And if I could control it, Maybe I could leave it all behind
Title: And if I could control it, Maybe I could leave it all behind
Rating: n13 I guess, - it’s not particularly graphic, but do please read the warnings.
Genre and/or Pairing: Gen
Spoilers: season 4
Warnings: references to self-harm, Post-hell issues, angst all around!
Word Count: ~1300
Summary: Dean was in Hell. For forty years. That's a lot longer than he’s been here.
A/N: This was written really quickly in a fit of procrastination (oh my how unheard of!). It's unbeta'd, so if there is something drastically wrong, and/or grammatically and personally offensive in there, do let me know :)
And I will turn off
And I will shut down
Burying the voices of my conscience hitting ground
And I will turn off
And I will shut down
The chemicals are restless in my head
“Dean, you’re sick. Dean?”
“I know” he replies around his chattering teeth, resisting the urge to hug himself.
Because he was.
He was sick. And he couldn’t ever be cured.
He’d spent more time in hell with Alastair then he had with anyone else on Earth. Forty years. Forty years. That was longer than he had been alive here. Knowing someone like that, knowing someone that intimately, having someone know everything about you, every features, every little weakness and flaw, physiological and physical. It was glorious. It was indescribable. Having someone accept you, know your insides and outsides.... or was it knowing you inside and out? Dean didn't know, didn't care. They both applied.
The longest home Dean had never known on Earth was the house he barely remembered that he shared with his parents and a six month old brother for four years. And it was the place that held the memories of the day a life was snatched away from him. The longest home Dean had ever known in Hell was Alastair and his rack for forty years. And it was the place that held the memories of a life full of attention and learning and praise and love that was also snatched away from him. Really, there wasn’t any competition.
At some point alcohol just didn't cut it. And Sam couldn’t stand to see him drink the amounts he wanted to anyway.
At some point, all Dean wanted was blood. To see it, to feel it, to smell it.
At some point Dean decided to go into the bathroom and pull out the knife in his boot. He wished he didn't take such care with his knives, because at some point he’d stopped caring about guns. At some point he’d stopped cleaning them and oiling them like he used to.
At some point, pretty early on, he’d realised that knives and blades had grown on him, sunk into him, and anything else just wasn’t as satisfying. You need to be there, feel the warmth and blood and muscle twitching. Feel the slide and the tension give way as you slice. A small recoil from a gun, far away from all that just wasn’t the same.
Sam hadn’t noticed that Dean had swapped his gun fetish for a knife fetish. Dean wasn’t surprised to be honest. But unfortunately he did notice that Dean never tried sharpening or polishing Dad’s old blade. A small one he had sometimes used to shave, or to cut and peel fruit for them on the side of the road after a tiring stretch of driving when they were younger.
When Sam pointed out that he saw Dean with it more often now, but he never treating it, Dean just shrugged and said that he didn't want to change it once dad was gone. Said he wouldn’t ever use it so there wasn’t any point anyway. But really, it was the knife he used the most, and it was fitting that it was John’s. In the bathrooms, on the side of the road when he was alone; it just felt better when it was all blunt and dirty. It felt more like Alastair that way. Felt more like home.
Sometimes Dean knew that what he was doing was messed up. But really, he’d cut himself to lure in creatures, bled to tease vamps, thrown himself in harm’s way to protect random people and broken his wrist once to escape being sacrificed by a bunch of witches. There was an endless list. Why shouldn’t he be able to do this? Why wasn’t this normal? It’s like waxing or something. Just because it hurts or it isn’t necessary doesn’t mean it’s wrong. It’s his body, and he’s just doing what it needs. It craves it, and just like eating and drinking and pisssing, he just does what it wants. Plus he was going to replace all his scars one way or another. This way is just more artistic.
Sometimes Dean thinks he’ll go too far. That he’ll cut a little too close, bleed a little too much; for a little too long. That Sam and Cas won’t be able to get to him in time. Sometimes Dean thinks it would be better. If the angels wouldn’t just bring him back he’d go to hell. Where he belongs. Where he told Sam that he tortured souls and liked it. Because there's no guilt in Hell. Just blood and fire and skill. He hates it here. Hates its guilt
Dean thought it was kind of funny that Sam once remarked that Dean’s voice had gotten a lot gruffer lately. Dean jokingly replied that he was just trying to out-growl Castiel, and maybe Sam had smiled at that, Dean hadn’t noticed. He just knew that Sam’s reaction wouldn’t have been the same if he had told Sam that his voice would never be the same after Hell. Not from the tearing and twisting of his vocal cords by Alastair, but from the screaming. No one’s voice could ever be the same after that much screaming.
They walked past a butcher shop once. Sam and Dean, shoulder to shoulder, discussing a case, discussing disguises, discussing something; they may have even been laughing and joking. But then they’d walked past a butcher shop with a display window. And Dean had to stop. He shivered, easily imagining all that wonderful meat, that flesh, that red was human. And it made him smile. He even felt a thrum of pride at being able to identify the different types of muscle and bone. They weren’t that drastically different from human ones. He still knew what they were. Still knew the best way to break and damage them. To rip them and carve them. Sammy had never been he best student in the family. Dean had coasted through school without trying or caring while Sam had to work hard for it. Dean had learnt all his dad’s lessons before Sam had even grasped the first at the same age. Had memorised things people had never even heard of. That was all in a few years. Four decades Alastair had to teach Dean. Forty years.
Dean thinks it helps that he’s also a visual learner.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dean is still sitting too close to the fire. He hears Sam stir. His coughing must have woken Sam up. He’s still not used to the smoke. There isn’t any smoke in hell. Just fire. Just heat and warmth and gentle licking at your skin. Like the fire is your friend. Like its caressing you and climbing you and covering you because it likes you. Like a pet. It plays with him, jumping around him. Playfully alternating between curling around his fingers and trying to escape them.
Sometimes the smoke here irritates Dean. Gets into his eyes and nostrils. Makes his breathing more ragged, hurts his chest. But he puts up with it because all those things kind of remind him of Hell too. It’s just the fire’s way of trying its best to take him back. To help him remember and imagine. Dean appreciates it. Makes him warm on the inside as well. Makes him smile shyly in the glow.
So, understandably, he exclaims angrily when Sam reaches for a jug of holy water and puts the fire out. He stands up furiously to face Sam, and the cold that meets him shocks him and he gasps, coughing again, teeth starting to chatter.
Sam puts a hand on his shoulder, tilts his head up once he starts coughing, and misunderstands the runny eyes and nose, the shivering, the smouldering pile of clothes still feebly emitting furls of grey, cloudy smoke. Sam doesn’t see the singed hair on Dean’s arms and face, nor the blackened tips of his fingers. He feels Dean’s forehead, feels the heat of the flames that lingers and looks a little concerned. But not a lot.
“Dean, you’re sick”
Dean moves his head away from Sam’s gentle fingers and looks away.
“Dean?”
“Yeah”, he agrees. “I know”.