fic: hands of time only rule this chapter
COME ON, LJ. *crosses fingers*
title: hands of time only rule this chapter
pairing: sam/dean
rating: r
warnings: self harm, h/c ending pushing heavy on schmoop
summary: You can't force an addict to stop, Sam knows this better than anyone.
notes: ~1000 words. written for blindfold_spn from the prompt: "Sam finds out that Dean is self-harming as a coping mechanism, and this leads to oodles of angst and hugging and possibly desperate sex." Originally posted here.
Sam doesn't notice until they both get captured by ghouls and he doesn't manage to get free until after the creatures have started having their way with Dean. Only after he kills the two ghouls does he notice Dean struggling to cover the gashes they made on his thighs, despite the hole they'd made in his side and the blood oozing out of his wrists. Sam hurries to help him, but Dean only shoves him away.
"I got it," he growls, his face a twisted picture of agony as he rips off a piece of his shirt to stem the bleeding on his leg.
Sam pushes back against him, feels as Dean's arms go weak against his body. "The only thing you've got is about five minutes until you pass out from blood loss. Move your hands."
Dean moves his hands and Sam takes the rags and rearranges them to be more effective, tearing them into smaller pieces to wrap around Dean's wrists. He notices the linear cuts on the inside of Dean's thigh and says, "What happened there?"
Dean makes a noncommittal grunt and mumbles, "Same thing always happens, shit goes wrong somewhere." Sam takes the answer for what it is and works on slowing the blood flow leaking from Dean's side.
It doesn't click until Sam stumbles into the bathroom one night, bladder so full it'd woken him out of his first sleep in thirty-six hours. He's already got a steady stream flowing into the john before he wakes up enough to realize Dean's staring at him from inside the bathtub, wide-eyed and red-handed. Literally, on both accounts, as blood from the razor blade he holds in one hand drips down to his fingers as he lays, frozen in place.
"Dean?" Sam asks tentatively, cutting off the flow and tucking himself back into his boxers.
Dean looks at a loss for words, stutters a bit. "It's... not what it looks like?" he finally manages.
Sam's torn between storming over and ripping the razor blade out of Dean's hands and yelling or gently telling his brother to put the weapon down, that everything will be fine, treating him like the basket case he apparently is these days. Really Sam can't blame him, coming back from hell surely does a number on one's psyche.
Sam chooses neither option. "Looks like you're vying to become the next Picasso with a razor." Dean flinches at the phrasing, just like Sam thought he would. "I assume you know what you're doing. Just don't get carried away." You can't force an addict to stop, Sam knows this better than anyone.
Dean's eyes widen almost incredulously, and he manages a short nod before Sam storms out of the bathroom. He doesn't go back to sleep until Dean staggers out two hours later and collapses into the bed next to him. Sam loops an arm around Dean's shoulders and pulls him closer, wonders how he could've missed this.
~
"You still do that?" Sam asks, and Dean has to seriously concentrate to make his hand jerk away from his arm and not further into it. He'd come to the panic room for some quiet, come to get away from his suddenly resouled and alive brother, overwhelmed by the sudden feeling that maybe everything would be okay, because nothing is ever okay and he needed a reminder. Apparently he'd been in such a hurry he'd forgotten to close the door.
Sam steps inside the room he'd just spent the last several days in, closes the door behind him. Locks it. "Just us again."
Dean shakes his head. "Always something on the other side of that door."
"So you hurt yourself, because you can't always control what's out there but you can always control how the knife feels pushing down into your skin?"
Dean opens his mouth to deny it, but it's a little useless considering he's standing there with blood dripping down his arm and his favorite knife, Sam's knife, clenched in his white-knuckled hand. "Um," is what eloquently comes out.
Sam walks slowly over to him, slowly enough that Dean could duck away, load a punch, make any number of actions, but instead he's frozen in place, as Sam reaches for the knife, folds it and puts in his pocket, as Sam lifts Dean's arm and kisses the place he'd started to cut open.
Dean can't do anything but watch. "You don't want me to stop?"
Sam squeezes Dean's wrist. "Of course I want you to stop. But you have to want to, as well."
"Sam, I-"
"You can do anything you want to do, Dean, don't give me that shit."
Dean thinks about the scars up his thigh, pale thin white lines faded over the years. He thinks about the burn marks on his right hip, about the still-healing red streaks just below his collarbone. "I don't know what I want anymore." He sounds pathetic and he hates himself for it.
Sam smiles, lopsided and small. "You still want me, right?"
Dean nods jerkily, feels the tears start to swell up, like he's a damned pussy "'Course, Sammy. Just a little overwhelming to have you back all the sudden, in one piece fucking finally."
"So you came down here to deal with that feeling?"
Dean ducks his head, guilty admission more than any words he could think to say. Sam takes another step closer, carefully wraps Dean's injured arm around his back. Dean's other arm hangs loosely at his side for a moment after Sam start to hug him, and then he brings it up to meet his other one, clasps his hands together and pulls Sam as tightly to him as he can. It's reminiscent of the hug they shared just a few hours ago, the first time Dean had seen his brother alive and whole since returning from hell, but the message behind it is even clearer. 'You don't have to live without me,' it says. 'I still want you,' it screams. 'We can do anything,' it reassures.
Dean decides he's done hurting himself as long as Sam's by his side.
title: hands of time only rule this chapter
pairing: sam/dean
rating: r
warnings: self harm, h/c ending pushing heavy on schmoop
summary: You can't force an addict to stop, Sam knows this better than anyone.
notes: ~1000 words. written for blindfold_spn from the prompt: "Sam finds out that Dean is self-harming as a coping mechanism, and this leads to oodles of angst and hugging and possibly desperate sex." Originally posted here.
Sam doesn't notice until they both get captured by ghouls and he doesn't manage to get free until after the creatures have started having their way with Dean. Only after he kills the two ghouls does he notice Dean struggling to cover the gashes they made on his thighs, despite the hole they'd made in his side and the blood oozing out of his wrists. Sam hurries to help him, but Dean only shoves him away.
"I got it," he growls, his face a twisted picture of agony as he rips off a piece of his shirt to stem the bleeding on his leg.
Sam pushes back against him, feels as Dean's arms go weak against his body. "The only thing you've got is about five minutes until you pass out from blood loss. Move your hands."
Dean moves his hands and Sam takes the rags and rearranges them to be more effective, tearing them into smaller pieces to wrap around Dean's wrists. He notices the linear cuts on the inside of Dean's thigh and says, "What happened there?"
Dean makes a noncommittal grunt and mumbles, "Same thing always happens, shit goes wrong somewhere." Sam takes the answer for what it is and works on slowing the blood flow leaking from Dean's side.
It doesn't click until Sam stumbles into the bathroom one night, bladder so full it'd woken him out of his first sleep in thirty-six hours. He's already got a steady stream flowing into the john before he wakes up enough to realize Dean's staring at him from inside the bathtub, wide-eyed and red-handed. Literally, on both accounts, as blood from the razor blade he holds in one hand drips down to his fingers as he lays, frozen in place.
"Dean?" Sam asks tentatively, cutting off the flow and tucking himself back into his boxers.
Dean looks at a loss for words, stutters a bit. "It's... not what it looks like?" he finally manages.
Sam's torn between storming over and ripping the razor blade out of Dean's hands and yelling or gently telling his brother to put the weapon down, that everything will be fine, treating him like the basket case he apparently is these days. Really Sam can't blame him, coming back from hell surely does a number on one's psyche.
Sam chooses neither option. "Looks like you're vying to become the next Picasso with a razor." Dean flinches at the phrasing, just like Sam thought he would. "I assume you know what you're doing. Just don't get carried away." You can't force an addict to stop, Sam knows this better than anyone.
Dean's eyes widen almost incredulously, and he manages a short nod before Sam storms out of the bathroom. He doesn't go back to sleep until Dean staggers out two hours later and collapses into the bed next to him. Sam loops an arm around Dean's shoulders and pulls him closer, wonders how he could've missed this.
~
"You still do that?" Sam asks, and Dean has to seriously concentrate to make his hand jerk away from his arm and not further into it. He'd come to the panic room for some quiet, come to get away from his suddenly resouled and alive brother, overwhelmed by the sudden feeling that maybe everything would be okay, because nothing is ever okay and he needed a reminder. Apparently he'd been in such a hurry he'd forgotten to close the door.
Sam steps inside the room he'd just spent the last several days in, closes the door behind him. Locks it. "Just us again."
Dean shakes his head. "Always something on the other side of that door."
"So you hurt yourself, because you can't always control what's out there but you can always control how the knife feels pushing down into your skin?"
Dean opens his mouth to deny it, but it's a little useless considering he's standing there with blood dripping down his arm and his favorite knife, Sam's knife, clenched in his white-knuckled hand. "Um," is what eloquently comes out.
Sam walks slowly over to him, slowly enough that Dean could duck away, load a punch, make any number of actions, but instead he's frozen in place, as Sam reaches for the knife, folds it and puts in his pocket, as Sam lifts Dean's arm and kisses the place he'd started to cut open.
Dean can't do anything but watch. "You don't want me to stop?"
Sam squeezes Dean's wrist. "Of course I want you to stop. But you have to want to, as well."
"Sam, I-"
"You can do anything you want to do, Dean, don't give me that shit."
Dean thinks about the scars up his thigh, pale thin white lines faded over the years. He thinks about the burn marks on his right hip, about the still-healing red streaks just below his collarbone. "I don't know what I want anymore." He sounds pathetic and he hates himself for it.
Sam smiles, lopsided and small. "You still want me, right?"
Dean nods jerkily, feels the tears start to swell up, like he's a damned pussy "'Course, Sammy. Just a little overwhelming to have you back all the sudden, in one piece fucking finally."
"So you came down here to deal with that feeling?"
Dean ducks his head, guilty admission more than any words he could think to say. Sam takes another step closer, carefully wraps Dean's injured arm around his back. Dean's other arm hangs loosely at his side for a moment after Sam start to hug him, and then he brings it up to meet his other one, clasps his hands together and pulls Sam as tightly to him as he can. It's reminiscent of the hug they shared just a few hours ago, the first time Dean had seen his brother alive and whole since returning from hell, but the message behind it is even clearer. 'You don't have to live without me,' it says. 'I still want you,' it screams. 'We can do anything,' it reassures.
Dean decides he's done hurting himself as long as Sam's by his side.