comment fic(spn): not dead yet
reposting here because i like the idea of having all my stuff in one journal.
title: not dead yet
rating: pg-13
characters: dean, bobby
warnings: suicidal tendencies
notes: 856 words. post 5.22. written for hoodie_time's third comment fic meme. from the prompt: He's not suicidal. He's not. But if didn't exactly make a full effort to save himself from the oncoming car/the poisonous venom/the bullet wound/a murderous demon/etc, well, he's not going to admit it.
"You just hold still," Bobby gruffs, his hands steady as he threads the needle through the skin of Dean's arm. "Boy, what were you thinking, taking on a whole nest of vampires by yourself? When I say 'wait a goddamn minute I'll be there soon' you listen!"
Dean doesn't blink as the needle pierces through his skin again. His gaze is far-off, almost blank, except Bobby can see Dean's eyes tracking something he can't quite pick up. "I gotta - there's one left, Bobby. Hurry the fuck up so I can go after it."
"So WE can go after it, you mean." Dean's leaning into the driver's side seat, barely staying upright. His face is pale and his breathing unsteady, but he barely moves as Bobby does his best imitation of an emergency room doctor. The thread loops up and twists around a little bit; Bobby takes his time straightening it out, re-threads and starts again. He gets two more stitches in before he has to stop and pull out his ragged handkerchief, already fairly soaked in Dean's blood. He uses it to clear the area so he can see what the hell he's stitching, as blood still seeps slowly through the stitches already in place. "And don't rush me, you're lucky I got here when I did, otherwise you'd be sitting here bleeding out all over your car upholstery."
Dean glances at Bobby's work, says, "Ah, it's fine. 'tis but a flesh wound.'" It's the first movement Bobby's seen him make since hauling him into the seat. He'd stumbled there after killing three of the vampires, the last of which had taken her pound of flesh out of Dean's left shoulder. Bobby had arrived only moment later to find Dean staggering toward the impala, bloody axe limp at his side.
Bobby scoffs. "'Tis but a five-inch gash in your shoulder. Any deeper and you'd have nerve damage, don't you give me that Shakespeare crap."
"Oh come on." Dean tries to jerk his arm away from Bobby, but he's too weak and Bobby's grip holds firm. He sighs, lets his head loll onto the headrest. Bobby thinks for a minute that he's finally gotten through, so he barely hears when Dean mumbles, "Sam would've found it funny."
"Well Sam's not here, is he?" Bobby explodes. He's being crass and he's knows it, but its about time someone spoke up, and there's nobody left but him. "And I think that's your whole goddamn problem. You're reckless, irresponsible. You're pushing three steps to suicidal if you're not already there. Taking on a hunt like this by yourself. You HAD backup, but you just couldn't wait." Dean's silent and still for a bit after that, a fact which Bobby finds uncomfortable. He finishes up the stitches, brushes his fingertips over the finished product. Then he skims his hand a little lower, to a small mark on the inside of Dean's wrist, where the month before Dean'd gone after a changeling with a propane lighter he damn well knew didn't work properly, old piece of junk Bobby had bought at a yard sale of all places, then thrown into the scrap pile to cannibalize for parts down the line. Above that, another much larger burn, from Bobby's welding torch where Dean had turned it up too high trying to melt and reshape an old Pinto's bumper. "How many more times we gonna play this game, kid? There ain't no angels to pick you up and put your skin back smooth anymore."
Dean turns, and there's passion in his eyes. If anything, Bobby thinks, I accomplished that much. Been a long while since he's seen Dean show much of any emotion. "You think I don't know that? You think there's anything I know better than that? There's no angels. There's no nothing. No one left to come pick me up, pat my head and give me a sandwich and send me on my way." There's no Sam, unspoken. "There's just you, me, and this goddamn car that I'm bleeding all over."
It's not just a car, Bobby thinks."Dean -"
"No, don't. It was a nest of vampires, I handled it. There's risks with every hunt, you know that. It's just the job." There's blood smeared across the back of the driver's side seat as Dean stands up, wincing when he bends over and picks the axe up from where its leaning against the impala's wheel well with his right arm. He clears his throat, and Bobby watches as he has to take a moment to steady his footing. "Now, come on, think of how few times are left for me to say 'let's go kill us a vampire.'"
"Dean."
Dean starts walking, his steps becoming steadier as he heads back toward the woods, after this last vampire that Bobby's not even sure actually exists. He doesn't look back and Bobby has to strain to hear him as he says, "We're done talking about this, Bobby. Job comes first."
Yeah, that's pretty much the problem, Bobby wants to say. But he doesn't. Instead he just follows. There's nobody to watch his back.
title: not dead yet
rating: pg-13
characters: dean, bobby
warnings: suicidal tendencies
notes: 856 words. post 5.22. written for hoodie_time's third comment fic meme. from the prompt: He's not suicidal. He's not. But if didn't exactly make a full effort to save himself from the oncoming car/the poisonous venom/the bullet wound/a murderous demon/etc, well, he's not going to admit it.
"You just hold still," Bobby gruffs, his hands steady as he threads the needle through the skin of Dean's arm. "Boy, what were you thinking, taking on a whole nest of vampires by yourself? When I say 'wait a goddamn minute I'll be there soon' you listen!"
Dean doesn't blink as the needle pierces through his skin again. His gaze is far-off, almost blank, except Bobby can see Dean's eyes tracking something he can't quite pick up. "I gotta - there's one left, Bobby. Hurry the fuck up so I can go after it."
"So WE can go after it, you mean." Dean's leaning into the driver's side seat, barely staying upright. His face is pale and his breathing unsteady, but he barely moves as Bobby does his best imitation of an emergency room doctor. The thread loops up and twists around a little bit; Bobby takes his time straightening it out, re-threads and starts again. He gets two more stitches in before he has to stop and pull out his ragged handkerchief, already fairly soaked in Dean's blood. He uses it to clear the area so he can see what the hell he's stitching, as blood still seeps slowly through the stitches already in place. "And don't rush me, you're lucky I got here when I did, otherwise you'd be sitting here bleeding out all over your car upholstery."
Dean glances at Bobby's work, says, "Ah, it's fine. 'tis but a flesh wound.'" It's the first movement Bobby's seen him make since hauling him into the seat. He'd stumbled there after killing three of the vampires, the last of which had taken her pound of flesh out of Dean's left shoulder. Bobby had arrived only moment later to find Dean staggering toward the impala, bloody axe limp at his side.
Bobby scoffs. "'Tis but a five-inch gash in your shoulder. Any deeper and you'd have nerve damage, don't you give me that Shakespeare crap."
"Oh come on." Dean tries to jerk his arm away from Bobby, but he's too weak and Bobby's grip holds firm. He sighs, lets his head loll onto the headrest. Bobby thinks for a minute that he's finally gotten through, so he barely hears when Dean mumbles, "Sam would've found it funny."
"Well Sam's not here, is he?" Bobby explodes. He's being crass and he's knows it, but its about time someone spoke up, and there's nobody left but him. "And I think that's your whole goddamn problem. You're reckless, irresponsible. You're pushing three steps to suicidal if you're not already there. Taking on a hunt like this by yourself. You HAD backup, but you just couldn't wait." Dean's silent and still for a bit after that, a fact which Bobby finds uncomfortable. He finishes up the stitches, brushes his fingertips over the finished product. Then he skims his hand a little lower, to a small mark on the inside of Dean's wrist, where the month before Dean'd gone after a changeling with a propane lighter he damn well knew didn't work properly, old piece of junk Bobby had bought at a yard sale of all places, then thrown into the scrap pile to cannibalize for parts down the line. Above that, another much larger burn, from Bobby's welding torch where Dean had turned it up too high trying to melt and reshape an old Pinto's bumper. "How many more times we gonna play this game, kid? There ain't no angels to pick you up and put your skin back smooth anymore."
Dean turns, and there's passion in his eyes. If anything, Bobby thinks, I accomplished that much. Been a long while since he's seen Dean show much of any emotion. "You think I don't know that? You think there's anything I know better than that? There's no angels. There's no nothing. No one left to come pick me up, pat my head and give me a sandwich and send me on my way." There's no Sam, unspoken. "There's just you, me, and this goddamn car that I'm bleeding all over."
It's not just a car, Bobby thinks."Dean -"
"No, don't. It was a nest of vampires, I handled it. There's risks with every hunt, you know that. It's just the job." There's blood smeared across the back of the driver's side seat as Dean stands up, wincing when he bends over and picks the axe up from where its leaning against the impala's wheel well with his right arm. He clears his throat, and Bobby watches as he has to take a moment to steady his footing. "Now, come on, think of how few times are left for me to say 'let's go kill us a vampire.'"
"Dean."
Dean starts walking, his steps becoming steadier as he heads back toward the woods, after this last vampire that Bobby's not even sure actually exists. He doesn't look back and Bobby has to strain to hear him as he says, "We're done talking about this, Bobby. Job comes first."
Yeah, that's pretty much the problem, Bobby wants to say. But he doesn't. Instead he just follows. There's nobody to watch his back.