Thanks for reading!