.0100 - All Nightmares Escaped My Head, Bar the Door, Please Don't Let Them In
Dean/Sam
8.01 - We Need to Talk About Kevin
1,525 words
Title from Radical Face
Teaser: They have both been through Hell, the same part of Dante’s journey, and it still wasn't the same. Sam’s version of Purgatory is probably nothing but a faint infusion of what Dean’s truly gone through...
There’s a ribbon of moonlight that falls in through the open window, a pale, cold line that divides the room like an equator, separates it in two hemispheres, two different worlds.
There is the relatively safe world up here where Sam is, where he spent the last year without his brother, just trying to go on, live, not knowing how, why. There was nothing left to fight for, care for, no one. In the end, it was simple; a dog and a girl. Ending with the beginning, with faded memories of Jess and the ordinary, beautiful days without monsters and blood, just classes and final exams, part-time jobs. The world Sam knows.
And the other one, the world below, where Dean spent twelve months fighting for his very life, killing to not be killed; ripped to shreds, sucked dry or eaten alive. The universe behind his eyelids, in his mind, in the tremble in his hands and the little tremor running beneath his bruised, scarred skin. In all the grimy, raw details he skipped in his story. The world of constant combat and freaks that only Dean’s lived through to talk about, but won’t. Something pure where there’s only black and white, more black than white, and no shades of gray. Where everything is evil and asking to be killed, going after Dean whose hands are just soaked, dripping with blood of every species of them.
Sam can imagine it, easily, the omnipresent, never-fading danger and fear, the washed out colors and muted sounds, but it’s only that, a notion. Not the reality, the feeling Dean had really experienced. Not anywhere close. They have both been through Hell, the same part of Dante’s journey, and it still wasn’t the same. Sam’s version of Purgatory is probably nothing but a faint infusion of what Dean’s truly gone through.
There’s a shadow on the floor, slouched and propped up against the edge of Dean’s made bed that might be Sam’s brother, or just an empty shell that Purgatory had spit out. Sam’s still not quite sure yet. It looks like Dean, sounds like Dean, and feels like something that could be a certain version of Dean pulled through another stage of Divine Comedy, the last one that was left, he just seems… incomplete. Like he’s forgotten a portion of himself there, something human, like he’s been robbed of it. And it shouldn’t be a surprise; he must have survived by sheer luck. Or madness.
Dean is quiet, still, and Sam hopes he’s finally asleep, but he seriously doubts it. His posture, however uncomfortable to begin with, is stiff, rigid, and he hasn’t moved a single inch in the last three hours Sam’s been watching him, drifting in and out of sleep, unable to really relax with Dean’s ghostly presence in the room.
There’s a slice of chocolate pie on the night stand Dean didn’t even touch.
Heaving a sigh, Sam pulls himself to his feet and heads for the bathroom, making his way by memory and the faint light of moon.
The bathroom is small, a little claustrophobic, with smeared, yellowed tiles and cracks in the ceiling, a cabinet mirror with water-stained, blinded corners. The naked light bulb above Sam’s head is covered with dust and dead, singed insects, sputtering, there’s a rust-colored streak and a circle around the drain of the porcelain sink. Sam spent a whole year living better, Dean looked uncomfortable, disconcerted by the lack of soil and dry twigs beneath his feet.
Sam returns into the bedroom a while later with water dripping from his hair, and yawning. He doesn’t have time to turn off the light in the bathroom, or register the change in the atmosphere to realize that Dean is no longer where he was before, when a dark silhouette bursts from the corner of the room, and with the force of a shore break sends him sprawled onto the floor, following him down. There’s a dull thud as Sam lands on the dirty carpet, and a choked, surprised yelp that doesn’t quite make it out. The attacker is just as quiet as a beast of prey on hunt.
For a moment, a couple of disoriented, confused seconds, Sam doesn’t think, he’s just shocked and frightened, scarily rusty after just one year without hunting. Then his senses kick in, recognizing the familiar warmth and scent, the composition of bones and muscles, somehow more defined now, strengthened, shifting beneath Sam’s touch when his hands automatically move to Dean’s arms. “Dean?”
There’s no holy water or borax this time, just the blade of Dean’s makeshift knife of questionable origin pressed against the vulnerable line of Sam’s throat, digging in, nicking his skin. Several drops of hot, thick liquid dribbles from his neck onto the floor. It’s not Dean in his ‘you could be a monster’, checking mode, this is Dean in a ‘you are a monster’, killer mode. Fierce and lethal. Sam wonders what Dean sees, who, what, is he supposed to be.
“Dean!” Sam screams, struggling to get through the veil of whatever horror is playing in front of Dean’s eyes, get a leverage to push him off himself. “Dean, it’s me!”
The light of the bathroom bulb falls into Dean’s face, deepening the wrinkles on his forehead, the lines at his mouth that used to disappear, so easily, and putting bottomless darkness into Dean’s eyes, wide and terrified. He’s breathing heavily, fast and shaky, his whole body’s trembling with the effort to keep him upright, to hold Sam down. There are trickles of sweat that leisurely slide down his temples, collect in the hollow of his throat and soak into the neckline of his henley. He looks old, and tired to death.
It’s only that, the weariness in every cell of Dean’s body, and the few unimportant inches that Sam’s got above him that help him to reverse their position eventually, and in one smooth movement send Dean to the floor. He looks mildly surprised, barely attempts to escape. Sam wraps his fingers around Dean’s wrists and knocks the knife out of Dean’s hand, pinning his arms above his head. “It’s me,” he hisses, seeing the slow recognition in Dean’s eyes, in the way his body sags against Sam’s hold, gradually relaxing.
Breathing raggedly, they stare at each other for a couple of minutes, countless painful heartbeats, each of them terrified in their own way, by their own hell. When the shock and fear subside bit by bit, there’s only adrenaline coursing through Sam’s veins, Dean’s proximity and heat, and all the never-uttered in between them. Sam studies Dean’s face, the once boyish, handsome features, now weary and somber, feels the hot, hard line of his body, pressed to Sam’s with nearly every inch, the rapid, hasty pelting of Dean’s heart beneath his fingertips. He feels and remembers.
He thinks of leaning in, finds himself shifting closer, wanting to brush his mouth against Dean’s, to taste the anxiety and panic off Dean’s dry, trembling lips; the desire so sudden and tempting, unreasonably strong. But he doesn’t. And it’s not only because this Dean looks far too different from the Dean who used to kiss him, touch him with such gentleness and passion, and in sleep push his leg in between Sam’s to get even closer. Maybe this Dean forgot. Maybe he never wanted to remember.
Releasing his grip on Dean, Sam stands up and curls his fingers around his brother’s elbow, tugging him up. Dean sways on his feet a little, worn out and undoubtedly hungry, and hardly tries to protest when Sam leads him to the bed, sitting him down.
There’s a kit with tools and pills for almost every kind of pain in Sam’s duffel, of every kind of color, sleeping pills when none of them works or kick in too slow. Sam drops two of them into his palm and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, and kneels in front of his brother.
“Take these,” he says quietly, taking Dean’s hand into his and pouring the small white pellets into his cupped palm. “Just this time, alright?” he bargains when he notes the dismissal in Dean’s look, the annoyance, and probably fear to be asleep, become so weak and vulnerable. “I promise I’ll be on guard,” Sam assures him, guiding Dean’s hand towards his mouth insistently. “Take them or I’m gonna knock you out myself.”
The grimace on Dean’s face might be a hint of a smirk, a grin, but it’s hard to tell, it’s too far from both. He swallows the pills with a roll of his eyes and washes them down with the water, the slides off the bed back onto the floor.
Ten minutes later he falls asleep on the flat, foot-worn carpet and Sam wishes he could be actually surprised. He grabs the blanket from his bed and covers Dean’s sleeping form from his shoulders to the tips of his bare feet, tucking a folded shirt under his head.
No, he wouldn’t expect him to be alright and without nightmares or traumas, he just hopes that getting him better is an actual, possible option.
8.01 - We Need to Talk About Kevin
1,525 words
Title from Radical Face
Teaser: They have both been through Hell, the same part of Dante’s journey, and it still wasn't the same. Sam’s version of Purgatory is probably nothing but a faint infusion of what Dean’s truly gone through...
There’s a ribbon of moonlight that falls in through the open window, a pale, cold line that divides the room like an equator, separates it in two hemispheres, two different worlds.
There is the relatively safe world up here where Sam is, where he spent the last year without his brother, just trying to go on, live, not knowing how, why. There was nothing left to fight for, care for, no one. In the end, it was simple; a dog and a girl. Ending with the beginning, with faded memories of Jess and the ordinary, beautiful days without monsters and blood, just classes and final exams, part-time jobs. The world Sam knows.
And the other one, the world below, where Dean spent twelve months fighting for his very life, killing to not be killed; ripped to shreds, sucked dry or eaten alive. The universe behind his eyelids, in his mind, in the tremble in his hands and the little tremor running beneath his bruised, scarred skin. In all the grimy, raw details he skipped in his story. The world of constant combat and freaks that only Dean’s lived through to talk about, but won’t. Something pure where there’s only black and white, more black than white, and no shades of gray. Where everything is evil and asking to be killed, going after Dean whose hands are just soaked, dripping with blood of every species of them.
Sam can imagine it, easily, the omnipresent, never-fading danger and fear, the washed out colors and muted sounds, but it’s only that, a notion. Not the reality, the feeling Dean had really experienced. Not anywhere close. They have both been through Hell, the same part of Dante’s journey, and it still wasn’t the same. Sam’s version of Purgatory is probably nothing but a faint infusion of what Dean’s truly gone through.
There’s a shadow on the floor, slouched and propped up against the edge of Dean’s made bed that might be Sam’s brother, or just an empty shell that Purgatory had spit out. Sam’s still not quite sure yet. It looks like Dean, sounds like Dean, and feels like something that could be a certain version of Dean pulled through another stage of Divine Comedy, the last one that was left, he just seems… incomplete. Like he’s forgotten a portion of himself there, something human, like he’s been robbed of it. And it shouldn’t be a surprise; he must have survived by sheer luck. Or madness.
Dean is quiet, still, and Sam hopes he’s finally asleep, but he seriously doubts it. His posture, however uncomfortable to begin with, is stiff, rigid, and he hasn’t moved a single inch in the last three hours Sam’s been watching him, drifting in and out of sleep, unable to really relax with Dean’s ghostly presence in the room.
There’s a slice of chocolate pie on the night stand Dean didn’t even touch.
Heaving a sigh, Sam pulls himself to his feet and heads for the bathroom, making his way by memory and the faint light of moon.
The bathroom is small, a little claustrophobic, with smeared, yellowed tiles and cracks in the ceiling, a cabinet mirror with water-stained, blinded corners. The naked light bulb above Sam’s head is covered with dust and dead, singed insects, sputtering, there’s a rust-colored streak and a circle around the drain of the porcelain sink. Sam spent a whole year living better, Dean looked uncomfortable, disconcerted by the lack of soil and dry twigs beneath his feet.
Sam returns into the bedroom a while later with water dripping from his hair, and yawning. He doesn’t have time to turn off the light in the bathroom, or register the change in the atmosphere to realize that Dean is no longer where he was before, when a dark silhouette bursts from the corner of the room, and with the force of a shore break sends him sprawled onto the floor, following him down. There’s a dull thud as Sam lands on the dirty carpet, and a choked, surprised yelp that doesn’t quite make it out. The attacker is just as quiet as a beast of prey on hunt.
For a moment, a couple of disoriented, confused seconds, Sam doesn’t think, he’s just shocked and frightened, scarily rusty after just one year without hunting. Then his senses kick in, recognizing the familiar warmth and scent, the composition of bones and muscles, somehow more defined now, strengthened, shifting beneath Sam’s touch when his hands automatically move to Dean’s arms. “Dean?”
There’s no holy water or borax this time, just the blade of Dean’s makeshift knife of questionable origin pressed against the vulnerable line of Sam’s throat, digging in, nicking his skin. Several drops of hot, thick liquid dribbles from his neck onto the floor. It’s not Dean in his ‘you could be a monster’, checking mode, this is Dean in a ‘you are a monster’, killer mode. Fierce and lethal. Sam wonders what Dean sees, who, what, is he supposed to be.
“Dean!” Sam screams, struggling to get through the veil of whatever horror is playing in front of Dean’s eyes, get a leverage to push him off himself. “Dean, it’s me!”
The light of the bathroom bulb falls into Dean’s face, deepening the wrinkles on his forehead, the lines at his mouth that used to disappear, so easily, and putting bottomless darkness into Dean’s eyes, wide and terrified. He’s breathing heavily, fast and shaky, his whole body’s trembling with the effort to keep him upright, to hold Sam down. There are trickles of sweat that leisurely slide down his temples, collect in the hollow of his throat and soak into the neckline of his henley. He looks old, and tired to death.
It’s only that, the weariness in every cell of Dean’s body, and the few unimportant inches that Sam’s got above him that help him to reverse their position eventually, and in one smooth movement send Dean to the floor. He looks mildly surprised, barely attempts to escape. Sam wraps his fingers around Dean’s wrists and knocks the knife out of Dean’s hand, pinning his arms above his head. “It’s me,” he hisses, seeing the slow recognition in Dean’s eyes, in the way his body sags against Sam’s hold, gradually relaxing.
Breathing raggedly, they stare at each other for a couple of minutes, countless painful heartbeats, each of them terrified in their own way, by their own hell. When the shock and fear subside bit by bit, there’s only adrenaline coursing through Sam’s veins, Dean’s proximity and heat, and all the never-uttered in between them. Sam studies Dean’s face, the once boyish, handsome features, now weary and somber, feels the hot, hard line of his body, pressed to Sam’s with nearly every inch, the rapid, hasty pelting of Dean’s heart beneath his fingertips. He feels and remembers.
He thinks of leaning in, finds himself shifting closer, wanting to brush his mouth against Dean’s, to taste the anxiety and panic off Dean’s dry, trembling lips; the desire so sudden and tempting, unreasonably strong. But he doesn’t. And it’s not only because this Dean looks far too different from the Dean who used to kiss him, touch him with such gentleness and passion, and in sleep push his leg in between Sam’s to get even closer. Maybe this Dean forgot. Maybe he never wanted to remember.
Releasing his grip on Dean, Sam stands up and curls his fingers around his brother’s elbow, tugging him up. Dean sways on his feet a little, worn out and undoubtedly hungry, and hardly tries to protest when Sam leads him to the bed, sitting him down.
There’s a kit with tools and pills for almost every kind of pain in Sam’s duffel, of every kind of color, sleeping pills when none of them works or kick in too slow. Sam drops two of them into his palm and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, and kneels in front of his brother.
“Take these,” he says quietly, taking Dean’s hand into his and pouring the small white pellets into his cupped palm. “Just this time, alright?” he bargains when he notes the dismissal in Dean’s look, the annoyance, and probably fear to be asleep, become so weak and vulnerable. “I promise I’ll be on guard,” Sam assures him, guiding Dean’s hand towards his mouth insistently. “Take them or I’m gonna knock you out myself.”
The grimace on Dean’s face might be a hint of a smirk, a grin, but it’s hard to tell, it’s too far from both. He swallows the pills with a roll of his eyes and washes them down with the water, the slides off the bed back onto the floor.
Ten minutes later he falls asleep on the flat, foot-worn carpet and Sam wishes he could be actually surprised. He grabs the blanket from his bed and covers Dean’s sleeping form from his shoulders to the tips of his bare feet, tucking a folded shirt under his head.
No, he wouldn’t expect him to be alright and without nightmares or traumas, he just hopes that getting him better is an actual, possible option.