I’ve been meaning to post some comment-fics I’ve written here for awhile. They’ve been cleaned up a little and titled, and… yeah!
So Far From Your Weapon by maypoles
Written for a_starfish’s prompt at spn_hurtcomfort’s hurt/comfort comment-fic meme: Sam, Dean, (Gen): S4, Dean has an especially effed up relationship with pain now, Sam finds out/realises. And I offer cookies for self injury (but not cutting!) and extra ones for it not having much ritualistic behaviour attached - so it'd be just something he does and he doesn't particularly plan it or think about it afterwards. Pretty much what the prompt says, with added bro cuddling! 1,406 words. Spoilers: s4. Warning: self-harm. R. Dean, Sam, gen, although Dean/Alistair is kind of alluded to.
Dean isn’t proud of it, but he misses Alistair sometimes. See, in hell, where you’re the most alone you’ve ever been, anybody who touches you in any way, you love them.
After he gets out, Dean forgets things every once and awhile, little human things. He goes to choke down food the way he used to and he just can’t. He’s forgotten how to swallow.
One day he picks at his cheeseburger and Sam lets him get away with it, but the next morning he orders Dean’s breakfast for him, eggs and sausage and a side of hash-browns. Dean takes one look at it all congealing on his plate and it’s like his whole body shuts down because now he’s forgotten how to breathe.
“Something wrong with your breakfast, dollface?” the waitress asks, and for a few sick seconds he’s sure he’s going to come back to life screaming, that he’ll tear her throat out, throw up, something. He punches his thigh under the table, unconsciously at first and then with purpose, but it doesn’t help even a little, so he stops.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he manages, voice coming out wheezing, as thick and slow as mud.
“Well, if you’re sure,” she says, glancing at Sam uncertainly, like she thinks he’s lying to her, like she’s thinking all these horrible things about him. Paranoia settles heavily in a throbbing headache behind his eyes.
“He’s sure,” Sam says tightly, but when she’s gone he puts down his napkin, leans across the table. “Dean?” he says. “You need to get out of here or what?”
“Nah,” Dean says, takes a few swallows of scalding coffee. It goes down fine, thank fuck.
“Dollface,” Sam teases after awhile, and Dean flips him off.
When there was nothing left, when Dean didn’t have lips or a tongue or a voice anymore to scream his brother’s name, something in Alistair would- not gentle, but seem to. He’d pet at Dean’s hair, maybe, or cup his face, like Dean was a beloved pet or a small child. Sometimes he’d kiss him on the edge of his broken mouth, saying, so sweetly, “Cheer up, son. Give or take a few hundred years and little Sammy will be here. Because this is where he’s going to end up, you know. Oh, the tragedy. After what you did for him? Well. When he gets here, I’ll let you watch me tear him apart. If you’re a good boy. Are you going to be a good boy, Deano?”
That’s him. That’s the guy Dean misses at night; that’s the guy he aches for.
Dean loves setting shit on fire, but tonight he’s just standing there with a pack of matches in his hands, daydreaming over an open grave. He’s forgotten where he is until Sam says, “What’s the hold-up?” starting towards him with an impatient frown.
Dean’s head bobs up, seems to loll on his shoulders for a few seconds before he can begin to set it right. He blinks a few times, heavy-eyed. “Sssshit,” he slurs.
“Dean?” Sam says, incredulous, arm hovering at his brother’s elbow. “Did you just- were you asleep, just now?”
“It’s the fuckin’ caffeine,” Dean says, which doesn’t even make any sense. At the same time they both notice that he’s shaking, hard, his fingers fumbling uselessly with the pack of matches.
“Dean, hey. Hey,” Sam says, and he does touch him then, takes the matches from him carefully. He lights one and throws it onto the bones of one Candace Miller. “There,” he says, as the familiar burnt hair smell begins to rise. “Let’s get out of here, okay? C’mon.”
“Gimme that,” Dean snaps, and shoves the matches back in his pocket where they used to belong.
Dean is pacing the length of their motel room. He hasn’t slept in nearly 27 hours now; he and Sam have been living on gas station sandwiches and Pepsi and chips for days, not even a goddamn beer to take the edge off since they just got out of a dry county. Dean is about as pissed as he’s ever been, knowing that with every step he takes he’s only proving every shameful thing Sam’s ever said about him true, but he can’t stop now. He has to keep going.
“You should try to get some sleep,” Sam keeps telling him, nice and calm. Dean wants to punch him in his stupid, calm face. It pisses him off even more than Sam would probably let him get away with it.
“Jesus,” he says, about ready to haul off and punch the wall instead.
“How about I go get you something from the vending machine first?” Sam coaxes. “Whatever you want, man.”
“You’re such a good wife, Sammy,” Dean says. He feels mean, and faintly feverish, every joint aching. He’s half-hard for no reason that he can understand.
“You really need to get some sleep, Dean,” Sam says. “I’m serious.”
“Fuck you; don’t touch me,” Dean says.
“Okay,” Sam says from the other side of the room. He holds his hands up. “You’re bumping into walls over there, is all I’m saying.”
“Did you lay the salt-lines?”
“Yes, Dean. Yes. I laid the salt lines. Like always. Okay? Now will you calm your ass down and go to bed?”
“Whatever. You calm down,” Dean says. “You go to bed.”
“Yeah, you know what? I’m going out,” Sam says. “You’re being a child. I can’t talk to you when you’re like this. I- shit!”
“So go,” Dean says.
“Man, don’t even start that with me right now,” Sam says. “I mean it.”
Dean mock-salutes him; Sam closes his eyes and breathes loudly through his nose. He’s still standing there like that when Dean locks himself in the bathroom. He peels his sweaty shirt off with vague plans to take a shower, but then the handprint on his upper-arm catches his eye. It stays furnace-red, always, like something only partially healed.
He doesn’t really think about what he does next.
It doesn’t matter how long he holds the lit match up to the already burnt-looking skin on his shoulder - it’s no good. He can’t do it the way Alistair did it; he can’t sear past flesh and bone and molecules the way he did, and when he realizes this, Dean hears himself make a noise he’s never made on earth, some kind of ghostly, keening wail.
His arms are suddenly pinned down. “What’s wrong with you? What the hell is wrong with you?” Sam is nearly hysterical, shaking him so violently that it sets something already in motion in Dean into overdrive and he slams his head back against the wall, panicked.
“No, Dean, no,” Sam says, hand at the back of Dean’s neck then, pat-patting him, his face. “Oh, god. God, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, it’s okay, you’re okay. You’re okay. There’s nothing’s wrong with you. You’re fine.”
Dean shakes his head jerkily, but lets Sam pat at him some more.
Sam trembles a little, staring into his eyes. “Oh, you son of a bitch. Dean.”
He takes care of Dean’s shoulder for him. Dean doesn’t know exactly what he does for it; he doesn’t look to see. He’s so tired of seeing what he’s done to himself.
“Please don’t do that again,” Sam says after he makes Dean lie down in bed. He’s crying, silently. “Please. I feel like- I won’t be able to stand it.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Dean stutters. “Sammy. Sam, you were right, man. I’m tired. I’m just tired, all right, and I got stupid.”
“Just shut up, okay?” Sam is fiercely gentle, and with his eyes wet and sore-looking like that, he’s someone Dean almost recognizes.
“Don’t go,” he blurts out then, and his brother’s giant hand instantly falls back on him, onto his head, smoothing back the unwashed hair there. Sam’s hand covers his entire forehead and more, nearly his entire skull. It’s hard to think that Sam had once been smaller than him, had wanted to be carried everywhere and had clung to Dean’s waist like a baby monkey until Dean gave in and said okay, c’mon, up. It’s hard to think about anything these days, say anything, be here at all. He tries again anyway. “Sammy, don’t-”
“Shh, I won’t,” Sam promises, and stays with him in his bed all night that night, close, but that isn’t what Dean had meant.
Dig, Lazarus, Dig (working title: Ready) by maypoles
Written for an anonymous prompt at hoodie_time’s own Dean-focused hurt/comfort comment-fic meme: Sam, Dean, gen. After "On The Head Of A Pin," Dean has a bit of a breakdown. I’m kind of obsessed with this episode, so I knew this prompt was for me right away. Please just ignore my complete lack of knowledge as to how hospitals work? ;) 1,629 words. Spoilers: For "On The Head Of A Pin" and s4 in general. PG-13. Dean, Sam, gen. Like two seconds of Sam/Ruby.
He got the call before they were through.
“You haven’t had enough,” Ruby said, and she was right.
“I’ve gotta go,” he said tightly, buttoning his shirt with tingling fingers while she watched him, head cocked to one side.
“Is he okay?” she said, in a passable imitation of someone who gave a fuck.
“I’ve gotta go,” he said again. “They said he’s been- asking for me.”
“I understand,” she said. She didn’t touch him but she looked like she wanted to. “He needs you to protect him right now. But how are you gonna do that if you don’t take what I’m giving you? I’ll give it to you, Sammy. Right now.”
So, he was 45 minutes late to his brother’s mental breakdown.
They let him in to see Dean even though it was 3 am. The sedative wasn’t working on him at the recommended dosage, they said. Maybe Sam could calm him down. They were compassionate, but in the distant kind of way that doctors and nurses were compassionate, the way that he himself was compassionate, dealing with victims. But this wasn’t just any victim. This was Dean, and as soon as Sam saw his brother, strapped down to the bed by four-point restraints, face smeared with snot and tears, it hit him full-force. Dean had been screaming for him, thinking he was back in hell or god knows what, and Sam hadn’t been here.
He sat down on the edge of the bed by Dean’s hip, wishing he could explain what he was doing, how he was doing all of it for Dean, but knew it would be useless in the end. Dean hadn’t even understood Sam wanting to save his life last year, not really.
Sam felt a quick flare of anger that he tamped down viciously. “Hey, Dean,” he said gently. “Hey, man, I’m here. I’m right here, okay?”
Dean’s eyes slid past his, aimless, red-rimmed. They were these huge, wounded things in his face that pained Sam to see, but at least he wasn’t screaming anymore. Still wide-awake, though, and breathing hard, obviously terrified of something.
“Do you know where you are?” Sam pressed.
Dean yanked at his restraints, making a humming, hurt, confused little sound.
Sam thought about taking them off, but he’d never seen Dean like this before, and it unsettled him deeply. The look Dean had laying there was so alien it was almost like Sam had never got him back at all. So he left them on. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said. “They’re just to keep you safe.”
“Sammy,” Dean whispered suddenly, desperately. His voice was even worse than it had been earlier. Wrecked. “How- how’d you get away from Alistair?”
“Dean,” Sam said, going cold and hot at the same time. He drew in a breath. “I’m fine, man. Alistair- he’s gone. We’re both fine. You just go to sleep now, all right? Get some rest. Everything’s fine. In the morning, you’ll be-” He wanted to hit something, but there was only Dean. He smoothed his hand through his brother’s hair again and again, his clammy forehead, and Dean began to relax after that in increments.
“You’ll be fine,” Sam kept telling him.
“He’s never gonna let me go,” Dean slurred right before his eyelids finally fell shut.
Dean was running a low-grade fever the next morning, but he was better. Coherent. He talked to Bobby on Sam’s cell phone until he dissolved into a coughing fit and then Sam watched him spoon applesauce painstakingly slowly from a hospital-issue plastic dish to his mouth. They could both hear Sam’s stomach when it growled.
“You can go,” Dean rasped.
“Shut up,” Sam said with more heat than he meant to.
“I mean, to the cafeteria,” Dean said.
Sam didn’t believe him, that that’s what he’d meant. “I don’t want to go to the cafeteria,” he said. “You jerk. You asshole.”
“You’re the asshole, bitch,” Dean said. “And you’re freaking me out, lookin’ at me like that. Quit it.”
“How do you know I’m looking at you? You haven’t looked at me all morning.”
Dean put his spoon down. He rubbed at his raw wrists. Then he did look up, and Sam wished he hadn’t. There was that alien-something again, like his big brother had been stripped down. Like a car, for spare parts. He was all in pieces and Sam had let it happen, goddamn it.
"Did you kill him, Sam?” Dean wanted to know. “Cas- he said-“
“Yes,” Sam said. “And I don’t care what you say, Dean. I couldn’t save you, but I could damn sure make it so he could never-”
“You killed him?” Dean said.
“Yes,” Sam said again, sitting up straighter in his chair.
It was the first time Dean had nothing to say about him using his powers. “Okay,” was all he said, not like he was angry or upset, not like he was thinking anything at all.
“Listen,” Sam said after awhile. “Psych wants to talk to you in fifteen. You gonna be ready for them?”
“I was born ready,” Dean said, the way Sam knew he would.
They’d had run-ins with psych before. Dad had even been admitted once - in with a concussion and bleeding on the brain, he’d tried to exorcise the nurse. They’d laughed about it afterwards.
Sam didn’t feel like laughing when they admitted Dean. It was only a 24 hour hold, but they’d already stuck around a week too long using these aliases. And Sam was starting to think Dean belonged here, that if they were regular people, that this was where he should be right now. He didn’t know how he could think that. But he just had. He’d thought it and now it was out there.
They had breakfast together the next day, but again, neither of them ate much. Sam sipped at a cup of coffee and Dean poked at another bowl of applesauce. “You want some of this?” Sam said finally, holding out his cup.
“Yeah, okay,” Dean said.
“It’s hot, careful,” Sam warned when Dean reached out his trembling hands for it, like he was somebody’s mother. He winced.
“Thanks,” was all Dean said. He took a cursory sip and handed it back. “Burned my fucking tongue.”
Sam tried not to sigh at him.
Dean picked up his spoon and put it back down.
“Hey, man,” Sam said. “Do you want me to get you something else to eat?” He didn’t know what. There wasn’t much Dean could swallow, not with his throat bruised the way it was. But he had to do something. Something other than killing Alister. He had to do more, anything more.
“Dunno,” Dean said. “I don’t think-“ He stopped.
“There’s teeth in it,” Dean said, staring into his dish. It made no sense. Sam instinctively looked in the dish too, but there was nothing there but the applesauce Dean had been pushing around for the past half an hour.
“What?” he said dumbly.
“Sam, there’s- oh god-”
“What are you saying? Dean?”
“There’s-” Dean’s face twisted up so that he seemed both very young and old at the same time. “Teeth. Sammy.”
“What kind of drugs are they giving you?” Sam said. “Dean, this is just a drug reaction, okay? It must be. There’s no- there’s no teeth. Come on.”
Tears dripped off of Dean’s chin. He didn’t wipe them away. Again, Sam wanted to hit something, but there was only Dean. He came over to the bed and put his hand on Dean’s ankle and shook him a little that way, rocked him. He knew if he touched him any more than that they’d probably both just die right there. Dean cried softly until he started coughing again and then the nurses came and gave him a shot of something and he settled down, curled up on his good side and fell into a kind of semi-sleep with his eyes slit barely open.
When Sam could breathe he went out in the hallway and said, “What was that? That you gave him?” But he already half-knew.
It wasn’t the drugs that had done this.
Dean wouldn’t eat anything the next day and they hooked him up to an IV. During visiting hours, Sam did the crossword puzzle in the paper and they didn’t talk much because Sam was scared of what Dean would say and Dean was scared of what Dean would say.
His brother spent most of his time curled up in a ball. If he started to fall asleep, he’d twitch himself awake. There were purple smudges beneath his eyes separate from all the bruising, and his eyelids themselves were swollen. There were so many things Sam wanted to say to him. “They want to talk to you again later,” he said before he left for the day. “You just tell them- whatever, okay? It’ll all be all right. I’ll make it all right. Don’t worry.”
Dean licked cracked lips. “I’ll be ready for ‘em this time,” he said.
“Okay,” Sam soothed, and got him some ice chips.
When the hospital released Dean in the morning, Sam was sure it was due to a bed shortage. But when he stopped at a drive-through for muffins, coffee, an orange juice for Dean, Dean ate half of the muffin and drank all of the juice before they’d even gotten back to the motel. Sam was so relieved he felt like crying, but he couldn’t. And he felt like putting his hand on the back of his brother’s neck, and he could do that, so he reached over and that’s what he did.
Dean looked at him from the passenger seat, showing his teeth in what must have been supposed to be a smile. “Told you I’d be ready for ‘em,” he said.