Mirrors
Title: Mirrors
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1100
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: A curse causes people to see Dean as Dean sees himself. Ellen is awesome about it.
Written for the Dean focused h/c meme #5 onhoodie_time , one of icanhazpie 's wishes over at spn_rambleon , 'Doppelgängers' on my angst_bingo and 'Trapped between realities' on my hc_bingo card. Jumbo fill ftw.
At least Ellen doesn't slam the door in their faces. That's like the best response they've gotten in six days.
She rocks back on the balls of her feet, like she's trying not to stumble backwards and just stares, which definitely beats Sam's initial reaction of slugging his brother in the face. (In his defense, Dean did look like a homeless violent drunk who'd come to rob, rape and possibly murder Sam, but still...)
Of course, Ellen's reaction might have something to do with the fact that the blood-covered hobo Sam's been seeing for the last couple of days whenever he's not focusing on the fact that this is Dean he's looking at has suddenly been replaced by a pitiable ash-covered toddler, twisting his hands and stepping from foot to foot in an uneasy inner rhythm.
People get to see Dean like he sees himself. Stupid, fucking witches.
Sam forces himself to banish the blurry image and see his big brother behind it. Jaw squared against the onslaught of unwanted emotions, trembling slightly with the effort to stamp down on the nervous fidgeting. Lips and eyes swollen under graying bruises.
"Dean?" Ellen asks, her eyes growing large and disbelieving before she slips her pokerface back in place.
Dean nods in that coltish way that looks almost like a nervous twitch. Ellen sighs, a relieved smile playing over her lips and she ushers them inside. She pours three shots of whiskey, hesitates before she puts a glass in front of Dean.
"You gotta focus," Sam tells her. Serving alcohol to what looks like a scared four year-old must feel really weird, but he doesn't even want to imagine the shitstorm Dean would kick up if he didn't get his whiskey fix because a curse is messing with other people's heads.
Her hand reaches out, strokes gently over Dean's stubbled cheek, before she gives a tight nod and hands Dean his shot glass.
"That witch put quite the whammy on you," she says with a disbelieving shake of her head. She blinks a couple of times. To get the blurry image out of her head, Sam figures. It actually works for him sometimes.
Dean shrugs uneasily, cuts his eyes to the side, his long lashes fluttering nervously over his pale cheeks.
"You got an idea how we get rid of it?" Sam asks hopefully and Dean scoffs into his already empty glass, his eyes dark and hard as steel.
"Ash's wor-" Ellen starts but is interrupted by Dean's hissed growl that barely manages to land this side of not-scared.
"I told you. You don't get rid of a curse, you just get out of my way."
Sam feels the new kinks in his back start to tense up when he rolls his shoulders in a vague attempt to keep busy until the urge to smack his brother upside the head passes.
"I said," Ellen starts again with a stern look in Dean's direction that shuts him up instantly. "Ash's working on it. Getting out of your way, you got a concussion behind those bruises or something?"
They drink in silence for a while, Dean with his eyes trained on the glass in his hands, managing to look stubborn and chastised at the same time.
"How'd that happen, anyway?" Ellen finally asks with a nod at the dark red and purple welt that's running across his face, angry and hot to the touch.
"Guy whacked me with a cue pole," Dean shrugs again "'s what happens when people see me for what I really am."
Sam feels like popping him one just on principle. He's been feeling like doing that a lot this week and he has a sinking feeling it has to do with the curse. Which doesn't exactly help make him feel any less disturbed by his brother's image of himself.
"What you really are?" Ellen asks with that look on her face that's somewhere between pissed-off and mothering. "Sam said the curse made people see you the way you see yourself."
Dean shrugs uncomfortably and twists a loose thread from his frayed sleeve around his finger. "Yeah, well, whatever."
Sam rolls his eyes and knocks back the rest of his whiskey. This is how it's been for days now. This is what I am, Sam. If you take away the pretty smile and the awesome handsomeness, this is what you get.
"We'll get you back to normal," Sam announces, with his voice rough and cut off around the edges.
"Right," Dean drawls with a resigned sigh.
He ducks his head and shrugs off Sam's hand on his shoulder with an angry twitch, defeat clear in every inch of his tense posture.
Jesus, fuck, you're a disgusting whore.
It was out before Sam knew what he was saying. Dean smiled at some girl walking past their car and suddenly Dean's image blurred and they were staring each other, mirror looks of hurt confusion on their faces.
That's when Sam decided this curse needed the big guns. Ellen and Ash and Jo, who have yet to call Dean nasty names to his face. Knowing his brother, two days of telling him it was a bad slip up were worth jack shit and he hasn't heard a single one of Sam's apologies.
"Don't you get any ideas," Ellen says with a gentle smile on her face that Sam's only ever seen on TV or on crumpled photographs in Dad's wallet.
He quickly looks away when Dean's eyes turn desperate and longing and Ellen reaches out to brush her hand over his face again. She dabs at his cheeks under his eyes, like she's drying off a couple of stray tears that aren't there and when Sam expects Dean to slap her fingers away with some pissy comment, all he does is lean into the touch with his eyes closed and his lips pressed into a firm line.
"Roadhouse ever not come through for you?"
Dean shrugs, meets Ellen's eyes for a second before he quickly glances back down at his glass again. "No ma'am," he mumbles after she slightly slaps her rough fingers against his cheek.
"Damn straight."
"You don't hafta put up with this though." Dean says, a vague wave indicating whatever he thinks they're seeing right now. "I can stay in the kitchen or the barn or something. 'till Ash figures it out, you know."
That thing where you feel like you have to punch Dean right in the face. Sam knows Ellen's got it too.
"Or," she says, voice carefully impassive. "You stay here and we get drunk until then."
Ellen puts a new bottle of Jim Beam on the counter in front of them and shoots Dean a mischievous smirk that has Dean grinning back like one of Pavlov's dogs.
"You sure you're up to drinking with a Winchester?"
"Kiddo, I was drinking your father under the table when you were still changing that one's diapers."
Sam blinks, startled to suddenly be included in their conversation again.
Ellen's statement is loaded with low blows that would make Dean clam up and square his shoulders any day of the week. With Ellen it just makes him smile broader.
"Bring it on, Grandma."
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1100
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: A curse causes people to see Dean as Dean sees himself. Ellen is awesome about it.
Written for the Dean focused h/c meme #5 onhoodie_time , one of icanhazpie 's wishes over at spn_rambleon , 'Doppelgängers' on my angst_bingo and 'Trapped between realities' on my hc_bingo card. Jumbo fill ftw.
At least Ellen doesn't slam the door in their faces. That's like the best response they've gotten in six days.
She rocks back on the balls of her feet, like she's trying not to stumble backwards and just stares, which definitely beats Sam's initial reaction of slugging his brother in the face. (In his defense, Dean did look like a homeless violent drunk who'd come to rob, rape and possibly murder Sam, but still...)
Of course, Ellen's reaction might have something to do with the fact that the blood-covered hobo Sam's been seeing for the last couple of days whenever he's not focusing on the fact that this is Dean he's looking at has suddenly been replaced by a pitiable ash-covered toddler, twisting his hands and stepping from foot to foot in an uneasy inner rhythm.
People get to see Dean like he sees himself. Stupid, fucking witches.
Sam forces himself to banish the blurry image and see his big brother behind it. Jaw squared against the onslaught of unwanted emotions, trembling slightly with the effort to stamp down on the nervous fidgeting. Lips and eyes swollen under graying bruises.
"Dean?" Ellen asks, her eyes growing large and disbelieving before she slips her pokerface back in place.
Dean nods in that coltish way that looks almost like a nervous twitch. Ellen sighs, a relieved smile playing over her lips and she ushers them inside. She pours three shots of whiskey, hesitates before she puts a glass in front of Dean.
"You gotta focus," Sam tells her. Serving alcohol to what looks like a scared four year-old must feel really weird, but he doesn't even want to imagine the shitstorm Dean would kick up if he didn't get his whiskey fix because a curse is messing with other people's heads.
Her hand reaches out, strokes gently over Dean's stubbled cheek, before she gives a tight nod and hands Dean his shot glass.
"That witch put quite the whammy on you," she says with a disbelieving shake of her head. She blinks a couple of times. To get the blurry image out of her head, Sam figures. It actually works for him sometimes.
Dean shrugs uneasily, cuts his eyes to the side, his long lashes fluttering nervously over his pale cheeks.
"You got an idea how we get rid of it?" Sam asks hopefully and Dean scoffs into his already empty glass, his eyes dark and hard as steel.
"Ash's wor-" Ellen starts but is interrupted by Dean's hissed growl that barely manages to land this side of not-scared.
"I told you. You don't get rid of a curse, you just get out of my way."
Sam feels the new kinks in his back start to tense up when he rolls his shoulders in a vague attempt to keep busy until the urge to smack his brother upside the head passes.
"I said," Ellen starts again with a stern look in Dean's direction that shuts him up instantly. "Ash's working on it. Getting out of your way, you got a concussion behind those bruises or something?"
They drink in silence for a while, Dean with his eyes trained on the glass in his hands, managing to look stubborn and chastised at the same time.
"How'd that happen, anyway?" Ellen finally asks with a nod at the dark red and purple welt that's running across his face, angry and hot to the touch.
"Guy whacked me with a cue pole," Dean shrugs again "'s what happens when people see me for what I really am."
Sam feels like popping him one just on principle. He's been feeling like doing that a lot this week and he has a sinking feeling it has to do with the curse. Which doesn't exactly help make him feel any less disturbed by his brother's image of himself.
"What you really are?" Ellen asks with that look on her face that's somewhere between pissed-off and mothering. "Sam said the curse made people see you the way you see yourself."
Dean shrugs uncomfortably and twists a loose thread from his frayed sleeve around his finger. "Yeah, well, whatever."
Sam rolls his eyes and knocks back the rest of his whiskey. This is how it's been for days now. This is what I am, Sam. If you take away the pretty smile and the awesome handsomeness, this is what you get.
"We'll get you back to normal," Sam announces, with his voice rough and cut off around the edges.
"Right," Dean drawls with a resigned sigh.
He ducks his head and shrugs off Sam's hand on his shoulder with an angry twitch, defeat clear in every inch of his tense posture.
Jesus, fuck, you're a disgusting whore.
It was out before Sam knew what he was saying. Dean smiled at some girl walking past their car and suddenly Dean's image blurred and they were staring each other, mirror looks of hurt confusion on their faces.
That's when Sam decided this curse needed the big guns. Ellen and Ash and Jo, who have yet to call Dean nasty names to his face. Knowing his brother, two days of telling him it was a bad slip up were worth jack shit and he hasn't heard a single one of Sam's apologies.
"Don't you get any ideas," Ellen says with a gentle smile on her face that Sam's only ever seen on TV or on crumpled photographs in Dad's wallet.
He quickly looks away when Dean's eyes turn desperate and longing and Ellen reaches out to brush her hand over his face again. She dabs at his cheeks under his eyes, like she's drying off a couple of stray tears that aren't there and when Sam expects Dean to slap her fingers away with some pissy comment, all he does is lean into the touch with his eyes closed and his lips pressed into a firm line.
"Roadhouse ever not come through for you?"
Dean shrugs, meets Ellen's eyes for a second before he quickly glances back down at his glass again. "No ma'am," he mumbles after she slightly slaps her rough fingers against his cheek.
"Damn straight."
"You don't hafta put up with this though." Dean says, a vague wave indicating whatever he thinks they're seeing right now. "I can stay in the kitchen or the barn or something. 'till Ash figures it out, you know."
That thing where you feel like you have to punch Dean right in the face. Sam knows Ellen's got it too.
"Or," she says, voice carefully impassive. "You stay here and we get drunk until then."
Ellen puts a new bottle of Jim Beam on the counter in front of them and shoots Dean a mischievous smirk that has Dean grinning back like one of Pavlov's dogs.
"You sure you're up to drinking with a Winchester?"
"Kiddo, I was drinking your father under the table when you were still changing that one's diapers."
Sam blinks, startled to suddenly be included in their conversation again.
Ellen's statement is loaded with low blows that would make Dean clam up and square his shoulders any day of the week. With Ellen it just makes him smile broader.
"Bring it on, Grandma."