Fic: Nothing to win and nothing left to lose
Genre: Gen, hurt Sam, MoC Dean
Length: About 2000 words
Rating: R for language and violence
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel
Synopsis: Written for the following anonymous prompt in the May 2020 ohsam Sam Winchester Prompt-a-thon: Sam: “Please, Dean… Please, just… Just hit me.” Somewhere, recently, I remarked that I may as well have a separate Hurt!Sam tag for fics where Dean is the one who hurts him. So. Here's another one. This probably isn’t what you had in mind, Nonny, and I kind of hate posting it as a fill for this prompt because it became so Dean-centric. And honestly, even I think it’s a bit much. But here you go. Pure whump without plot, hurt without comfort. Takes place during the end of season 10, when the Mark of Cain is ramping up Dean’s violent tendencies. The title is from “With or Without You” by U2.
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Sam has been standing in Dean’s doorway for five minutes. Dean has been ignoring him for five minutes. He’s aware Sam is there, of course. Hyperaware. The Mark on his arm is like an extra set of eyes and ears, an enhanced version of his consciousness of Sam’s location that normally only kicks in when he’s in full-on hunting mode. But nothing is normal now. The Mark wants to know where Sam is at all times. Dean does not know why the Mark cares so much. He does not question it. He upends the whiskey bottle with a trembling hand, drains the last of it, and does not ask Sam what he wants.
“Talk to me,” Sam finally says. Soft. Tentative. “Tell me what’s going on.”
The thing is, there are things Dean can't tell his brother.
He cannot tell Sam that when he looks at him like that, with the puppy dog eyes full of sympathy and concern and a bit of fear, Dean cannot tell him he has a vivid sense memory of putting his hands on the sides of that face and pressing his thumbs into those sad eyes, pushing until he feels the pop, rendering Sam incapable of giving him that look. He cannot tell him Alastair used to bring him boys who looked like Sam, boys he’d made to look like Sam, and laugh with glee when that was the first thing Dean did to them, every time. No, he cannot tell him that.
What he can say is “Sam, you need to not be here.”
“Where else do I need to be?”
Dean runs one hand down his face. The other clenches into a fist. “Just not here, okay? You don’t know what’s going on.”
“I do, Dean. I know more than you think.” Sam steps closer, still tentative. He’s not quite within Dean’s reach. The Mark is very aware of the distance. “I know that whatever the Mark is doing to you, it builds up. I see the shaking, and the drinking. I know that after a hunt, after you kill something, after you… after you hurt something, you’re better for a while. And I know… I know you shouldn’t be hunting right now. Not the way you are right now.”
Something hot flares up behind Dean’s eyes at that, because hunting is the only thing that helps the way he is right now, and Sam knows that, and here he is saying don’t. The Mark throbs its angry assent.
“So I was thinking,” Sam continues. “If you need to hit something, if that’s what helps. Hit me.”
Oh. The Mark’s reaction is orgasmic. Yes, yes, yes.
It’s an effort of will to tamp it down. “No, Sam. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do, Dean.” Sam’s wearing his earnest face now. “I do know. This would let you release some pressure, or whatever you want to call it. And no one else needs to be involved. No one else will get hurt.”
But Sam doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t know that if Dean starts hitting him, he might never stop. Dean stands, as much to distract himself from the Mark’s bloodlust as anything else. “This is crazy. I would hurt you. Bad.” And… he wants it.
Yes, the Mark shouts. We will hurt you. Bad. And it will feel so fucking good.
Sam takes one step closer. “Cas will be back soon. Whatever you do, he can fix it. Please, Dean… please, just… just hit me.” He takes another step. He’s in striking range now. As Dean’s shaky hands clench and unclench, seemingly of their own free will, Sam takes a deep breath, plants a hand on Dean’s chest, and gives him a shove.
The reaction is half Dean and half Mark, and it’s instantaneous. Sam’s head snaps back, hair flying, as Dean slams a fist into him again and again and again. His jaw, his shoulder, his abdomen, his ribs. Sam manages to stay upright, staggering backward until he’s backed into the wall. He doesn’t raise a hand, not to shield himself, not in self-defense. He flattens his palms against the wall as Dean relentlessly pummels him. The Mark hums in pleasure at the blood dribbling from the corner of Sam’s mouth, at the satisfying crack of his ribs, at each wordless grunt of pain. Another blow to the face makes Sam’s head bounce off the wall, leaving him glassy-eyed and wobbly.
Dean grabs Sam by the collar and drags him to the desk on the other side of the room. He clutches a fistful of hair and slam’s Sam’s head onto the desk. The delicious crunch of his brother’s nose breaking doesn’t satisfy him, though. It only makes him want more. He yanks Sam’s arm behind him, pulling until he feels the shoulder pop out of its joint. Sam cries out in pain but remains limp, pinned to the desk.
Dean flips him over, keeping him bent backward at an almost impossible angle against the desk. Sam scrabbles for a foothold. Blood flows freely from his mouth and nose. It’s beautiful. The Mark wants more. Dean wants more. He picks up the empty whiskey bottle and smashes it into the wall. Sam flinches at the spray of shattered glass, and his eyes widen in fear when Dean puts the broken edge against his throat, but he still doesn’t try to save himself. It’s infuriating. The Mark wants a fight, not a punching bag. Dean grabs Sam’s hair again, pulling his head back to expose his throat. “Is this what you wanted, Sammy?” He presses the jagged glass against his brother’s throat, breaking the skin. “Are you happy now? Think you fixed me?”
Sam stares, still glassy-eyed, looking for something in Dean’s face and not finding it. He sighs and closes his eyes. Like a lamb to the fucking slaughter. But then he kicks out, sweeping Dean’s feet out from under him. Dean laughs even as he falls to his knees. Yes, the little shit is finally fighting back. This is good.
Sam stands up with a groan of pain. Not completely upright; he’s hunched over a little, favoring his cracked ribs, cradling his useless left arm against his chest. Still, in this position, he could easily kick Dean in the face. He could make a run for the door. Instead he stands there, bleeding, wheezing, watching like Dean’s gonna smile and say thanks, that was good, I’m done now.
But Dean is not done. He gets up slowly, watching for a reaction that never comes, moving between Sam and the door. If his brother had any sense at all, any instinct for self-preservation, he wouldn’t let Dean block his exit. But then, if he had any instinct for self-preservation, he wouldn’t have thrown himself at the Mark, would he?
Dean moves forward. Sam retreats, one step for each of Dean’s, until his back is against the wall again. Dean doesn’t even know what he’s going to do next until he realizes he’s still holding the broken whiskey bottle. He pins Sam to the wall with a forearm to the throat. The broken glass makes a quick jagged slash across his already bruised cheekbone. Sam’s only reaction is a hiss of pain. In fact, he looks like he’s struggling to remain conscious. He is heavy on Dean’s arm, as if the arm against his throat is the only thing holding him up. His breaths are quick and shallow. His blood-spattered lips are starting to turn blue. His broken ribs have probably punctured a lung, and in another life Dean would have to do something about that. In another life, nothing would be more important.
But in this life, oh, in this life Dean sees the pain and sorrow in those glassy eyes. Those fucking puppy dog eyes. And he wants it to stop. He could take care of it now, could make sure he never has to see that look of fear and pity again. He rests the edge of the broken glass against Sam’s temple and slowly carves a path toward his left eye. Slowly, because he wants Sam to have time to catch his breath, to realize what’s going on, to put up a fucking fight. “Sammy?” he says, grinning as he inches the glass forward. “Aren’t you even gonna try to stop me?”
But the horrified cry of Dean! comes from behind him, not from his brother. It’s Cas. Looks like the fucking cavalry has arrived. The angel grabs his arm, forcing him to drop the whiskey bottle. Dean is shoved across the room before he has a chance to fight back.
Now that Sam is no longer pinned upright by Dean’s arm, he slides down the wall and hits the floor with a quiet gasp of pain. Cas drops to kneel at his side. “Why would you do this?” he murmurs, pushing a clump of bloody hair out of Sam’s face. “I told you what would happen. I told you it was an insane plan.” He turns to flick cold blue eyes briefly in Dean’s direction. “Leave us alone, please.”
“It’s my room,” Dean growls.
Cas turns back toward him, furious and somehow even colder. “I will remove your brother from your room once I have healed him to the point that he can walk. Until then, leave us.”
Dean’s tempted to scribble a banishing sigil. God knows there’s enough blood on the floor and on his hands to do it. But, well. He’s out of whiskey anyway; may as well go find a refill. He looks down on his broken brother, slumped on the floor, barely conscious, surrounded by blood drops and sparkling shards of glass. Sam’s a fucking wreck. And it’s his own goddamn fault.
“Don’t do that again, Sam.”
Dean leaves before Sam can respond.
...
Cas finds him in the library, half a bottle of whiskey later. He stands silently, angrily, waiting for Dean to speak.
“He okay?” Dean says. He knows Sam is okay. Cas wouldn’t be out here if Sam weren’t okay. But it feels like he ought to ask.
“He’s resting,” Cas answers. “I healed his concussion. And his fractured nose and cheekbone. His orbital fracture. His broken ribs, his internal bleeding, his dislocated shoulder. Oh, and his punctured lung. He’s fully oxygenated now. I thought you’d want to know that.”
“Okay, Cas,” Dean sighs. “I get it.”
“Do you? Do you really? Because you almost killed him, Dean. I knew it was a stupid idea. I told him it was a stupid idea. But I still never believed you’d go so far. I’m sure he didn’t imagine you’d be willing to beat him to death!”
(Dean cannot tell Sam that in his dreams, he chases him through the bunker with a hammer in his hand. That in his dreams, no one comes to the rescue. That in his dreams, Sam drops the knife because he thinks there's something in Dean that will stop him, and that the despair in his eyes when he realizes he’s wrong makes the sensation of swinging the hammer against his skull that much sweeter. That he’s had these dreams ever since Sam thrust the demon cure onto him, but the difference is that he no longer considers them nightmares. No, he cannot tell him that.)
Tomorrow, or the next day, the guilt will set in. Tomorrow or the next day he will remember the way Sam’s bones cracked under his fists, remember Sam’s cry of pain when his shoulder was forced out of its socket, and he’ll want to vomit. But right now he wants to enjoy the afterglow. He picks up the bottle and heads for his room.
He makes one stop on the way. Sam’s door is partially open. Dean stands inside the doorway for a few minutes and watches his brother pretend to sleep.
“I mean it, Sam,” he says quietly. “Don’t ever do that again.”
Sam doesn’t respond.
(Dean cannot tell his brother that he never stopped thinking about ripping his throat out with his teeth, feeling the hot arterial spray against the roof of his mouth as Sam gurgles and chokes and gasps and grabs for him as if he could still save him, as if he would still save him. No, Dean cannot stand over Sam with Sam’s blood in his teeth and Sam’s hands weakly clutching at him and tell him that; he absolutely cannot.
But oh, dear God, he wants to.
And if Sam’s not careful, he’s gonna find out anyway.)
Length: About 2000 words
Rating: R for language and violence
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel
Synopsis: Written for the following anonymous prompt in the May 2020 ohsam Sam Winchester Prompt-a-thon: Sam: “Please, Dean… Please, just… Just hit me.” Somewhere, recently, I remarked that I may as well have a separate Hurt!Sam tag for fics where Dean is the one who hurts him. So. Here's another one. This probably isn’t what you had in mind, Nonny, and I kind of hate posting it as a fill for this prompt because it became so Dean-centric. And honestly, even I think it’s a bit much. But here you go. Pure whump without plot, hurt without comfort. Takes place during the end of season 10, when the Mark of Cain is ramping up Dean’s violent tendencies. The title is from “With or Without You” by U2.
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Sam has been standing in Dean’s doorway for five minutes. Dean has been ignoring him for five minutes. He’s aware Sam is there, of course. Hyperaware. The Mark on his arm is like an extra set of eyes and ears, an enhanced version of his consciousness of Sam’s location that normally only kicks in when he’s in full-on hunting mode. But nothing is normal now. The Mark wants to know where Sam is at all times. Dean does not know why the Mark cares so much. He does not question it. He upends the whiskey bottle with a trembling hand, drains the last of it, and does not ask Sam what he wants.
“Talk to me,” Sam finally says. Soft. Tentative. “Tell me what’s going on.”
The thing is, there are things Dean can't tell his brother.
He cannot tell Sam that when he looks at him like that, with the puppy dog eyes full of sympathy and concern and a bit of fear, Dean cannot tell him he has a vivid sense memory of putting his hands on the sides of that face and pressing his thumbs into those sad eyes, pushing until he feels the pop, rendering Sam incapable of giving him that look. He cannot tell him Alastair used to bring him boys who looked like Sam, boys he’d made to look like Sam, and laugh with glee when that was the first thing Dean did to them, every time. No, he cannot tell him that.
What he can say is “Sam, you need to not be here.”
“Where else do I need to be?”
Dean runs one hand down his face. The other clenches into a fist. “Just not here, okay? You don’t know what’s going on.”
“I do, Dean. I know more than you think.” Sam steps closer, still tentative. He’s not quite within Dean’s reach. The Mark is very aware of the distance. “I know that whatever the Mark is doing to you, it builds up. I see the shaking, and the drinking. I know that after a hunt, after you kill something, after you… after you hurt something, you’re better for a while. And I know… I know you shouldn’t be hunting right now. Not the way you are right now.”
Something hot flares up behind Dean’s eyes at that, because hunting is the only thing that helps the way he is right now, and Sam knows that, and here he is saying don’t. The Mark throbs its angry assent.
“So I was thinking,” Sam continues. “If you need to hit something, if that’s what helps. Hit me.”
Oh. The Mark’s reaction is orgasmic. Yes, yes, yes.
It’s an effort of will to tamp it down. “No, Sam. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do, Dean.” Sam’s wearing his earnest face now. “I do know. This would let you release some pressure, or whatever you want to call it. And no one else needs to be involved. No one else will get hurt.”
But Sam doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t know that if Dean starts hitting him, he might never stop. Dean stands, as much to distract himself from the Mark’s bloodlust as anything else. “This is crazy. I would hurt you. Bad.” And… he wants it.
Yes, the Mark shouts. We will hurt you. Bad. And it will feel so fucking good.
Sam takes one step closer. “Cas will be back soon. Whatever you do, he can fix it. Please, Dean… please, just… just hit me.” He takes another step. He’s in striking range now. As Dean’s shaky hands clench and unclench, seemingly of their own free will, Sam takes a deep breath, plants a hand on Dean’s chest, and gives him a shove.
The reaction is half Dean and half Mark, and it’s instantaneous. Sam’s head snaps back, hair flying, as Dean slams a fist into him again and again and again. His jaw, his shoulder, his abdomen, his ribs. Sam manages to stay upright, staggering backward until he’s backed into the wall. He doesn’t raise a hand, not to shield himself, not in self-defense. He flattens his palms against the wall as Dean relentlessly pummels him. The Mark hums in pleasure at the blood dribbling from the corner of Sam’s mouth, at the satisfying crack of his ribs, at each wordless grunt of pain. Another blow to the face makes Sam’s head bounce off the wall, leaving him glassy-eyed and wobbly.
Dean grabs Sam by the collar and drags him to the desk on the other side of the room. He clutches a fistful of hair and slam’s Sam’s head onto the desk. The delicious crunch of his brother’s nose breaking doesn’t satisfy him, though. It only makes him want more. He yanks Sam’s arm behind him, pulling until he feels the shoulder pop out of its joint. Sam cries out in pain but remains limp, pinned to the desk.
Dean flips him over, keeping him bent backward at an almost impossible angle against the desk. Sam scrabbles for a foothold. Blood flows freely from his mouth and nose. It’s beautiful. The Mark wants more. Dean wants more. He picks up the empty whiskey bottle and smashes it into the wall. Sam flinches at the spray of shattered glass, and his eyes widen in fear when Dean puts the broken edge against his throat, but he still doesn’t try to save himself. It’s infuriating. The Mark wants a fight, not a punching bag. Dean grabs Sam’s hair again, pulling his head back to expose his throat. “Is this what you wanted, Sammy?” He presses the jagged glass against his brother’s throat, breaking the skin. “Are you happy now? Think you fixed me?”
Sam stares, still glassy-eyed, looking for something in Dean’s face and not finding it. He sighs and closes his eyes. Like a lamb to the fucking slaughter. But then he kicks out, sweeping Dean’s feet out from under him. Dean laughs even as he falls to his knees. Yes, the little shit is finally fighting back. This is good.
Sam stands up with a groan of pain. Not completely upright; he’s hunched over a little, favoring his cracked ribs, cradling his useless left arm against his chest. Still, in this position, he could easily kick Dean in the face. He could make a run for the door. Instead he stands there, bleeding, wheezing, watching like Dean’s gonna smile and say thanks, that was good, I’m done now.
But Dean is not done. He gets up slowly, watching for a reaction that never comes, moving between Sam and the door. If his brother had any sense at all, any instinct for self-preservation, he wouldn’t let Dean block his exit. But then, if he had any instinct for self-preservation, he wouldn’t have thrown himself at the Mark, would he?
Dean moves forward. Sam retreats, one step for each of Dean’s, until his back is against the wall again. Dean doesn’t even know what he’s going to do next until he realizes he’s still holding the broken whiskey bottle. He pins Sam to the wall with a forearm to the throat. The broken glass makes a quick jagged slash across his already bruised cheekbone. Sam’s only reaction is a hiss of pain. In fact, he looks like he’s struggling to remain conscious. He is heavy on Dean’s arm, as if the arm against his throat is the only thing holding him up. His breaths are quick and shallow. His blood-spattered lips are starting to turn blue. His broken ribs have probably punctured a lung, and in another life Dean would have to do something about that. In another life, nothing would be more important.
But in this life, oh, in this life Dean sees the pain and sorrow in those glassy eyes. Those fucking puppy dog eyes. And he wants it to stop. He could take care of it now, could make sure he never has to see that look of fear and pity again. He rests the edge of the broken glass against Sam’s temple and slowly carves a path toward his left eye. Slowly, because he wants Sam to have time to catch his breath, to realize what’s going on, to put up a fucking fight. “Sammy?” he says, grinning as he inches the glass forward. “Aren’t you even gonna try to stop me?”
But the horrified cry of Dean! comes from behind him, not from his brother. It’s Cas. Looks like the fucking cavalry has arrived. The angel grabs his arm, forcing him to drop the whiskey bottle. Dean is shoved across the room before he has a chance to fight back.
Now that Sam is no longer pinned upright by Dean’s arm, he slides down the wall and hits the floor with a quiet gasp of pain. Cas drops to kneel at his side. “Why would you do this?” he murmurs, pushing a clump of bloody hair out of Sam’s face. “I told you what would happen. I told you it was an insane plan.” He turns to flick cold blue eyes briefly in Dean’s direction. “Leave us alone, please.”
“It’s my room,” Dean growls.
Cas turns back toward him, furious and somehow even colder. “I will remove your brother from your room once I have healed him to the point that he can walk. Until then, leave us.”
Dean’s tempted to scribble a banishing sigil. God knows there’s enough blood on the floor and on his hands to do it. But, well. He’s out of whiskey anyway; may as well go find a refill. He looks down on his broken brother, slumped on the floor, barely conscious, surrounded by blood drops and sparkling shards of glass. Sam’s a fucking wreck. And it’s his own goddamn fault.
“Don’t do that again, Sam.”
Dean leaves before Sam can respond.
...
Cas finds him in the library, half a bottle of whiskey later. He stands silently, angrily, waiting for Dean to speak.
“He okay?” Dean says. He knows Sam is okay. Cas wouldn’t be out here if Sam weren’t okay. But it feels like he ought to ask.
“He’s resting,” Cas answers. “I healed his concussion. And his fractured nose and cheekbone. His orbital fracture. His broken ribs, his internal bleeding, his dislocated shoulder. Oh, and his punctured lung. He’s fully oxygenated now. I thought you’d want to know that.”
“Okay, Cas,” Dean sighs. “I get it.”
“Do you? Do you really? Because you almost killed him, Dean. I knew it was a stupid idea. I told him it was a stupid idea. But I still never believed you’d go so far. I’m sure he didn’t imagine you’d be willing to beat him to death!”
(Dean cannot tell Sam that in his dreams, he chases him through the bunker with a hammer in his hand. That in his dreams, no one comes to the rescue. That in his dreams, Sam drops the knife because he thinks there's something in Dean that will stop him, and that the despair in his eyes when he realizes he’s wrong makes the sensation of swinging the hammer against his skull that much sweeter. That he’s had these dreams ever since Sam thrust the demon cure onto him, but the difference is that he no longer considers them nightmares. No, he cannot tell him that.)
Tomorrow, or the next day, the guilt will set in. Tomorrow or the next day he will remember the way Sam’s bones cracked under his fists, remember Sam’s cry of pain when his shoulder was forced out of its socket, and he’ll want to vomit. But right now he wants to enjoy the afterglow. He picks up the bottle and heads for his room.
He makes one stop on the way. Sam’s door is partially open. Dean stands inside the doorway for a few minutes and watches his brother pretend to sleep.
“I mean it, Sam,” he says quietly. “Don’t ever do that again.”
Sam doesn’t respond.
(Dean cannot tell his brother that he never stopped thinking about ripping his throat out with his teeth, feeling the hot arterial spray against the roof of his mouth as Sam gurgles and chokes and gasps and grabs for him as if he could still save him, as if he would still save him. No, Dean cannot stand over Sam with Sam’s blood in his teeth and Sam’s hands weakly clutching at him and tell him that; he absolutely cannot.
But oh, dear God, he wants to.
And if Sam’s not careful, he’s gonna find out anyway.)