FIC: No Pie In Purgatory
No Pie In Purgatory
Characters: Sam and Dean
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1175
Summary: Days like this, the line between reality and memory gets blurred.
Written for a prompt on the Dean H/C Comment-Fic Meme at Hoodie-time: Please please please can someone do Dean with claustrophobia? Maybe after clawing his way out of a coffin in Lazarus Rising he has a problem with enclosed spaces? Or maybe after Purgatory he has trouble in crowds?
No Pie In Purgatory
The clouds are low, making everything look dull and grey, and it’s like the whole city’s walking down this same stretch of sidewalk right now. Dean can feel his heart starting to race, his skin prickling. He can’t take in everything at once, his eyes darting left and right, not wanting to be caught unaware. Sam’s oblivious in front of him, longer legs carrying him into the crowd, while Dean’s own legs turn to rubber, stalling in the middle of the pavement. Someone bumps into his shoulder, sending him stumbling back, and then Sam’s gone. Dean’s breath catches. He can’t make his legs work. He feels like he’s drowning in the buzz of conversations around him. His right hand curls into a fist and his feet shift, instinctively readying for combat, but he can’t take in everything. There’s too many people, too many faces, too many enemies. Where’s Cas? Benny? Dean turns, backs away, and then turns the other way, trying to lock onto something, anything. Someone grabs his shoulder from behind, and Dean spins around, fist rearing back instinctively, throwing a punch at a jaw that pulls away before his fist connects and Dean’s stepping back, looking around, ready for the next attack, wishing he had his knife. His heart’s slamming painfully against his ribcage, breaths short and fast, but his head feels clearer than it has in a long time. He’s ready when the attacker catches his upper arm from behind in a pathetically weak grip. Throwing his elbow back, he’s surprised when the hand tightens its hold, stopping his motion. Dean tries to spin, tries to punch, do something, but he’s being pulled into an iron-tight embrace and dragged sideways. His boots scramble for purchase on the… wait, concrete? He was sure it was grass. It doesn’t matter, because his attacker, whatever it is, is way too strong and now it’s pinned him against something solid, a tree maybe. Its hands are pressing against his chest, shoulders, grabbing Dean’s wrists when he tries to fight. And it’s talking, shouting at him, hot breath in his face. They don’t usually talk; it’s just fighting, endless fighting, never stopping. Something’s different. This feels different. The hands are loosening slowly, and the voice is softer. Dean pauses, trying to hear the words over the rushing in his ears.
“…with me? Dean? Hey, look at me.”
It’s like surfacing from underwater. He can see a plaid shirt, bright colours. There were no bright colours in Purgatory. Everything was grey, muted; even blood looked duller there. Raising his head, Dean finds long hair, worried hazel eyes, a furrowed brow.
“Sammy?”
Sam’s breath of relief huffs over Dean’s eyebrows before Sam steps back, letting go Dean’s wrists, keeping one hand on Dean’s shoulder.
“You alright?” he asks.
Dean drops his hands, feels rough brick behind him instead of bark. It’s an alleyway, and Dean can see the sea of people still moving past the entrance. Sam’s hand is firm on his shoulder.
“Yeah,” Dean says, because he is, really, even though his hands are shaking and his legs might buckle at any moment.
“What was that?” asks Sam, softly, carefully, like he’s worried Dean might break or something.
Dean forces a chuckle out of his dry mouth, stepping around Sam, making his hand drop off his shoulder. He doesn’t want to step back into the crowd, so he just stops there.
“Dean?” Sam says again, moving to stand beside him, trying to see his face.
“M’fine, Sam,” Dean responds, finally, working to steady his hands.
His legs feel stronger. His heart rate is slowing. He’s fine.
“You tried to punch me, dude,” Sam pushes for information, “Seriously, what happened?”
Dean shrugs. He doesn’t want to talk about it.
“Ok,” Sam relents.
He guides Dean through the crowd, keeping his hand on his brother’s back. Dean feels like he’s going to be crushed by the people, all faceless shapes in the darkening evening. Sam catches his forearm as he turns, pulling him back to reality.
“Dean.”
The Impala is right there, cool metal familiar under his shaking hands.
“Keys,” Sam says, and Dean thinks about protesting, but he can’t be bothered.
He tosses the keys to Sam, and his unsteady hands make the throw go wide, making Sam lunge sideways and lean back to catch them.
“Motel?” Sam asks.
Dean shakes his head. He can’t handle being in this place anymore. Too many people. Too much noise. Too much grey.
“Just drive, Sam,” he says, and Sam does.
The Impala’s engine rumbles comfortingly as Sam drives them out of the city and there’s a song playing on the radio that Dean’s heard before but can’t remember the name of, and Dean relaxes in the safety of it, letting the tension run out of his muscles. There was no music in Purgatory.
“It was the crowd, wasn’t it,” Sam says suddenly, not asking, just saying.
Dean looks at him, but his brother’s eyes are locked on the road ahead.
“All those people,” Sam continues, “Your eyes, Dean, they… you were seeing something else out there, weren’t you.”
Again, Sam’s question is missing its question mark.
“I get it, man, I do,” Sam says gently, “Don’t… Don’t shut me out.”
Dean blows out a breath, turns his own gaze back to the road.
“The colours were all dull,” he says, voice so quiet he can barely even hear it.
Sam just keep staring straight ahead, but it’s obvious he’s listening. Dean's grateful for that, because he doesn’t want to see judgement in Sam’s eyes, or even worse, confusion. He needs his brother to understand.
“Everything was… grey. Just colourless, you know?”
Now that Dean’s started talking, he can’t seem to stop.
“Like… the sky was overcast, all the time. Days like this…”
Sam nods, like he’s getting it, and Dean remembers Sam after Castiel broke his wall, shaking and sweating and staring at things that didn’t exist. He remembers feeling helpless as Sam spiralled out of control, living on coffee and alcohol, unable to sleep.
“Can I… do anything to, you know, help?” Sam asks awkwardly, almost timidly, as if he’s unsure if there’s a boundary there.
Maybe there was, once, but Dean’s so sick of boundaries, barriers, walls that stop him from talking to his brother like they used to. Benny’s gone. Amelia’s gone. Once again, all they have is each other.
“You’re doing it,” Dean says quietly, “There’s stuff that wasn’t there. Keeps me… here.”
“Like what?”
“You,” Dean replies honestly, and then fears he’s said too much and quickly adds, “Music. Pie.”
Sam chokes on a laugh, clamping his jaw shut so the laugh snorts out his nose.
“Pie?” he repeats.
Dean’s so thankful that Sam’s letting his first comment slide by, choosing to hone in on something lighter.
“No pie in Purgatory, Sammy,” Dean says, reaching down to turn the music up.
He slouches down and lets his head fall back against the seat, letting the drumbeat of an AC/DC song thump against his bones, lulling him to sleep. There are no nightmares when he sleeps in the Impala.
END
A/N: hope you enjoyed it! Comments/reviews are very much appreciated.
Characters: Sam and Dean
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1175
Summary: Days like this, the line between reality and memory gets blurred.
Written for a prompt on the Dean H/C Comment-Fic Meme at Hoodie-time: Please please please can someone do Dean with claustrophobia? Maybe after clawing his way out of a coffin in Lazarus Rising he has a problem with enclosed spaces? Or maybe after Purgatory he has trouble in crowds?
No Pie In Purgatory
The clouds are low, making everything look dull and grey, and it’s like the whole city’s walking down this same stretch of sidewalk right now. Dean can feel his heart starting to race, his skin prickling. He can’t take in everything at once, his eyes darting left and right, not wanting to be caught unaware. Sam’s oblivious in front of him, longer legs carrying him into the crowd, while Dean’s own legs turn to rubber, stalling in the middle of the pavement. Someone bumps into his shoulder, sending him stumbling back, and then Sam’s gone. Dean’s breath catches. He can’t make his legs work. He feels like he’s drowning in the buzz of conversations around him. His right hand curls into a fist and his feet shift, instinctively readying for combat, but he can’t take in everything. There’s too many people, too many faces, too many enemies. Where’s Cas? Benny? Dean turns, backs away, and then turns the other way, trying to lock onto something, anything. Someone grabs his shoulder from behind, and Dean spins around, fist rearing back instinctively, throwing a punch at a jaw that pulls away before his fist connects and Dean’s stepping back, looking around, ready for the next attack, wishing he had his knife. His heart’s slamming painfully against his ribcage, breaths short and fast, but his head feels clearer than it has in a long time. He’s ready when the attacker catches his upper arm from behind in a pathetically weak grip. Throwing his elbow back, he’s surprised when the hand tightens its hold, stopping his motion. Dean tries to spin, tries to punch, do something, but he’s being pulled into an iron-tight embrace and dragged sideways. His boots scramble for purchase on the… wait, concrete? He was sure it was grass. It doesn’t matter, because his attacker, whatever it is, is way too strong and now it’s pinned him against something solid, a tree maybe. Its hands are pressing against his chest, shoulders, grabbing Dean’s wrists when he tries to fight. And it’s talking, shouting at him, hot breath in his face. They don’t usually talk; it’s just fighting, endless fighting, never stopping. Something’s different. This feels different. The hands are loosening slowly, and the voice is softer. Dean pauses, trying to hear the words over the rushing in his ears.
“…with me? Dean? Hey, look at me.”
It’s like surfacing from underwater. He can see a plaid shirt, bright colours. There were no bright colours in Purgatory. Everything was grey, muted; even blood looked duller there. Raising his head, Dean finds long hair, worried hazel eyes, a furrowed brow.
“Sammy?”
Sam’s breath of relief huffs over Dean’s eyebrows before Sam steps back, letting go Dean’s wrists, keeping one hand on Dean’s shoulder.
“You alright?” he asks.
Dean drops his hands, feels rough brick behind him instead of bark. It’s an alleyway, and Dean can see the sea of people still moving past the entrance. Sam’s hand is firm on his shoulder.
“Yeah,” Dean says, because he is, really, even though his hands are shaking and his legs might buckle at any moment.
“What was that?” asks Sam, softly, carefully, like he’s worried Dean might break or something.
Dean forces a chuckle out of his dry mouth, stepping around Sam, making his hand drop off his shoulder. He doesn’t want to step back into the crowd, so he just stops there.
“Dean?” Sam says again, moving to stand beside him, trying to see his face.
“M’fine, Sam,” Dean responds, finally, working to steady his hands.
His legs feel stronger. His heart rate is slowing. He’s fine.
“You tried to punch me, dude,” Sam pushes for information, “Seriously, what happened?”
Dean shrugs. He doesn’t want to talk about it.
“Ok,” Sam relents.
He guides Dean through the crowd, keeping his hand on his brother’s back. Dean feels like he’s going to be crushed by the people, all faceless shapes in the darkening evening. Sam catches his forearm as he turns, pulling him back to reality.
“Dean.”
The Impala is right there, cool metal familiar under his shaking hands.
“Keys,” Sam says, and Dean thinks about protesting, but he can’t be bothered.
He tosses the keys to Sam, and his unsteady hands make the throw go wide, making Sam lunge sideways and lean back to catch them.
“Motel?” Sam asks.
Dean shakes his head. He can’t handle being in this place anymore. Too many people. Too much noise. Too much grey.
“Just drive, Sam,” he says, and Sam does.
The Impala’s engine rumbles comfortingly as Sam drives them out of the city and there’s a song playing on the radio that Dean’s heard before but can’t remember the name of, and Dean relaxes in the safety of it, letting the tension run out of his muscles. There was no music in Purgatory.
“It was the crowd, wasn’t it,” Sam says suddenly, not asking, just saying.
Dean looks at him, but his brother’s eyes are locked on the road ahead.
“All those people,” Sam continues, “Your eyes, Dean, they… you were seeing something else out there, weren’t you.”
Again, Sam’s question is missing its question mark.
“I get it, man, I do,” Sam says gently, “Don’t… Don’t shut me out.”
Dean blows out a breath, turns his own gaze back to the road.
“The colours were all dull,” he says, voice so quiet he can barely even hear it.
Sam just keep staring straight ahead, but it’s obvious he’s listening. Dean's grateful for that, because he doesn’t want to see judgement in Sam’s eyes, or even worse, confusion. He needs his brother to understand.
“Everything was… grey. Just colourless, you know?”
Now that Dean’s started talking, he can’t seem to stop.
“Like… the sky was overcast, all the time. Days like this…”
Sam nods, like he’s getting it, and Dean remembers Sam after Castiel broke his wall, shaking and sweating and staring at things that didn’t exist. He remembers feeling helpless as Sam spiralled out of control, living on coffee and alcohol, unable to sleep.
“Can I… do anything to, you know, help?” Sam asks awkwardly, almost timidly, as if he’s unsure if there’s a boundary there.
Maybe there was, once, but Dean’s so sick of boundaries, barriers, walls that stop him from talking to his brother like they used to. Benny’s gone. Amelia’s gone. Once again, all they have is each other.
“You’re doing it,” Dean says quietly, “There’s stuff that wasn’t there. Keeps me… here.”
“Like what?”
“You,” Dean replies honestly, and then fears he’s said too much and quickly adds, “Music. Pie.”
Sam chokes on a laugh, clamping his jaw shut so the laugh snorts out his nose.
“Pie?” he repeats.
Dean’s so thankful that Sam’s letting his first comment slide by, choosing to hone in on something lighter.
“No pie in Purgatory, Sammy,” Dean says, reaching down to turn the music up.
He slouches down and lets his head fall back against the seat, letting the drumbeat of an AC/DC song thump against his bones, lulling him to sleep. There are no nightmares when he sleeps in the Impala.
END
A/N: hope you enjoyed it! Comments/reviews are very much appreciated.