When It's Over 8/15
Title: When It's Over
Chapters: 8/15
Rating: R
Characters: Sam, Dean, Sarah
Spoilers: All of season one is fair game, but it's a future fic.
Notes: A future fic so it's definitely AU.
Warnings: Sadness and angst. Bring tissues.
Summary: After a horrible accident, Sam and Dean have to relearn what it is to be a family.
Chapter Eight
“Sam? Is that you?”
“Not quite.”
Claws dug deep into his wrists, snapping bone, tearing muscle. Hot breath on his face. Curses in his ears. Screaming and crying and crying and screaming. Pulling. Pulling in opposite directions. One shoulder popped, like cracking a knuckle. White hot agony laced through his body, up his neck, exploding a pain in his head. Tearing at his eyes, sizzling his tears, searing his brain. The other shoulder popped before he had time to recover. Someone screamed. It may have been him. His skin was stretching further than it should have. Tearing down the middle, ripping down the middle, splitting down the middle. It tore and ripped, pulling itself off of muscle, white ligaments snapping like brittle chunks of burning frost.
His skin tore off. Came free from his body. Everything burned. He prayed to be numb.
The world spun and suddenly Sam was leaning over him. Hugging him. Begging him. He was crying blood. Red tears dripped from Sam’s eyes, falling onto his face, into his mouth, burning like acid on exposed muscle.
Then It came. Standing behind Sam and all he could do was watch as It grabbed Sam by the hair and yanked, flinging him backwards into a wall where his body broke apart. Limbs scattered about on the floor like broken glass. Fingers kept flexing, legs kept kicking, his mouth kept moving. Sam lay on the floor and just looked at him. Help. Please help. All he could do was stare. Watch as It tore his brother apart. As Sam was shredded, diced, minced, gone.
Then it went after Dad who screamed and fought but died in seconds.
Then it went after Sarah.
Then Hannah and Patrick and Cameron.
The walls collected their blood and It came over to stand by him. Looking down at him, yellow eyes and bloody lips.
“You did this. It’s your fault. All your fault.”
It smiled grabbed his neck. Squeezing. Squeezing. Crushing. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe.
I can’t breathe, can’t breathe.
Dean woke with a start. His senses were foggy, distorted, but he could sense a presence standing at the foot of his bed. Ignoring the pain that shot up his back as he twisted and scrambled for the drawer, he pulled it open and grabbed the gun in a fluid movement faster than he thought he still had in him. His whole body screamed fire as he pushed himself up with his broken arm and pointed the gun at the figure in his room with a disgruntled yell of, “You’re dead!”
It was only luck that kept him from pulling the trigger.
The shrill scream that greeted him broke through the hazy fog still blocking his vision from seeing clearly. He blinked rapidly, focusing in time to see Hannah’s terrified crumble. She broke into sobs and Dean only had time to whisper a quiet, broken, “Hannah,” before she ran out of the room, dropping the storybook she had clutched in her hands.
Not even Dean’s rapid heartbeat could block out the sounds of Hannah’s sobs and footsteps as she ran to her parents’ room. Dean held the gun shakily in his hand, eyes fixated on the storybook laying open on the floor. Open to a page where a mother bunny was hugging her children. He couldn’t catch his breath. His throat felt like it was closed, constricted to a point it wasn’t allowing air in. Against his will, each intake of breath turned into a sob as his eyes refused to leave the picture in the storybook, refused to see anything other than himself pointing a loaded gun, safety off, at Hannah’s head.
Dear God.
Dean felt so cold then. Even as he sat there sweating, he shivered, violently, teeth chattering. And he still couldn’t breathe. He’d pointed a gun at Hannah. A fucking loaded gun and he’d been ready to squeeze the trigger. His finger had twitched. Just a tiny bit more pressure and he’d be staring at his niece’s brains on the opposite wall…
That thought is what did him in. The mental image of Hannah’s lifeless body, of a wall splayed in blood. It was too much and Dean put the heel of his palm into his eye, pressing so hard on the bruises, on the cracked cheekbone, trying to stop seeing. He didn’t even register the pain as he pressed his broken cheekbone. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t concentrate. He was panicked. He was choking.
He could have killed her. He could have killed his niece. He was a threat to this family. It could have been Patrick or Cameron or Sarah or Sam standing there and he could have killed them. He’s imposing on their lives. He’s causing stress and problems and he shouldn’t be here. He’s a danger to them. He’s a danger to Sam and his family. He brings danger with him wherever he goes. And now he’s brought it here. To Sam. To the one person he’d dedicated his whole life to keeping danger away from.
He couldn’t stay here anymore. He had to go.
For a moment, Dean forgot. For a moment, he tried to swing his legs off the side of the bed so he could get up, pack his stuff, and leave. For a moment, Dean wasn’t even thinking. He wasn’t even thinking as he sobbed and cried and panicked. He wasn’t even thinking as he let the gun rest against his head, forgetting it was in his hand. For a moment, Dean was not Dean. He was a forty year old cripple who’d just pointed a gun at his niece and was now in the middle of one of the biggest panic attacks of his life and instead of over-thinking the small stuff, he stopped thinking at all.
And that was how Sam found him.
Sam had tried to decipher Hannah’s hysterical cries. He’d managed to recognize Dean’s name and Peter Rabbit, her favorite storybook, and then he heard the word gun and that’s all he needed to hear before he was bolting out of bed, Sarah calling out worriedly behind him. A part of him hoped that the gun Hannah was referring to was the magic squirt gun and maybe it had just broken or maybe Dean had done something with it that upset her. But his hopes were squashed as he flung open Dean’s door and froze at what he found inside.
Dean sat on the bed, sobbing in a way Sam had never seen him sob before, not after Mom, not after Dad, with a gun to his head.
Sam crossed the room in a matter of seconds. He leapt onto the bed, putting a blind eye to Dean’s wounds for a moment as he grabbed Dean under the arms and around the wrist holding the gun and moved it away from his head, twisting Dean’s arm until the gun fell uselessly to the floor. And after a moment of just listening to the sound of the gun hitting the floor resonate in the guest room, Sam opened his eyes, not realizing that he’d closed them and turned angrily towards his brother.
“The hell did you think you were doing?” He screamed.
But Sam’s anger turned into worry as he realized Dean wasn’t even paying attention. He just kept taking shallow, gasping breaths and had his eyes clenched shut. Sam gasped himself, his own heart still racing as he positioned himself in front of his brother on the bed, grabbing the sides of Dean’s face. “Dean?” he called firmly but his brother didn’t respond. “Dean,” Sam said again forcefully.
“Sam?” Sam turned his head towards the door and saw Sarah standing there, eyeing them carefully, Hannah was hiding behind her. “Hannah’s pretty scared,” Sarah said, her eyes not straying from Dean.
Sam looked towards Hannah, who was watching Dean with trembling lips. “It’s okay, Hannah,” Sam called out to her before turning back to his brother, absently running a hand through Dean’s hair. He needed a haircut, Sam thought randomly. “Uncle Dean just had a bad dream.” Hannah didn’t say anything. “Sarah, she should go to bed.”
“Sam-”
“Sarah!” Sam yelled a bit louder than he meant to. He looked back at her, a small glimmer of apology in his eye. Sarah’s face was neutral, but he could tell by her stance that she wasn’t happy. They stared at each other for a moment before Sarah gave a fake smile and grabbed Hannah’s hand, shutting the door behind her. Sam sighed. He could deal with her later. Right now, Dean needed him. He turned back to look at Dean, who’d stopped sobbing and now just sat breathing and shaking. “Dean?” Sam asked, still holding the sides of Dean’s head. He titled his brother’s head up to try to catch his eye. “Dean, come on, look at me.”
Dean’s eyes flickered up to Sam’s face. There was barely any recognition there. “I…I can’t, Sammy, I can’t…” Dean panted, breathing still shaking and sporadic.
“Dean you need to calm down,” Sam said, trying to sound calm himself. “Come on, it’s okay.” Sam rubbed Dean’s arm, keeping one hand on the side of Dean’s face.
“I can’t do this, Sammy, I can’t do this,” Dean cried.
Sam had to bite his lip. He’d never seen Dean like this. His eyes glanced towards Dean’s medication on the side table. The bag hadn’t even been opened yet. Dammit. Sam cursed himself for not paying better attention and making sure that Dean took his pills. He was probably hurting something fierce right now. Not to mention the doctors had put him on anti-depressants and with the level they had him on, just having a few days without was probably messing with him pretty bad.
“Jesus, Dean,” Sam whispered and came around to sit next to Dean, pulling his brother into him and just sitting there for a moment. He should have known. He should have known it wasn’t going to be as easy as that for Dean. Because this? This lack of ability? It was probably one of Dean’s worse nightmares. His whole life, Dean had always relied on his strength and body to make things work. He was a fighter and he always used that to keep people safe. To have that suddenly taken away? Sam couldn’t even think about it.
“Let’s get you back to bed,” Sam whispered, pretty sure that Dean was beyond hearing him at the moment. He laid Dean down, crawling over him to get off the bed as he pulled the blankets up. Dean’s eyes closed almost instantly, but he was still mumbling and shaking. Sam put his hand on Dean’s forehead. He felt kind of hot, feverish a little. He sighed and turned to the pharmacy bag, opening it up and taking out the three different pill bottles. He got the pills he needed and set them on the table before turning to go to the kitchen to get a glass of water, but he froze when his toe hit the gun laying on the floor.
How had Dean even gotten a gun in here? “Some things haven’t changed,” Sam muttered as he leaned down and picked it up. He put on the safety and them emptied the clip. He took both down to his study and put them in his desk drawer. The kids weren’t allowed in there. He’d get rid of it later. He got a glass of water from the kitchen and then went back into Dean’s room. His brother hadn’t moved.
Maneuvering Dean so he could get him to take his pills, he laid him down and tucked him in again before pulling up a chair to sit next to the bed. He leaned over and steepled his fingers, watching Dean’s face. Sam wasn’t going to lie. It scared the shit out of him to see Dean like that. He’d never, ever seen Dean so out of control of his emotions. He tried to remember what the doctor had said about post traumatic stress and depression and all of the other things to watch out for, but Sam couldn’t remember all the details. He’d never thought he’d have to. They’d been through so much in their lives and never had they really dealt with the psychological aspects of what happened to them. Sam guessed this episode wasn’t so bad for a forty year old panic attack in the making. It could have been a lot worse.
Dean could have actually pulled the trigger.
Sam sat by Dean’s bed for the rest of the night.
Go to Chapter Nine
Chapters: 8/15
Rating: R
Characters: Sam, Dean, Sarah
Spoilers: All of season one is fair game, but it's a future fic.
Notes: A future fic so it's definitely AU.
Warnings: Sadness and angst. Bring tissues.
Summary: After a horrible accident, Sam and Dean have to relearn what it is to be a family.
Chapter Eight
“Sam? Is that you?”
“Not quite.”
Claws dug deep into his wrists, snapping bone, tearing muscle. Hot breath on his face. Curses in his ears. Screaming and crying and crying and screaming. Pulling. Pulling in opposite directions. One shoulder popped, like cracking a knuckle. White hot agony laced through his body, up his neck, exploding a pain in his head. Tearing at his eyes, sizzling his tears, searing his brain. The other shoulder popped before he had time to recover. Someone screamed. It may have been him. His skin was stretching further than it should have. Tearing down the middle, ripping down the middle, splitting down the middle. It tore and ripped, pulling itself off of muscle, white ligaments snapping like brittle chunks of burning frost.
His skin tore off. Came free from his body. Everything burned. He prayed to be numb.
The world spun and suddenly Sam was leaning over him. Hugging him. Begging him. He was crying blood. Red tears dripped from Sam’s eyes, falling onto his face, into his mouth, burning like acid on exposed muscle.
Then It came. Standing behind Sam and all he could do was watch as It grabbed Sam by the hair and yanked, flinging him backwards into a wall where his body broke apart. Limbs scattered about on the floor like broken glass. Fingers kept flexing, legs kept kicking, his mouth kept moving. Sam lay on the floor and just looked at him. Help. Please help. All he could do was stare. Watch as It tore his brother apart. As Sam was shredded, diced, minced, gone.
Then it went after Dad who screamed and fought but died in seconds.
Then it went after Sarah.
Then Hannah and Patrick and Cameron.
The walls collected their blood and It came over to stand by him. Looking down at him, yellow eyes and bloody lips.
“You did this. It’s your fault. All your fault.”
It smiled grabbed his neck. Squeezing. Squeezing. Crushing. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe.
I can’t breathe, can’t breathe.
Dean woke with a start. His senses were foggy, distorted, but he could sense a presence standing at the foot of his bed. Ignoring the pain that shot up his back as he twisted and scrambled for the drawer, he pulled it open and grabbed the gun in a fluid movement faster than he thought he still had in him. His whole body screamed fire as he pushed himself up with his broken arm and pointed the gun at the figure in his room with a disgruntled yell of, “You’re dead!”
It was only luck that kept him from pulling the trigger.
The shrill scream that greeted him broke through the hazy fog still blocking his vision from seeing clearly. He blinked rapidly, focusing in time to see Hannah’s terrified crumble. She broke into sobs and Dean only had time to whisper a quiet, broken, “Hannah,” before she ran out of the room, dropping the storybook she had clutched in her hands.
Not even Dean’s rapid heartbeat could block out the sounds of Hannah’s sobs and footsteps as she ran to her parents’ room. Dean held the gun shakily in his hand, eyes fixated on the storybook laying open on the floor. Open to a page where a mother bunny was hugging her children. He couldn’t catch his breath. His throat felt like it was closed, constricted to a point it wasn’t allowing air in. Against his will, each intake of breath turned into a sob as his eyes refused to leave the picture in the storybook, refused to see anything other than himself pointing a loaded gun, safety off, at Hannah’s head.
Dear God.
Dean felt so cold then. Even as he sat there sweating, he shivered, violently, teeth chattering. And he still couldn’t breathe. He’d pointed a gun at Hannah. A fucking loaded gun and he’d been ready to squeeze the trigger. His finger had twitched. Just a tiny bit more pressure and he’d be staring at his niece’s brains on the opposite wall…
That thought is what did him in. The mental image of Hannah’s lifeless body, of a wall splayed in blood. It was too much and Dean put the heel of his palm into his eye, pressing so hard on the bruises, on the cracked cheekbone, trying to stop seeing. He didn’t even register the pain as he pressed his broken cheekbone. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t concentrate. He was panicked. He was choking.
He could have killed her. He could have killed his niece. He was a threat to this family. It could have been Patrick or Cameron or Sarah or Sam standing there and he could have killed them. He’s imposing on their lives. He’s causing stress and problems and he shouldn’t be here. He’s a danger to them. He’s a danger to Sam and his family. He brings danger with him wherever he goes. And now he’s brought it here. To Sam. To the one person he’d dedicated his whole life to keeping danger away from.
He couldn’t stay here anymore. He had to go.
For a moment, Dean forgot. For a moment, he tried to swing his legs off the side of the bed so he could get up, pack his stuff, and leave. For a moment, Dean wasn’t even thinking. He wasn’t even thinking as he sobbed and cried and panicked. He wasn’t even thinking as he let the gun rest against his head, forgetting it was in his hand. For a moment, Dean was not Dean. He was a forty year old cripple who’d just pointed a gun at his niece and was now in the middle of one of the biggest panic attacks of his life and instead of over-thinking the small stuff, he stopped thinking at all.
And that was how Sam found him.
Sam had tried to decipher Hannah’s hysterical cries. He’d managed to recognize Dean’s name and Peter Rabbit, her favorite storybook, and then he heard the word gun and that’s all he needed to hear before he was bolting out of bed, Sarah calling out worriedly behind him. A part of him hoped that the gun Hannah was referring to was the magic squirt gun and maybe it had just broken or maybe Dean had done something with it that upset her. But his hopes were squashed as he flung open Dean’s door and froze at what he found inside.
Dean sat on the bed, sobbing in a way Sam had never seen him sob before, not after Mom, not after Dad, with a gun to his head.
Sam crossed the room in a matter of seconds. He leapt onto the bed, putting a blind eye to Dean’s wounds for a moment as he grabbed Dean under the arms and around the wrist holding the gun and moved it away from his head, twisting Dean’s arm until the gun fell uselessly to the floor. And after a moment of just listening to the sound of the gun hitting the floor resonate in the guest room, Sam opened his eyes, not realizing that he’d closed them and turned angrily towards his brother.
“The hell did you think you were doing?” He screamed.
But Sam’s anger turned into worry as he realized Dean wasn’t even paying attention. He just kept taking shallow, gasping breaths and had his eyes clenched shut. Sam gasped himself, his own heart still racing as he positioned himself in front of his brother on the bed, grabbing the sides of Dean’s face. “Dean?” he called firmly but his brother didn’t respond. “Dean,” Sam said again forcefully.
“Sam?” Sam turned his head towards the door and saw Sarah standing there, eyeing them carefully, Hannah was hiding behind her. “Hannah’s pretty scared,” Sarah said, her eyes not straying from Dean.
Sam looked towards Hannah, who was watching Dean with trembling lips. “It’s okay, Hannah,” Sam called out to her before turning back to his brother, absently running a hand through Dean’s hair. He needed a haircut, Sam thought randomly. “Uncle Dean just had a bad dream.” Hannah didn’t say anything. “Sarah, she should go to bed.”
“Sam-”
“Sarah!” Sam yelled a bit louder than he meant to. He looked back at her, a small glimmer of apology in his eye. Sarah’s face was neutral, but he could tell by her stance that she wasn’t happy. They stared at each other for a moment before Sarah gave a fake smile and grabbed Hannah’s hand, shutting the door behind her. Sam sighed. He could deal with her later. Right now, Dean needed him. He turned back to look at Dean, who’d stopped sobbing and now just sat breathing and shaking. “Dean?” Sam asked, still holding the sides of Dean’s head. He titled his brother’s head up to try to catch his eye. “Dean, come on, look at me.”
Dean’s eyes flickered up to Sam’s face. There was barely any recognition there. “I…I can’t, Sammy, I can’t…” Dean panted, breathing still shaking and sporadic.
“Dean you need to calm down,” Sam said, trying to sound calm himself. “Come on, it’s okay.” Sam rubbed Dean’s arm, keeping one hand on the side of Dean’s face.
“I can’t do this, Sammy, I can’t do this,” Dean cried.
Sam had to bite his lip. He’d never seen Dean like this. His eyes glanced towards Dean’s medication on the side table. The bag hadn’t even been opened yet. Dammit. Sam cursed himself for not paying better attention and making sure that Dean took his pills. He was probably hurting something fierce right now. Not to mention the doctors had put him on anti-depressants and with the level they had him on, just having a few days without was probably messing with him pretty bad.
“Jesus, Dean,” Sam whispered and came around to sit next to Dean, pulling his brother into him and just sitting there for a moment. He should have known. He should have known it wasn’t going to be as easy as that for Dean. Because this? This lack of ability? It was probably one of Dean’s worse nightmares. His whole life, Dean had always relied on his strength and body to make things work. He was a fighter and he always used that to keep people safe. To have that suddenly taken away? Sam couldn’t even think about it.
“Let’s get you back to bed,” Sam whispered, pretty sure that Dean was beyond hearing him at the moment. He laid Dean down, crawling over him to get off the bed as he pulled the blankets up. Dean’s eyes closed almost instantly, but he was still mumbling and shaking. Sam put his hand on Dean’s forehead. He felt kind of hot, feverish a little. He sighed and turned to the pharmacy bag, opening it up and taking out the three different pill bottles. He got the pills he needed and set them on the table before turning to go to the kitchen to get a glass of water, but he froze when his toe hit the gun laying on the floor.
How had Dean even gotten a gun in here? “Some things haven’t changed,” Sam muttered as he leaned down and picked it up. He put on the safety and them emptied the clip. He took both down to his study and put them in his desk drawer. The kids weren’t allowed in there. He’d get rid of it later. He got a glass of water from the kitchen and then went back into Dean’s room. His brother hadn’t moved.
Maneuvering Dean so he could get him to take his pills, he laid him down and tucked him in again before pulling up a chair to sit next to the bed. He leaned over and steepled his fingers, watching Dean’s face. Sam wasn’t going to lie. It scared the shit out of him to see Dean like that. He’d never, ever seen Dean so out of control of his emotions. He tried to remember what the doctor had said about post traumatic stress and depression and all of the other things to watch out for, but Sam couldn’t remember all the details. He’d never thought he’d have to. They’d been through so much in their lives and never had they really dealt with the psychological aspects of what happened to them. Sam guessed this episode wasn’t so bad for a forty year old panic attack in the making. It could have been a lot worse.
Dean could have actually pulled the trigger.
Sam sat by Dean’s bed for the rest of the night.
Go to Chapter Nine