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roxyTitle:To The Waters And The Wild
Fandom:SpN
Author:roxy
PairingsDean/Sam
Rating:R
Word Count:3053
Raph was sacked out on the couch and looked a hell of a lot more comfortable on it than Sam had ever been. Sam peered over the back, into Raph's face. Like most anyone else, he looked softer asleep. Kind of…cuddly. Almost. Not that he'd ever risk telling him that, Sam grinned. He chuckled and Raph woke up. All at once, and completely alert. He would have made a good hunter.
"Hey." His voice was sleep-rough, and Sam had to admit, it did pleasant things to him. Again, not something he'd tell Raph. The man was conceited enough.
"Cassandra called around five—wants to know if we're coming in. Told her you'd be home today but you'd call later," Raph said, already reaching for his boots on the floor. "Brother didn't stir all night. You on the other hand, snore and drool like fucking Niagara Falls--so gross. Wait 'til I tell Danny." He slipped the boots on and looked Sam up and down. "You still look like shit, but you'll do. I'll send one of the guys over later with food, okay?" He folded the blanket and tossed it over the back of the couch. "And man. Buy a real couch, you cheap mother fucker."
Sam laughed as he walked him to the door. "Maybe."
"You might want to take some time off, you know. If you can."
Sam grabbed Raph's shoulder and squeezed. "Hey..."
"Don’t get messy on me," Raph said, batting his hand away and Sam choked back a watery laugh.
"You and Dean would get along great—will get along great," he amended. Raph waved him off with a smile, headed away down the hall.
Sam sighed, shut the door—and had a brief and intense desire to rip the door back open and scream for Raph to come back. He rolled his shoulders and said aloud, "I can do this. I don’t need anyone else. All we need are each other."
~~~~~o0o~~~~~
Sam rolled off the couch with a groan. God, Raph was so right—the thing was a fucking horror. He glared at the couch like it was possessed…no one would fault him if he salted and burned it....
He wandered into the kitchen and was faintly surprised to see that it was past eleven o'clock. Fuck. Oh well. They both needed the sleep; last night was the first night Dean'd slept straight through since he'd gotten him back. The quiet was a relief, and knowing that Dean was safely asleep was a good thing for both of them, but it was probably time he woke him up—got him fed....
He walked into his bedroom and the first thing he heard was an odd scritching, sort of squeaky sound…as he watched Dean shivered all over, sound asleep but still grey with exhaustion. Sam came closer, leaned on the edge of the bed and Dean whimpered and between panting, ground his teeth, explaining the odd sound. He whined faintly in between each harsh exhalation, and as Sam expected, he began scratching at his skin with blunt nails. Red weals bloomed everywhere but…Sam leaned even closer…not where he scratched, he saw. "What the fuck--" He dropped to his knees, and lifted the sheet carefully away from Dean.
As Sam watched, thin red lines rose, thickened, darkened, and then paled to ivory before disappearing altogether; they ran down his arms, his chest, disappeared beneath the waistband of the sweatpants he wore. Sam could see weals tracing the lines of his feet….
"Shit…" The weals were gone and the scars that had been there seemed no different. Was Dean was being attacked by something outside of him, or was it some sort of…echo of Hell? He thought about that old cobbled together EMF meter he'd saved, stuffed in a bag in the bottom of the closet and sighed. He might as well admit that the long vacation he taken from that world was coming to an end—getting Dean back was going to come with some kind of price no matter what Esu said….
Sam lowered his hand to Dean's chest, about to touch the scooped out scar there when he suddenly snapped awake, surged towards Sam in a liquid move. His teeth were bared and he was snarling like a wild thing. He looked ready to rip into him, but flinched back at the last second when he recognized Sam.
Sam was as startled by the attack as Dean seemed to be. He gotten used to him crying, or spacing out, or tearing at his body like he was trying to pull something out of himself…but this was…hell, it was *scary*. Dean looked nothing like pitiful—he looked fucking dangerous.
Sam edged away from him, slowly, carefully, with his hands up and open. He tried to smile and hoped it wasn't the slippery grimace it felt like on his face. He hoped it radiated good damn morning and hey, no big that his brother'd just tried to tear his throat out…"Hey Dean, how're you feelin'? Ready to get up? Um--you want to—to eat?" Sam spoke soothingly, quietly; the tone he'd take talking to a skittish dog who just might decide what he wanted was to chew Sam's face off. Sam smiled and waited, kind of hoping for an actual answer, but Dean just watched him silently, wary as a Weimaraner on point as Sam eased off the bed carefully.
Sam sighed, got up and headed to the kitchen. He stopped in the middle of the room, thinking, before rubbing hard at the back of his neck. Food…definitely needed to get some. Yeah. In the end, he just heated up what was left of his sandwiches and brought it back to the bedroom. Dean was exactly as he'd left him, wary eyes darting this way and that, tracking Sam's movement but not meeting his eyes. When Sam sat on the edge of the bed again, Dean slid quietly away from him and Sam felt it like a punch to the chest. He swallowed and tried to project comfort; waited until he was sure his voice wouldn’t shake before he spoke. "He--hey. Want a bite?" Dean didn’t move, so he nibbled an edge of the sandwich, tried to convey with facial tics that it was the best god damn luke-warm bacon and egg sandwich in the whole damn world, and waited for Dean's move.
Dean watching him chew the sandwich made him feel just a little uneasy, considering he was watching him as intensely as he used to watch--porn. He sniffed like he was trying to inhale the sandwich, and made a faint questioning sound. "Mmm, good…you want some, right?" Of course he wanted some, bacon was practically food of the gods as far as Dean was concerned, no way he'd be able to resist…and yeah, Dean inched even closer. A tiny line of drool dripped unnoticed from his chin and Sam's stomach twisted. "Here—take a damn bite all ready." But the hand holding out the sandwich out to Dean was rock-steady and his face was blank, and he tried to keep his voice level and calm. "Take it damn it. You're starving. Here, eat the fucking thing." A memory spun up from somewhere, some place—his pudgy little kid hand holding out half his sandwich for a stray and getting yelled at for wasting food.
The smell finally became too much for him, and Dean struck like a snake—ripped the sandwich out of his hand and in not more than a second, wolfed it down. Looked a little stunned when the flavor registered—his mouth dropped open in astonishment and his eyes went wide. He licked and licked his lips, his hands, sucked grease off his fingers…he closed his eyes, the tip of his tongue touched lightly across his lips again and suddenly, he smiled and whuffed out a little sigh….
Jesus…Heat raced through him and Sam tugged his shirt down until it shielded his lap and felt…dirty. That smile, that pointed little tongue tip…he moved farther towards the foot of the bed. Away from Dean. "Good, uh. Good--do you want more?"
Dean stared at Sam, and okay, so even if he didn't talk back, Dean understood what he was saying. The look of awe-struck hope in his eyes was almost enough to break Sam. "Yeah, okay. I'm going to take this off," he laid his hand on Dean's ankle, "And we can go in the kitchen. You can watch me make a sandwich, all right?"
Dean narrowed his eyes and jerked his head once up and down. He wiped at the thin reddish line running over his chin—
"Fuck—" Sam grabbed his chin and pulled down and Dean squeaked and froze. A long shudder ran over him, he inhaled sharply and opened wider. The inside of his mouth was raw, just like Raph said, and thinned blood stained his teeth. It looked like a cut had re-opened…Dean moaned, an unhappy sound--but he didn't move, or try to get away. He looked…resigned. His tongue slid forward and lapped at Sam's fingers.
"Jesus—stop that!" Sam jerked his hand away. He was burning—from horror at Dean's action, at what his expression hinted at…from shame. He jumped to his feet. "Kitchen—soup! Coke! Come—come on!" He reached out to grab Dean, yanked his hand back. He waffled uncertainly and finally just bolted for the door.
Dean was thoroughly confused but he followed Sam out, his bare feet making a pattering sound on the tile as he trailed him.
"Soup I think, I mean toast is no good right now, you need soft stuff, but I promise no more cup-a-soups or fucking applesauce, we're going to get decent, I mean, real food, healthy—good for you--" he knew he was babbling but couldn’t stop. He opened the fridge door and stared inside, and hoped that at least the cold would kill the blush he could feel heating his cheeks. "Ah fuck, I forgot…looks like we'll eat healthy as soon as I go shopping, damn it."
He rummaged through the cabinets and found a couple of cans of soup…he opened a can of chicken and rice, and poured it into a pot. Dean was still standing where Sam left him, breathing hard; glancing around when he thought Sam wasn't looking. His mouth was moving but Sam couldn’t read his lips…he wasn't whispering or singing. Just…moving his mouth. "C'mere," Sam said and held a hand out.
Dean padded quickly across the kitchen, dropped to his knees in front of Sam and reached for his belt and Sam yelped. He flailed, yelled when he connected with Dean and knocked him to the floor. He lay there; terrified eyes on him, gulping like a fish on dry land...Sam clamped his hands over his mouth, hard.
This?
*So* much worse than he ever imagined.
~~~~~o0o~~~~~
Sam broke out the bottle of Wild Turkey a grateful client had gifted him with once. He usually gave the gifts and stuff to the crew but it had reminded him of Dean and he'd taken it home, not ever really meaning to drink it, not ever really thinking anyone would, but still hoping that some day….
So, okay…someday was here and he felt like right now, he could use a drink or two. More.
Dean was hovering at the edge of his sight, pacing back and forth, glancing at him and away…really should get him back into the bedroom. He'd been jumpy but quiet since that—that display.
Every fucking time Sam closed his eyes, that image short-circuited his brain. It scared him, made him sick—partly because it was that very image that woke him in the middle of the night, guilty and sweating, but mostly because--why would Dean *do* that? Shit, what happened to him, that getting on his knees was the response to…Sam breathed in a shuddering sigh, lifted the bottle and gulped—made a face. Swear to God, he didn't want to know—
He pulled himself to his feet and almost said "come here" before his throat closed. He grabbed Dean by the wrist and dragged him back to the bedroom. The second he let go of his wrist, Dean rolled into a ball on the floor next to the bed. Sam sank onto the mattress, fingering the rope and drinking.
Okay, fuck that, he wasn't going to tie Dean down, not anymore, he wasn't. Dean was still curled in on himself, but watched Sam's every movement through his fingers. He looked like…he was ready to bolt. Looked hungry still and yeah, sure he was. Need to get up again, get food into him, the soup--he was skinny as hell. It made Sam so sad, how skinny he was. All stabbing elbows, and knobby knees pulling the fabric of the sweat pants out of shape, ribs laddering up his sides. Shit—he could count them. He would count them if he could get up, one by one…freckles. He sighed. Being in hell had stolen all Dean's freckles, all the scars he remembered…all gone but these new odd ones, replacing them. He didn’t like the new ones. "Don't," he muttered, "like them." He flopped down on his back, cradling the bottle…thinking. Remembering.
Dean's freckles. He used to imagine what it would be like to touch his tongue to them, follow them, connect each little copper dot to dot…he sobbed. Is that what happened to them? Was it him wanting these sick things that lead to this punishment? He sobbed louder when the still shape at his feet shuddered and whined. Dean was the unfortunate one, he'd had to pay because Dean always paid for him…he shook the nearly empty bottle. God, he hoped he was just going to pass the fuck out—though with his luck, he'd choke to death on his own vomit…s'okay, he deserved it. He cried quietly now and wiped snot off his lip and remembered that this? Was why he didn’t drink, something he never managed to remember until he was drunk and swearing not to ever be drunk again. Dean was inches from his face, warm breath gusting over Sam's mouth; his head tilted like his brother was a puzzle he was trying to decipher.
"Dean, sorry…Dean." After that, he didn't know anything for a while--
~~~~~o0o~~~~~
Dean drifted in and out of sleep—each time he woke, his body tensed against the pain he expected and was terrified when it didn't come. Each time he had to remind himself this was not the world filled with fire and ash and blood…this world was cold and wet, the air pawed at him and clung to his pores and made his lungs feel soggy and too full. He shivered and turned on the hard flat surface. The floor. Bits and pieces of memories clicked into place but so slowly. It hurt, and sometimes he wished for them not to come but he knew it was important. He must have these memories for Sam and Sam was important to him…he just couldn't remember why.
It was comfortable under the bed, narrow, dark and safe. Dean swept his head back and forth, searching; listening. He wasn't allowed to protect himself but if he could make himself ready for it than the pain wasn't as bad. Somewhat. He longed for the days when he could hurt back—hurt *first*.
Thirst and hunger finally drove him out from under the bed. Sam's thick, gurgling snores had turned to even quite breathing and light seeped in past the closed drapes. Dark and light—this was a thing that happened. Before, it was always dark. The sky was always red from the fires and dark with smoke but now…Dean trembled as memory came to him. Dark and light, was day and night. Day. Daybreak. Daytime, morning, afternoon evening night midnight sun sunlight stars moon clouds sky Sam… He shuddered under the shower of chill words and icy images interwoven with images that were black and howling, burned as they filled his mouth with blood and ripped through him like knives dug into his heart and…it felt good. Normal. Felt like--
He came to, curled on his side, nauseous and shivering as the information overload ebbed. He pulled himself up on the side of the bed and froze, waiting. Sam was silent, deep in sleep. He quickly scurried across the room and fetched up against doorframe. His eyes flashed from the sleeping form on the bed, to the open doorway. A cramp folded him over and made him grunt. Hungry. He was hungry and Sam, was sleeping. He'd been sleeping and sleeping and not feeding Dean and now Dean was hungry. Dean…me. Me. I…hungry.He shook his head hard. Dean. He was Dean. I am. I am--He licked the inside of his mouth, tasting…feeling. Stared at his hands. Put a finger in his mouth, tasting…salt, wet…nothing else.
He crawled back over to the bed and looked at Sam, sleeping like the dead, mouth open and sour breath slowly gusting in and out. He made a noise; a squeak…Dean tilted his head and stared. Slowly reached a finger out and poked him. Sam's nose squished slightly under the pressure of his finger. Hungry, Sam. Hungry. He worked his mouth and a croaking groan leaked out. He flinched and pressed his lips tight.
Dean leaned his head on the bed and sniffed--Sam scent mixed and fought with the other scents. He smelled like the empty bottle under his curled arm, sour and sharp, and like sleep, and meat, all wrapped in the soothing smell he knew was Sam's. His mouth watered and he pulled back. He patted Sam's cheek and it was nice, soft where it was smooth, prickly and pleasant against his palm where it wasn't. But Sam wasn't moving so he moved instead. Something ran over the floor and Dean whirled towards the movement. Something black and many legged ran for the safety of the baseboard, but Dean got it first. He popped it in his mouth and crunched down, got a thick slick burst on his tongue that he swallowed down too fast. Food, but too little. I am. Hungry. He looked for more food.
part 10
TBC
Fandom:SpN
Author:roxy
PairingsDean/Sam
Rating:R
Word Count:3053
Raph was sacked out on the couch and looked a hell of a lot more comfortable on it than Sam had ever been. Sam peered over the back, into Raph's face. Like most anyone else, he looked softer asleep. Kind of…cuddly. Almost. Not that he'd ever risk telling him that, Sam grinned. He chuckled and Raph woke up. All at once, and completely alert. He would have made a good hunter.
"Hey." His voice was sleep-rough, and Sam had to admit, it did pleasant things to him. Again, not something he'd tell Raph. The man was conceited enough.
"Cassandra called around five—wants to know if we're coming in. Told her you'd be home today but you'd call later," Raph said, already reaching for his boots on the floor. "Brother didn't stir all night. You on the other hand, snore and drool like fucking Niagara Falls--so gross. Wait 'til I tell Danny." He slipped the boots on and looked Sam up and down. "You still look like shit, but you'll do. I'll send one of the guys over later with food, okay?" He folded the blanket and tossed it over the back of the couch. "And man. Buy a real couch, you cheap mother fucker."
Sam laughed as he walked him to the door. "Maybe."
"You might want to take some time off, you know. If you can."
Sam grabbed Raph's shoulder and squeezed. "Hey..."
"Don’t get messy on me," Raph said, batting his hand away and Sam choked back a watery laugh.
"You and Dean would get along great—will get along great," he amended. Raph waved him off with a smile, headed away down the hall.
Sam sighed, shut the door—and had a brief and intense desire to rip the door back open and scream for Raph to come back. He rolled his shoulders and said aloud, "I can do this. I don’t need anyone else. All we need are each other."
Sam rolled off the couch with a groan. God, Raph was so right—the thing was a fucking horror. He glared at the couch like it was possessed…no one would fault him if he salted and burned it....
He wandered into the kitchen and was faintly surprised to see that it was past eleven o'clock. Fuck. Oh well. They both needed the sleep; last night was the first night Dean'd slept straight through since he'd gotten him back. The quiet was a relief, and knowing that Dean was safely asleep was a good thing for both of them, but it was probably time he woke him up—got him fed....
He walked into his bedroom and the first thing he heard was an odd scritching, sort of squeaky sound…as he watched Dean shivered all over, sound asleep but still grey with exhaustion. Sam came closer, leaned on the edge of the bed and Dean whimpered and between panting, ground his teeth, explaining the odd sound. He whined faintly in between each harsh exhalation, and as Sam expected, he began scratching at his skin with blunt nails. Red weals bloomed everywhere but…Sam leaned even closer…not where he scratched, he saw. "What the fuck--" He dropped to his knees, and lifted the sheet carefully away from Dean.
As Sam watched, thin red lines rose, thickened, darkened, and then paled to ivory before disappearing altogether; they ran down his arms, his chest, disappeared beneath the waistband of the sweatpants he wore. Sam could see weals tracing the lines of his feet….
"Shit…" The weals were gone and the scars that had been there seemed no different. Was Dean was being attacked by something outside of him, or was it some sort of…echo of Hell? He thought about that old cobbled together EMF meter he'd saved, stuffed in a bag in the bottom of the closet and sighed. He might as well admit that the long vacation he taken from that world was coming to an end—getting Dean back was going to come with some kind of price no matter what Esu said….
Sam lowered his hand to Dean's chest, about to touch the scooped out scar there when he suddenly snapped awake, surged towards Sam in a liquid move. His teeth were bared and he was snarling like a wild thing. He looked ready to rip into him, but flinched back at the last second when he recognized Sam.
Sam was as startled by the attack as Dean seemed to be. He gotten used to him crying, or spacing out, or tearing at his body like he was trying to pull something out of himself…but this was…hell, it was *scary*. Dean looked nothing like pitiful—he looked fucking dangerous.
Sam edged away from him, slowly, carefully, with his hands up and open. He tried to smile and hoped it wasn't the slippery grimace it felt like on his face. He hoped it radiated good damn morning and hey, no big that his brother'd just tried to tear his throat out…"Hey Dean, how're you feelin'? Ready to get up? Um--you want to—to eat?" Sam spoke soothingly, quietly; the tone he'd take talking to a skittish dog who just might decide what he wanted was to chew Sam's face off. Sam smiled and waited, kind of hoping for an actual answer, but Dean just watched him silently, wary as a Weimaraner on point as Sam eased off the bed carefully.
Sam sighed, got up and headed to the kitchen. He stopped in the middle of the room, thinking, before rubbing hard at the back of his neck. Food…definitely needed to get some. Yeah. In the end, he just heated up what was left of his sandwiches and brought it back to the bedroom. Dean was exactly as he'd left him, wary eyes darting this way and that, tracking Sam's movement but not meeting his eyes. When Sam sat on the edge of the bed again, Dean slid quietly away from him and Sam felt it like a punch to the chest. He swallowed and tried to project comfort; waited until he was sure his voice wouldn’t shake before he spoke. "He--hey. Want a bite?" Dean didn’t move, so he nibbled an edge of the sandwich, tried to convey with facial tics that it was the best god damn luke-warm bacon and egg sandwich in the whole damn world, and waited for Dean's move.
Dean watching him chew the sandwich made him feel just a little uneasy, considering he was watching him as intensely as he used to watch--porn. He sniffed like he was trying to inhale the sandwich, and made a faint questioning sound. "Mmm, good…you want some, right?" Of course he wanted some, bacon was practically food of the gods as far as Dean was concerned, no way he'd be able to resist…and yeah, Dean inched even closer. A tiny line of drool dripped unnoticed from his chin and Sam's stomach twisted. "Here—take a damn bite all ready." But the hand holding out the sandwich out to Dean was rock-steady and his face was blank, and he tried to keep his voice level and calm. "Take it damn it. You're starving. Here, eat the fucking thing." A memory spun up from somewhere, some place—his pudgy little kid hand holding out half his sandwich for a stray and getting yelled at for wasting food.
The smell finally became too much for him, and Dean struck like a snake—ripped the sandwich out of his hand and in not more than a second, wolfed it down. Looked a little stunned when the flavor registered—his mouth dropped open in astonishment and his eyes went wide. He licked and licked his lips, his hands, sucked grease off his fingers…he closed his eyes, the tip of his tongue touched lightly across his lips again and suddenly, he smiled and whuffed out a little sigh….
Jesus…Heat raced through him and Sam tugged his shirt down until it shielded his lap and felt…dirty. That smile, that pointed little tongue tip…he moved farther towards the foot of the bed. Away from Dean. "Good, uh. Good--do you want more?"
Dean stared at Sam, and okay, so even if he didn't talk back, Dean understood what he was saying. The look of awe-struck hope in his eyes was almost enough to break Sam. "Yeah, okay. I'm going to take this off," he laid his hand on Dean's ankle, "And we can go in the kitchen. You can watch me make a sandwich, all right?"
Dean narrowed his eyes and jerked his head once up and down. He wiped at the thin reddish line running over his chin—
"Fuck—" Sam grabbed his chin and pulled down and Dean squeaked and froze. A long shudder ran over him, he inhaled sharply and opened wider. The inside of his mouth was raw, just like Raph said, and thinned blood stained his teeth. It looked like a cut had re-opened…Dean moaned, an unhappy sound--but he didn't move, or try to get away. He looked…resigned. His tongue slid forward and lapped at Sam's fingers.
"Jesus—stop that!" Sam jerked his hand away. He was burning—from horror at Dean's action, at what his expression hinted at…from shame. He jumped to his feet. "Kitchen—soup! Coke! Come—come on!" He reached out to grab Dean, yanked his hand back. He waffled uncertainly and finally just bolted for the door.
Dean was thoroughly confused but he followed Sam out, his bare feet making a pattering sound on the tile as he trailed him.
"Soup I think, I mean toast is no good right now, you need soft stuff, but I promise no more cup-a-soups or fucking applesauce, we're going to get decent, I mean, real food, healthy—good for you--" he knew he was babbling but couldn’t stop. He opened the fridge door and stared inside, and hoped that at least the cold would kill the blush he could feel heating his cheeks. "Ah fuck, I forgot…looks like we'll eat healthy as soon as I go shopping, damn it."
He rummaged through the cabinets and found a couple of cans of soup…he opened a can of chicken and rice, and poured it into a pot. Dean was still standing where Sam left him, breathing hard; glancing around when he thought Sam wasn't looking. His mouth was moving but Sam couldn’t read his lips…he wasn't whispering or singing. Just…moving his mouth. "C'mere," Sam said and held a hand out.
Dean padded quickly across the kitchen, dropped to his knees in front of Sam and reached for his belt and Sam yelped. He flailed, yelled when he connected with Dean and knocked him to the floor. He lay there; terrified eyes on him, gulping like a fish on dry land...Sam clamped his hands over his mouth, hard.
This?
*So* much worse than he ever imagined.
Sam broke out the bottle of Wild Turkey a grateful client had gifted him with once. He usually gave the gifts and stuff to the crew but it had reminded him of Dean and he'd taken it home, not ever really meaning to drink it, not ever really thinking anyone would, but still hoping that some day….
So, okay…someday was here and he felt like right now, he could use a drink or two. More.
Dean was hovering at the edge of his sight, pacing back and forth, glancing at him and away…really should get him back into the bedroom. He'd been jumpy but quiet since that—that display.
Every fucking time Sam closed his eyes, that image short-circuited his brain. It scared him, made him sick—partly because it was that very image that woke him in the middle of the night, guilty and sweating, but mostly because--why would Dean *do* that? Shit, what happened to him, that getting on his knees was the response to…Sam breathed in a shuddering sigh, lifted the bottle and gulped—made a face. Swear to God, he didn't want to know—
He pulled himself to his feet and almost said "come here" before his throat closed. He grabbed Dean by the wrist and dragged him back to the bedroom. The second he let go of his wrist, Dean rolled into a ball on the floor next to the bed. Sam sank onto the mattress, fingering the rope and drinking.
Okay, fuck that, he wasn't going to tie Dean down, not anymore, he wasn't. Dean was still curled in on himself, but watched Sam's every movement through his fingers. He looked like…he was ready to bolt. Looked hungry still and yeah, sure he was. Need to get up again, get food into him, the soup--he was skinny as hell. It made Sam so sad, how skinny he was. All stabbing elbows, and knobby knees pulling the fabric of the sweat pants out of shape, ribs laddering up his sides. Shit—he could count them. He would count them if he could get up, one by one…freckles. He sighed. Being in hell had stolen all Dean's freckles, all the scars he remembered…all gone but these new odd ones, replacing them. He didn’t like the new ones. "Don't," he muttered, "like them." He flopped down on his back, cradling the bottle…thinking. Remembering.
Dean's freckles. He used to imagine what it would be like to touch his tongue to them, follow them, connect each little copper dot to dot…he sobbed. Is that what happened to them? Was it him wanting these sick things that lead to this punishment? He sobbed louder when the still shape at his feet shuddered and whined. Dean was the unfortunate one, he'd had to pay because Dean always paid for him…he shook the nearly empty bottle. God, he hoped he was just going to pass the fuck out—though with his luck, he'd choke to death on his own vomit…s'okay, he deserved it. He cried quietly now and wiped snot off his lip and remembered that this? Was why he didn’t drink, something he never managed to remember until he was drunk and swearing not to ever be drunk again. Dean was inches from his face, warm breath gusting over Sam's mouth; his head tilted like his brother was a puzzle he was trying to decipher.
"Dean, sorry…Dean." After that, he didn't know anything for a while--
Dean drifted in and out of sleep—each time he woke, his body tensed against the pain he expected and was terrified when it didn't come. Each time he had to remind himself this was not the world filled with fire and ash and blood…this world was cold and wet, the air pawed at him and clung to his pores and made his lungs feel soggy and too full. He shivered and turned on the hard flat surface. The floor. Bits and pieces of memories clicked into place but so slowly. It hurt, and sometimes he wished for them not to come but he knew it was important. He must have these memories for Sam and Sam was important to him…he just couldn't remember why.
It was comfortable under the bed, narrow, dark and safe. Dean swept his head back and forth, searching; listening. He wasn't allowed to protect himself but if he could make himself ready for it than the pain wasn't as bad. Somewhat. He longed for the days when he could hurt back—hurt *first*.
Thirst and hunger finally drove him out from under the bed. Sam's thick, gurgling snores had turned to even quite breathing and light seeped in past the closed drapes. Dark and light—this was a thing that happened. Before, it was always dark. The sky was always red from the fires and dark with smoke but now…Dean trembled as memory came to him. Dark and light, was day and night. Day. Daybreak. Daytime, morning, afternoon evening night midnight sun sunlight stars moon clouds sky Sam… He shuddered under the shower of chill words and icy images interwoven with images that were black and howling, burned as they filled his mouth with blood and ripped through him like knives dug into his heart and…it felt good. Normal. Felt like--
He came to, curled on his side, nauseous and shivering as the information overload ebbed. He pulled himself up on the side of the bed and froze, waiting. Sam was silent, deep in sleep. He quickly scurried across the room and fetched up against doorframe. His eyes flashed from the sleeping form on the bed, to the open doorway. A cramp folded him over and made him grunt. Hungry. He was hungry and Sam, was sleeping. He'd been sleeping and sleeping and not feeding Dean and now Dean was hungry. Dean…me. Me. I…hungry.He shook his head hard. Dean. He was Dean. I am. I am--He licked the inside of his mouth, tasting…feeling. Stared at his hands. Put a finger in his mouth, tasting…salt, wet…nothing else.
He crawled back over to the bed and looked at Sam, sleeping like the dead, mouth open and sour breath slowly gusting in and out. He made a noise; a squeak…Dean tilted his head and stared. Slowly reached a finger out and poked him. Sam's nose squished slightly under the pressure of his finger. Hungry, Sam. Hungry. He worked his mouth and a croaking groan leaked out. He flinched and pressed his lips tight.
Dean leaned his head on the bed and sniffed--Sam scent mixed and fought with the other scents. He smelled like the empty bottle under his curled arm, sour and sharp, and like sleep, and meat, all wrapped in the soothing smell he knew was Sam's. His mouth watered and he pulled back. He patted Sam's cheek and it was nice, soft where it was smooth, prickly and pleasant against his palm where it wasn't. But Sam wasn't moving so he moved instead. Something ran over the floor and Dean whirled towards the movement. Something black and many legged ran for the safety of the baseboard, but Dean got it first. He popped it in his mouth and crunched down, got a thick slick burst on his tongue that he swallowed down too fast. Food, but too little. I am. Hungry. He looked for more food.
part 10
TBC