Fic: The Pain of Living
Author: Lexophilia
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2500
Summary: Written for the current Dean h/c meme at hoodie_time for the following prompt submitted by nwspaprtaxis
It's post-7.10 and every last shred of Dean's support system is either dead or gone.
Sam knows his brother's having a bad time and is barely coping so he shows his love and appreciation by giving Dean something or doing something special for Dean's birthday. And it's not something he gives out of default as the amulet was. It's something he puts thought, effort, and love into... doing it specifically with Dean in mind and FOR Dean.
Bonus points if Dean cries. And Sam hugs/holds him through the breakdown.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The fact that it's his brother's birthday has been on Sam's mind all day. He and Bobby had planned on doing something special for his brother, but Bobby's no longer here. So those plans, as well as a lot of other things, died right along with Bobby.
It's not something that shows on the surface, but Sam knows Dean's having a difficult time dealing with Bobby's death. If he had to give his brother's current state of mind a diagnosis, he would say Dean's suffering from 'survivor's guilt' or 'PTSD.' He also knows if he ever voiced this to his brother, he'd more than likely get punched in the face for saying it.
Bobby's been gone for almost two months now, and Dean's been dealing with it in the only way he knows how. Dean's flask has become his best friend. It's his constant companion. Dean's been running on anger and whiskey, and Sam knows that one or the other is going to end up killing his brother sooner rather than later. A part of him wants to be there when it happens, so he can die right along side his brother. A part of him wants to be somewhere else when it does, because he knows he's not strong enough to have to bury him again.
It's barely dark out, but they've already had to stop and find a room for the night.
The smell of whiskey on his brother's breath is strong, and he can't in good conscience allow him to stay behind the wheel. If Dean were in his right mind, he'd never drive drunk. But he isn't in it and hasn't been in it since losing Bobby, so Sam is left having to be the responsible one.
It's not the first time he's faked not feeling well to get his brother to stop for the night, and he hates knowing that it won't be the last.
Sam gets them checked in and settled into their room. Sam ends up sitting at the small table in the corner of the room watching Dean who end up sitting on the end of his bed with his head in his hands.
About five minutes of silence pass, before Sam realizes that Dean's shoulders are hitching up and down. It only happens once about every thirty seconds or so, so it's easy to miss. What isn't easy to miss after a few minutes are the tears that are running from his brother's covered eyes. They are running and dripping from the back of his brother's hands, and in the muted light of the motel room they look like something else. Something darker.
Sam walks over to his brother and puts his hand on his shoulder.
“Dean, tell me what to do,” Sam says because he doesn't know what else to say.
Dean stands abruptly, staggering slightly because of the alcohol in his system, and goes into the bathroom.
Sam follows him. He doesn't know what else to do.
When Sam gets there, Dean has turned on the shower, the hot water turned too high and already causing the room to start to fill with steam. Dean's pulling at his clothes to get them off, but his movements are stilted and clumsy.
Without saying a word, Sam walks up to his brother and helps him remove them. Dean is passive in a way throughout the process that makes Sam scared for his brother. Dean is never passive. Never.
Once Dean's clothes are off, Sam places his hands on his brother's shoulders and guides him over and down onto the closed lid of the toilet.
Sam shuts off the boiling hot shower spray that would have burned his brother's skin, and pushes down the pull to fill the tub instead. Dean's not stable enough to stand safely, and both of them know it. As the tub begins to fill, Sam adjusts the temperature of the water so that it's warm enough to clean, but also just barely hot enough to comfort what has to be his brother's aching body.
“Come on,” Sam says as he again puts his hands on his brother's shoulders; first, helping him to stand and then helping him to safely get into the tub.
Tears have been running from Dean's eyes the entire time, and they still are. His face looks slightly swollen and the lids of his eyes are red-rimmed. His nose is red and running, and Sam grabs some toilet tissue from the roll and quickly, yet gently, cleans his brother's face.
Sam sits on the closed lid of the toilet while Dean sits in the bath. Neither of them says a word for the longest time. Sam alternates between looking at the wall in front of him and the floor, anything to give his brother a sense of privacy as he silently grieves. Sam figures he should leave his brother alone, but his gut tells him not to.
When Dean finally breaks the silence, Sam wishes he hadn't.
“I don't think I'm going to live another year, Sammy. I don't want to live to see another one.” Dean says as he closes his eyes and allows his tired body to slide further down into the warm water.
This day has been one of the hardest so far, and emotion has made Sam's throat too tight to speak. But that's okay. He knows there's nothing he can say that would make his brother feel better or differently, and he knows that Dean't not asking for his opinion at this point.
Quiet descends again, and it's not long after Dean's confession that he slowly stands and grabs the towel from the rack above where Sam is sitting. Dean steps past Sam and rubs at his body roughly using uncoordinated movements to dry off most of the excess water from his hair and skin before wrapping the towel a little too tightly around his waist as he leaves the small, cramped area of the bathroom.
Dean's steps are slow and deliberate as walks back over to his bed.
The weight of his sadness, his guilt, his own body, is almost too much to carry. He's glad it only takes a handful of steps to reach his destination. Both he and his body have reached their limits for the day, and it takes all that he has left in him to sit and not collapse on the bed like his body wants him to.
As he sits on the end on the bed, the slight bounce of the old mattress causes his stomach to do a sickening roll, but he refuses to loose the heat of the alcohol in his belly. He knows that once it spreads through his system good and proper the living hell that has become his life will fade into the background and allow him a few hours of dark, deep sleep.
Sam realizes that he's been standing just outside of the bathroom door watching his brother for a few minutes when he ends up having to snap himself into action.
He quickly steps back into the bathroom and flips the lever so the water can drain from the tub. He uses the towel in his hand to dry any wet spots on the floor, so that if Dean has to use the bathroom at some point during the night he won't end up slipping and falling.
Sam takes a second to look at himself in the mirror, before he does what he's been wanting to do all day. His present to Dean has been burning a hole in his pocket. He's been waiting for the perfect moment to give it to him all day. But as he's looking at himself, he knows that 'perfect' will never present itself.
Sam pulls the slightly crumpled picture from his back pocket and looks at it. They'd been given it years ago by the women who was now living in their childhood home. She'd given them an entire box of pictures, but over the years all of them had either been lost or destroyed. This one was the only one left remaining. The only reason it was still in existence was because he'd given it to Bobby but had swiped it back from the pages of his diary almost six months ago.
It's a picture of them as kids. Little blonde-headed Dean is holding a baby in his arms, and the brightness of his eyes and the happiness behind his wide smile as he protectively holds his infant brother has been what has been secretly keeping Sam going as hallucinations of Lucifer chip away at his very being.
Sam's written something on the back of the picture, and he knows these are things that he should be brave enough to voice to his brother, but he's not. The emotions behind the words are too raw for both of them at this point. They should have been said years ago, but in all honesty, they both will never say or ever hear them vocalized.
Sam leaves the protection of the small bathroom, fighting with himself to shove down the fact that it also would have been Jessica's birthday today, and walks over to kneel down in front of his brother who, once again, has his head in his hands and is silently crying.
“I got you something for your birthday,” Sam says as he places the picture in his brother's lap.
“It's not much. I'm sorry. Happy birthday, Dean.” Sam says as he sits down beside his brother knowing that this day is anything but happy for either of them.
Dean picks up the object that has been placed in his lap and wipes at his eyes so that he can see it. At first, it's hard to focus on the image. But when he's able to, it feels like he's be stabbed in the gut.
He doesn't know these faces, these children. And yet, he knows them both. His heart breaks for them both.
Sam turns the picture in his hands, and Dean can see that there's something written on the back. He wipes his eyes again, and does his best to focus on the words.
It's the words that do him in.
Dear Dean,
When I was a little kid, there was nothing in this world I was afraid of. I knew, without a doubt, that my big brother would always be there to protect me. I want to thank you for that. Through everything, you have always protected me. Mom and Dad would be both happy and proud to know that the little boy they made together in love became the only man who was strong enough to save humanity...the humanity of the world and the humanity of the baby in this picture in your arms.
I love you, Dean.
Happy Birthday,
Sam
Dean knows that Sam is watching him.
Sam's expecting him to say something. He's expecting him to say something about this goddamn picture and the words on the back of it that mean so much. These words that say everything he's always wanted to hear, but in doing so, have also brought to the surface everything he's been trying for too long not to feel.
The picture and words end up crumpled in his fist as the emotions he's been trying to drown in alcohol finally breakthrough. They feel like hot, sharp, twisty things coming out of every pore of his body, and the sudden onslaught of them causes his body to jerk forward hard as a painful sob is ripped from somewhere deep inside of him.
This can't happen. Not now. Not ever.
Dean wraps his arms around himself to hold it in. He fights with every once of strength inside of him not to breakdown, but the sobs start coming and they keep coming. They start out as near silent, choking gasps for air that cause his chest to rise and fall in rapid, painful bursts.
He feels when Sam wraps his arms tightly around him. Sam's chin is on his on shoulder, and he's chanting a steady litany of 'breathe, breathe, breathe' into his ear. Dean desperately wants to breathe, but he can't.
But when Sam hits him hard in the back, right between his shoulder blades, he takes a deep breath for the first time and the hard shell that's been covering and protecting his heart finally breaks.
He's never cried like this before. It hurts. He wants it to stop.
The once silent sobs become long, keening wails broken every few seconds by his lungs causing his body to spasm as they fight to pull in air. Breathing in feels like breathing out and breathing out feels like breathing in. He's choking on nothing and the inability to do something as simple as breathing is making his head throb.
Sam's grip on him tightens even more, but it doesn't hurt. It feels good, and he hates it. He can't tell who's rocking them back and forth. He can't tell if he's causing the movement or if his brother is. In the end, it doesn't matter. Because even though the motion is meant to be soothing, it's not. It only makes him cry harder.
“Please. Please.” Dean chokes out, but he doesn't know what he's asking for or who he's asking it of.
Minutes pass. Dean's face hurts, locked in a painful grimace. His throat is sore and feels tight. He has a near-blinding headache. His stomach has gone completely sour. He can taste salty tears in his mouth, and they're making his already sour stomach roll even harder. But none of that is as bad as the feeling in his chest. It's so tight it feels like he's begin crushed, and the feeling has nothing to do with his brother's embrace. It feels as if he's being crushed from the inside out. His heart is so heavy in his chest that it feels like it's trying to sink down into his stomach. The pull of it is so painful, so intense, that he feels like he's going to pass out.
Dean cries and Sam holds him.
Sam holds him until he goes quiet, and he can't tell whether his brother has passed out or simply fallen asleep.
The date is January 24th, 2012 and Dean Winchester has just turned 33.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2500
Summary: Written for the current Dean h/c meme at hoodie_time for the following prompt submitted by nwspaprtaxis
It's post-7.10 and every last shred of Dean's support system is either dead or gone.
Sam knows his brother's having a bad time and is barely coping so he shows his love and appreciation by giving Dean something or doing something special for Dean's birthday. And it's not something he gives out of default as the amulet was. It's something he puts thought, effort, and love into... doing it specifically with Dean in mind and FOR Dean.
Bonus points if Dean cries. And Sam hugs/holds him through the breakdown.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The fact that it's his brother's birthday has been on Sam's mind all day. He and Bobby had planned on doing something special for his brother, but Bobby's no longer here. So those plans, as well as a lot of other things, died right along with Bobby.
It's not something that shows on the surface, but Sam knows Dean's having a difficult time dealing with Bobby's death. If he had to give his brother's current state of mind a diagnosis, he would say Dean's suffering from 'survivor's guilt' or 'PTSD.' He also knows if he ever voiced this to his brother, he'd more than likely get punched in the face for saying it.
Bobby's been gone for almost two months now, and Dean's been dealing with it in the only way he knows how. Dean's flask has become his best friend. It's his constant companion. Dean's been running on anger and whiskey, and Sam knows that one or the other is going to end up killing his brother sooner rather than later. A part of him wants to be there when it happens, so he can die right along side his brother. A part of him wants to be somewhere else when it does, because he knows he's not strong enough to have to bury him again.
It's barely dark out, but they've already had to stop and find a room for the night.
The smell of whiskey on his brother's breath is strong, and he can't in good conscience allow him to stay behind the wheel. If Dean were in his right mind, he'd never drive drunk. But he isn't in it and hasn't been in it since losing Bobby, so Sam is left having to be the responsible one.
It's not the first time he's faked not feeling well to get his brother to stop for the night, and he hates knowing that it won't be the last.
Sam gets them checked in and settled into their room. Sam ends up sitting at the small table in the corner of the room watching Dean who end up sitting on the end of his bed with his head in his hands.
About five minutes of silence pass, before Sam realizes that Dean's shoulders are hitching up and down. It only happens once about every thirty seconds or so, so it's easy to miss. What isn't easy to miss after a few minutes are the tears that are running from his brother's covered eyes. They are running and dripping from the back of his brother's hands, and in the muted light of the motel room they look like something else. Something darker.
Sam walks over to his brother and puts his hand on his shoulder.
“Dean, tell me what to do,” Sam says because he doesn't know what else to say.
Dean stands abruptly, staggering slightly because of the alcohol in his system, and goes into the bathroom.
Sam follows him. He doesn't know what else to do.
When Sam gets there, Dean has turned on the shower, the hot water turned too high and already causing the room to start to fill with steam. Dean's pulling at his clothes to get them off, but his movements are stilted and clumsy.
Without saying a word, Sam walks up to his brother and helps him remove them. Dean is passive in a way throughout the process that makes Sam scared for his brother. Dean is never passive. Never.
Once Dean's clothes are off, Sam places his hands on his brother's shoulders and guides him over and down onto the closed lid of the toilet.
Sam shuts off the boiling hot shower spray that would have burned his brother's skin, and pushes down the pull to fill the tub instead. Dean's not stable enough to stand safely, and both of them know it. As the tub begins to fill, Sam adjusts the temperature of the water so that it's warm enough to clean, but also just barely hot enough to comfort what has to be his brother's aching body.
“Come on,” Sam says as he again puts his hands on his brother's shoulders; first, helping him to stand and then helping him to safely get into the tub.
Tears have been running from Dean's eyes the entire time, and they still are. His face looks slightly swollen and the lids of his eyes are red-rimmed. His nose is red and running, and Sam grabs some toilet tissue from the roll and quickly, yet gently, cleans his brother's face.
Sam sits on the closed lid of the toilet while Dean sits in the bath. Neither of them says a word for the longest time. Sam alternates between looking at the wall in front of him and the floor, anything to give his brother a sense of privacy as he silently grieves. Sam figures he should leave his brother alone, but his gut tells him not to.
When Dean finally breaks the silence, Sam wishes he hadn't.
“I don't think I'm going to live another year, Sammy. I don't want to live to see another one.” Dean says as he closes his eyes and allows his tired body to slide further down into the warm water.
This day has been one of the hardest so far, and emotion has made Sam's throat too tight to speak. But that's okay. He knows there's nothing he can say that would make his brother feel better or differently, and he knows that Dean't not asking for his opinion at this point.
Quiet descends again, and it's not long after Dean's confession that he slowly stands and grabs the towel from the rack above where Sam is sitting. Dean steps past Sam and rubs at his body roughly using uncoordinated movements to dry off most of the excess water from his hair and skin before wrapping the towel a little too tightly around his waist as he leaves the small, cramped area of the bathroom.
Dean's steps are slow and deliberate as walks back over to his bed.
The weight of his sadness, his guilt, his own body, is almost too much to carry. He's glad it only takes a handful of steps to reach his destination. Both he and his body have reached their limits for the day, and it takes all that he has left in him to sit and not collapse on the bed like his body wants him to.
As he sits on the end on the bed, the slight bounce of the old mattress causes his stomach to do a sickening roll, but he refuses to loose the heat of the alcohol in his belly. He knows that once it spreads through his system good and proper the living hell that has become his life will fade into the background and allow him a few hours of dark, deep sleep.
Sam realizes that he's been standing just outside of the bathroom door watching his brother for a few minutes when he ends up having to snap himself into action.
He quickly steps back into the bathroom and flips the lever so the water can drain from the tub. He uses the towel in his hand to dry any wet spots on the floor, so that if Dean has to use the bathroom at some point during the night he won't end up slipping and falling.
Sam takes a second to look at himself in the mirror, before he does what he's been wanting to do all day. His present to Dean has been burning a hole in his pocket. He's been waiting for the perfect moment to give it to him all day. But as he's looking at himself, he knows that 'perfect' will never present itself.
Sam pulls the slightly crumpled picture from his back pocket and looks at it. They'd been given it years ago by the women who was now living in their childhood home. She'd given them an entire box of pictures, but over the years all of them had either been lost or destroyed. This one was the only one left remaining. The only reason it was still in existence was because he'd given it to Bobby but had swiped it back from the pages of his diary almost six months ago.
It's a picture of them as kids. Little blonde-headed Dean is holding a baby in his arms, and the brightness of his eyes and the happiness behind his wide smile as he protectively holds his infant brother has been what has been secretly keeping Sam going as hallucinations of Lucifer chip away at his very being.
Sam's written something on the back of the picture, and he knows these are things that he should be brave enough to voice to his brother, but he's not. The emotions behind the words are too raw for both of them at this point. They should have been said years ago, but in all honesty, they both will never say or ever hear them vocalized.
Sam leaves the protection of the small bathroom, fighting with himself to shove down the fact that it also would have been Jessica's birthday today, and walks over to kneel down in front of his brother who, once again, has his head in his hands and is silently crying.
“I got you something for your birthday,” Sam says as he places the picture in his brother's lap.
“It's not much. I'm sorry. Happy birthday, Dean.” Sam says as he sits down beside his brother knowing that this day is anything but happy for either of them.
Dean picks up the object that has been placed in his lap and wipes at his eyes so that he can see it. At first, it's hard to focus on the image. But when he's able to, it feels like he's be stabbed in the gut.
He doesn't know these faces, these children. And yet, he knows them both. His heart breaks for them both.
Sam turns the picture in his hands, and Dean can see that there's something written on the back. He wipes his eyes again, and does his best to focus on the words.
It's the words that do him in.
Dear Dean,
When I was a little kid, there was nothing in this world I was afraid of. I knew, without a doubt, that my big brother would always be there to protect me. I want to thank you for that. Through everything, you have always protected me. Mom and Dad would be both happy and proud to know that the little boy they made together in love became the only man who was strong enough to save humanity...the humanity of the world and the humanity of the baby in this picture in your arms.
I love you, Dean.
Happy Birthday,
Sam
Dean knows that Sam is watching him.
Sam's expecting him to say something. He's expecting him to say something about this goddamn picture and the words on the back of it that mean so much. These words that say everything he's always wanted to hear, but in doing so, have also brought to the surface everything he's been trying for too long not to feel.
The picture and words end up crumpled in his fist as the emotions he's been trying to drown in alcohol finally breakthrough. They feel like hot, sharp, twisty things coming out of every pore of his body, and the sudden onslaught of them causes his body to jerk forward hard as a painful sob is ripped from somewhere deep inside of him.
This can't happen. Not now. Not ever.
Dean wraps his arms around himself to hold it in. He fights with every once of strength inside of him not to breakdown, but the sobs start coming and they keep coming. They start out as near silent, choking gasps for air that cause his chest to rise and fall in rapid, painful bursts.
He feels when Sam wraps his arms tightly around him. Sam's chin is on his on shoulder, and he's chanting a steady litany of 'breathe, breathe, breathe' into his ear. Dean desperately wants to breathe, but he can't.
But when Sam hits him hard in the back, right between his shoulder blades, he takes a deep breath for the first time and the hard shell that's been covering and protecting his heart finally breaks.
He's never cried like this before. It hurts. He wants it to stop.
The once silent sobs become long, keening wails broken every few seconds by his lungs causing his body to spasm as they fight to pull in air. Breathing in feels like breathing out and breathing out feels like breathing in. He's choking on nothing and the inability to do something as simple as breathing is making his head throb.
Sam's grip on him tightens even more, but it doesn't hurt. It feels good, and he hates it. He can't tell who's rocking them back and forth. He can't tell if he's causing the movement or if his brother is. In the end, it doesn't matter. Because even though the motion is meant to be soothing, it's not. It only makes him cry harder.
“Please. Please.” Dean chokes out, but he doesn't know what he's asking for or who he's asking it of.
Minutes pass. Dean's face hurts, locked in a painful grimace. His throat is sore and feels tight. He has a near-blinding headache. His stomach has gone completely sour. He can taste salty tears in his mouth, and they're making his already sour stomach roll even harder. But none of that is as bad as the feeling in his chest. It's so tight it feels like he's begin crushed, and the feeling has nothing to do with his brother's embrace. It feels as if he's being crushed from the inside out. His heart is so heavy in his chest that it feels like it's trying to sink down into his stomach. The pull of it is so painful, so intense, that he feels like he's going to pass out.
Dean cries and Sam holds him.
Sam holds him until he goes quiet, and he can't tell whether his brother has passed out or simply fallen asleep.
The date is January 24th, 2012 and Dean Winchester has just turned 33.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~