Dismantling To Repair (supernatural fic)
Title: Dismantling To Repair
Rating: PG
Spoilers: up through Season 4
Disclaimer: Belongs to Kripke/CW. The title is a play off an Anberlin song.
Summary: Awake in the middle of the night, Sam tries to take care of his older brother.
Word Count: 345
A/N: Dedicated to fullonswayzeed, who wanted hurt/comfort.
“Dammit, Sammy, get off me” Dean’s hands scrabble at Sam’s back, gripping at the material of his shirt only to release it once more as he struggles between the comfort and his shame.
In the end, whether Sam releases him from the hold or not has become irrelevant. Dean already lost significant pride when he woke in tears a moment ago, clawing at himself and spewing nonsensical cries for help as he slowly fought out of those flashbacks from hell-the damn memories that have managed to pull themselves together when he wasn’t looking.
“Dean.” Breaking through the horrid images, Sam’s voice is surprisingly firm.
Unable to understand how the tone can feel so safe, Dean croaks: “Yeah?”
“Shut the hell up, man.” And Sam’s arms tighten around him.
It’s not until Dean swallows, leaning fully on his brother, that he realizes how tense he had become-and that he had in fact began to hug his brother back.
“You’re gonna be okay, Dean.” Sam’s voice drops a few octaves when he turns his head toward Dean’s ear.
Kissing at the area above Dean’s ear, Sam continues to mutter cheap comforts and sappy promises that would on any other occasion earn him a beating. Tonight they sound too honest-reliable. They have a ringing hope to their presence that eases the knot that Dean’s stomach has become.
Even as he shakes his head and tries to choke out, “That’s bullshit.” The words lodge in his throat, because some small part of him recognizes that all he wants right now is bullshit, finding reality too hard to face.
Hours later finds them collapsed back on Dean’s bed, his relaxed body half covered by the sprawl of Sam’s, warm--utterly immobile. Their cell phones switched to voice mail and their eyes all dried up, the Winchester boys slumber in complete oblivion to the presence in their room.
Across from them, Castiel watches in some mixture of confusion. His smile fights a grimace, and he leaves them to each other--having found that with Sam present--he is no longer needed.
Rating: PG
Spoilers: up through Season 4
Disclaimer: Belongs to Kripke/CW. The title is a play off an Anberlin song.
Summary: Awake in the middle of the night, Sam tries to take care of his older brother.
Word Count: 345
A/N: Dedicated to fullonswayzeed, who wanted hurt/comfort.
“Dammit, Sammy, get off me” Dean’s hands scrabble at Sam’s back, gripping at the material of his shirt only to release it once more as he struggles between the comfort and his shame.
In the end, whether Sam releases him from the hold or not has become irrelevant. Dean already lost significant pride when he woke in tears a moment ago, clawing at himself and spewing nonsensical cries for help as he slowly fought out of those flashbacks from hell-the damn memories that have managed to pull themselves together when he wasn’t looking.
“Dean.” Breaking through the horrid images, Sam’s voice is surprisingly firm.
Unable to understand how the tone can feel so safe, Dean croaks: “Yeah?”
“Shut the hell up, man.” And Sam’s arms tighten around him.
It’s not until Dean swallows, leaning fully on his brother, that he realizes how tense he had become-and that he had in fact began to hug his brother back.
“You’re gonna be okay, Dean.” Sam’s voice drops a few octaves when he turns his head toward Dean’s ear.
Kissing at the area above Dean’s ear, Sam continues to mutter cheap comforts and sappy promises that would on any other occasion earn him a beating. Tonight they sound too honest-reliable. They have a ringing hope to their presence that eases the knot that Dean’s stomach has become.
Even as he shakes his head and tries to choke out, “That’s bullshit.” The words lodge in his throat, because some small part of him recognizes that all he wants right now is bullshit, finding reality too hard to face.
Hours later finds them collapsed back on Dean’s bed, his relaxed body half covered by the sprawl of Sam’s, warm--utterly immobile. Their cell phones switched to voice mail and their eyes all dried up, the Winchester boys slumber in complete oblivion to the presence in their room.
Across from them, Castiel watches in some mixture of confusion. His smile fights a grimace, and he leaves them to each other--having found that with Sam present--he is no longer needed.