Fic: Inside-Outside (Remix)
Inside-Outside
Summary:Remix of tifaching's fic Flashback. Sam POV. Written for the Remix Challenge at hoodie_time.
Spoilers: S4-ish
Warnings:Horror, slight gore, disturbing imagery, self harm, language.
Notes:Read the original first. This probably won't work without it.
Acknowledgments: Big thanks to twirlycurls for her prompt and helpful beta, and to hokuton_punch for her dead languages kung fu.
Inside-Outside
Nam ego capior miserabiliter, et tu evellis misericorditer aliquando non sentientem…
--
The world’s made up of places. The world’s an accumulation of memories. The world’s a heart in a junk-man’s hand, still warm, still alive. Bright and smiling, sharp and wicked. Drunk on grief, on the ecstasy of loss.
Things slip all over the place, shards of glass strewn across the floor, slick with fluid. Most of the time he can barely stay upright. Tries not to look down. Only when things shift, when everything shifts so sharply, he can’t help it. His eyes drop and he catches it, the edges of light, the glitter and the sound of laughter. All covered in blood.
He’s lost his footing. Everything’s shifted. He’s found the empty place.
--
His skin splits open with a sharp and vicious noise. Wet and tearing as if his body is soft. Soft and rotting already. Covered in fungus, riddled with worms.
He says, “Okay.” A quiet breath, as his knees buckle. A whisper that barely makes it past his lips. Where is he? Shit, where is he? With his skin torn open and a familiar face leering at him out of the shadows, crouching in the dark. Except…it’s Hell. It’s Hell, and in Hell it’s never dark, never really dark unless it’s supposed to be, supposed to be a black cold room where the stars can get inside, crawl deep inside and light up bright and burn…
He’s on his knees but that’s okay, it’s okay, because skin is made for peeling off, and blood for running out. He grasps at his guts reflexively but he knows better, feels the stab of shame at the action. He’s learned better. Skin is for coming off, and Sam is. Sam is there right there grabbing at him, and Dean breathes out again, another “okay,” but softer this time. Maybe too soft. Tries again.
“Sam, Sam, Sammy, hey,” every word lined with the burn in his gut. Blurry around the edges with it. With the fire coming on, inside. “You gotta-hey…”
Only Sammy isn’t really listening. Is Dean missing something here? Everything’s right where it should be, even deep inside. Deep down under the muscle, squirming against his bones…but Sam is hauling Dean upright and slinging an arm across his back. Dean’s legs sink under the weight and Sam clutches at him and they’re staggering through the black as Sam keeps up a steady stream of noise. Cross-talk. Static. Meaningless. Dean knows what he wants, though. The words aren’t really important. It’s what he wants that matters.
Sammy always gets what he wants.
--
“Hey, Dean,” Sam murmurs, leaning in close. “Hey, kiddo. We’re going to play a game. You like games, right? I remember that about you.”
He smiles broadly, eyes soft.
“I remember lots of things about you.”
--
Sam Sam Sam they have to-Sam I can, I can feel them Sam
Sam
They’re shivering under his skin like strange lights, hungry phosphorescence. Hungry. Always. He needs a better weapon than his own fingers. Needs something sharp. Sam has all the sharp edges. Always has.
No, wait. Dean’s hands grasp reflexively for the sharp cold metal edge Sam should be pushing against his palm. For him. But his hands stay empty. And instead something soft tightens around his gut, around the open places in his skin aroundtheopenplacesinhisskin and that’s-no, no Sam no. No. And Sam shoves Dean into some new dark place that smells of leather and yanks his hands away and Dean’s left staring up at nothing. At the stars. At the light under his skin.
A new trick, a new joke. Wrapped up tight while the little fires kindle and burn, while his muscles twitch and yes, right on time, comes the sound. Not a real sound, of course. (Cicadas in summer) But he squeezes his eyes shut and paws at his ears, fingers sticky and wet. No. Nono. Not that. Not from the inside out. Sam that bastard Sam always with the new tricks always with the jokes always always get them out Sam get them out
Where is he? Where is Sam? Dean can do this. He can do this. He just needs something sharp, needs to finish up. It isn’t too late, right? Shit, maybe it is, Dean should be halfway finished already. Skin. If he doesn’t get it off then-
He has to get it off.
--
“No, no,” Sam lifts his chin, gently, “No, Dean. Open your eyes. There we go. There we go. I knew you were in there. Look at me now. That’s it. Good job.”
--
“Sam. Sam.” Can Sam hear him? Is he even listening? Help me, Sam. Don’t leave me like this. Not again. Don’t make me do it again. No one else can help me help me please please don’t leave it like this
“Sam.” Louder. “Sam!” Help me, Sam. “It's not right. They can't get out. Please, help them get out! Sam!”
He’ll tear the skin off with his bare hands if he has to. Only please. Please.
He’s still bleeding, underneath. He drags his fingers against the bandages, tries not to whimper at the unnatural heat pushing up through his skin. They’re there. They’re not going to wait. Sam. Help me. Sammy.
"You have to finish, Sam. You have to finish so it can start. If you don't get this done, it won't begin again and you can't leave me like this. They're under there Sam, I can feel them. It hurts to finish and it hurts to start, but it's worse if you leave me in between. Please don't leave me in between!" It rips right out of his throat and Sam’s there leaning over him yelling right in his face to stop, just fucking stop and he knows, the bastard, the lying sonuvabitch, he knows Dean can do it why the hell is he fucking around like this, this isn’t the time for games this isn’t the time. Dean isn’t getting anything done like this. Finish it finish it help me make it stop.
"I can feel them Sammy. Please, it didn't finish. Please, Sam!"
Sam’s face is tight, cold, with none of the humor that should be there to go with the joke, with the fucking bandages. But he licks his lips, at least, and in a weird wavery voice says, “Okay," and, "Okay, Dean I'll finish. But we have to get back to the room, man. I can't do it here."
What? Room? No Sammy there’s no time to move him again Sam Christ they’re already tearing up his insides Sam, Jesus fucking God just finish it finish it and Dean maybe says something along those lines but who knows? Christ, he needs to get hold of himself. Needs to calm down. He needs to
to
he needs
he
--
“Shh,” says Sam. “Hey, shh. It’s gonna be okay. Open your eyes now. That’s it. You keep going away on me. Now I know you don’t want me to leave you like this. Do you? Is that what you want? Because you can make it stop, Dean. Anytime. Anytime you want. Hey there. Yeah. That’s better, right? Shh, come on. You’re almost finished already.”
--
Okay. Okay.
He was asleep? He was…he went away for a while. That can happen, he knows. Sometimes. Sleep isn't possible but Dean knows sometimes he goes away. It’s always kind of unexpected and usually Sam’s the one who reaches in and pulls him back. Like now. He rolls his head a bit, tries to get his bearings. Room. Right. The room.
It’s something a little softer, some other place. It’s where Sam needed to get to. It’s where Sam needed to go that was so much more important than getting Dean’s fucking skin off and okay. Okay. He needs to calm down. He scrabbles briefly at what feels weirdly like a bedcover. Why is there a bedcover? Fuck, who knows? Who the hell knows why Sam does anything?
Maybe that’s the joke, though. Something new for Dean. Something’s biting him right across his belly. Something is-
“No!” He tries to shove himself upright when he realizes what Sam has done ohgod what’s he done, he’s yanked the bandages off sometime when Dean was, was somewhere else, and right about now Dean is wishing for bandages, would fucking break down crying for bandages to let out the blood and the heat because Sam has stitched all the tears in his skin shut. He’s actually stitched them all shut.
Fire. Fire. Firefirefire
"You did it backwards!” He hears his voice crack. “Backwards, Sam!"
Sam glances at him, briefly, then goes back to work. Long deft fingers, confident and steady hands. He’s stitching up all the tears. And he’s making shushing noises right in Dean’s face because of course Sam is always so calm and so quiet and this is all some awful stupid game he thought up while Dean was away. Or…Sam was away. Was it Sam? Maybe it was Sam. Making up something worse than the inside-outside game. And. He’s shoved a needle, an honest-to-god hand-to-the-heart needle into the crook of Dean’s arm at some point and. Now he’s putting something in it. Gently. So gently.
Stealing Dean’s time.
No. No Sammy. Sammy, no.
The bed is soft and Sam is. Soft. Quiet hands. Soft. Dean’s got to keep his head. To keep…to stay-focused. He’s running out, time’s fading in and out around him. Pulsing. Softly. Shit. No. It’s not time. It’s not.
(“Shh,” Sam says. “Shh.”)
Time.
--
Sam says, “You’re so good at this.”
--
When he opens his eyes again, Sam’s in a chair. Pretending to sleep or something. Why? Who knows? Who cares? But if that’s the whole game, it’s…Jesus, what is it? It’s not like stitches don’t come out. It doesn’t even take that much work, even though his arms are heavy and his fingers thick and clumsy. But he works at it. He’s good at it. It’s what he’s made for. Pulling and tearing. Nothing sharp really needed, a good carpenter never blames his tools everybody gets a happy. A happy ending. He sticks his tongue between his teeth and concentrates. It takes a little while but it’s good. Even the steady thrumming hum under his skin can’t distract him. It’s good. It’s fine. It’s peaceful. The stitches come right out and blood runs down his stomach and spills onto the bedcover.
Bedcovers. Heh.
Oh. Sam’s awake. Whoops. He’s upset, too, springing upright. Was this not the game? Did Dean make a mistake? But he’s got to plead with him, if that’s what it takes. Gotta try something. Maybe Sam’ll let go of whatever new thing he’s been planning. Maybe let Dean get his hands on what he needs. He’s shivering a little, trembly on the surface. Sam might not go along with it. But he’s got to. Oh he’s got to.
No more of this, this in-between, inside-inside outside-outside….this shit. Things need to be where they’re supposed to be.
"Why are you leaving me in between, Sammy?” His voice comes out thin and he’s trying not to let Sam see the shaking. Tries not to let it show. Sam might have come up with something worse but now that Dean’s done all this work, Sam will let him finish. He will, right? He has to.
He has to.
Please.
“You know that's the worst.” His voice huddles small and he makes sure he doesn’t lick his lips. Adds tentatively, hopefully, “When it can't get out. Please. Let me fix it?"
No, it’s a new game after all. He knows for sure when Sam grabs him and yanks two pairs of cuffs from someplace below the bed. (Why is he on a bed?) Why a new game? Why now? Okay, so…so maybe Sam got tired of watching? He’s the one who taught Dean the best tricks, anyway. Okay. Dean relaxes a little. Sam’s got this. He’s got Dean. He watches the cuff snap around his right wrist, lets out a little breath.
"That's right, Sam,” he murmurs, “That's good.” He’s trying to be reassuring, hoping he’s guessed right. Keep Sam moving, just in case he changes his mind. His skin’s still shivering and the distant noise is with him now. Incessant. But Dean keeps talking right through it, quietly, reaching for Sam with his words. Sam just has to finish. He did it backwards, but now, it’s gonna be okay. Just finish it Sam. Please.
Please hurry.
But Sam, Sammy, keeps his voice soft and gentle and has the nerve to ask "Finish what, Dean? Finish how?"
Motherfuck.
"Finish what?” He spits in Sam’s face, and maybe it’s not his finest hour but Christ this has gone on long enough. Too damn long. “Finish how, you fucker?” So forgive him, he’s snarling and barking because he’s so sick of waiting, it’s taken too long already and this can’t go on but wait, wait, maybe this is Sam’s new game. To remind Dean. Make him remember, make sure he does remember because the skin is almost inconsequential. What matters is…well, whatever Sam thinks matters, is what matters. Okay.
He wants to hear Dean say it? "Okay. Okay, if it gets it done, I'll say it." He nods towards the blood welling from his belly. "You have to finish opening it up.” And he tells him, like he’s talking to a child. About the skin, about the fire that eats from the inside. “You have to take the skin off,” he says calmly. And hurry. Take it off. All of it. Now, do it now.
But Sam’s staring at him like he got it wrong and bleating like skinning Dean is the worst thing he ever heard of. Like he can’t imagine anything more awful. And really? Now? Dean rolls his head back against the pillow and pushes a noise out through his throat. Yanks hard on the cuffs, hands spasming. Sam’s going to-he’s gonna let them. Eat him. Burn right through, clean through. He’s going to. He’s.
And Dean knows he’s screaming. And he knows that whatever he’s saying is just noise now, just words. Irrelevant. Only please Sam, for me. Please don’t. Begging. Begging you. “I’m fucking begging you!” His throat works. He’s. There’s wetness on him. Sticky salt-wet on his face because he’s crying again, he hasn’t cried for Sam in years but Sam’s been so good to him for so long and now, now, why won’t he finish it just please Sammy please for me please help me Sam please help me don’t let them. Don’t.
Don’t let them.
Sammy, I thought you
But he’s not going to. He’s not. He’s got his hand on Dean’s head and making noises and none of it matters. None of it.
Why?
But Dean understands how this works. Understands that he’ll never know why. Never really know. He just rolls his head a little against Sam’s hand and tells him the story about the first time. If he can just…maybe Sam will forgive him. For whatever. Whatever he did. Only please. The first time, right? It can be like that again, maybe. Whatever you want, Sam. Sammy. Promise. Only please. Because Dean can feel them, now. More insistent, if a little muffled. A little, as if Sam’s been holding them back all this time which makes sense, really. It would’ve been over by now if he hadn’t been. So Sam’s been pushing them back just to let Dean make a fool of himself and that’s…that’s just the sort of thing Sam would enjoy. That’s it, that’s what it was all along. But Dean keeps talking anyway. Just because. It’s all he’s got left. If Sam’s not taking off the skin and Dean’s not allowed to do it himself then. Time’s up.
Little fires light up in the dark. Dean shuts his eyes. He can see them, pinpricks on a dark plain. Searing and bright, terrifying stars. Melting together. Keeps talking to distract himself. Doesn’t watch his skin start blistering. Doesn’t watch it peel and burn away. Pulls on the cuffs but can’t cover his ears. Can’t hide from the noise. Can’t.
Sam keeps his hand where it is.
“Dean,” he says. “Dean.”
--
“Good boy,” Sam says softly, and smiles smiles smiles. “Good. Very good. Open your eyes for me, Dean. You’re almost done. Almost there. Keep them open, kiddo. Come on. Come on. You’re doing a really good job.”
--
Dean doesn’t like this new game. But he keeps on talking, anyway.
Sam’s hand rests heavy on his head.
He never asks Dean to open his eyes.
-end-
_________________________________________________
Notes: Quote from Book X of The Confessions of St. Augustine:
“For I am taken miserably, and Thou pluckest me out mercifully; sometimes not perceiving it…”
I had a hell of a time digging the Latin up, seeing as how I don’t speak or read any Latin. At all. Um. I’m not trying to imply some connection here between Sam and Augustine’s god, btw. Just, I like the quote and it’s implication in reference to both this fic and its parent fic. That’s all.
Summary:Remix of tifaching's fic Flashback. Sam POV. Written for the Remix Challenge at hoodie_time.
Spoilers: S4-ish
Warnings:Horror, slight gore, disturbing imagery, self harm, language.
Notes:Read the original first. This probably won't work without it.
Acknowledgments: Big thanks to twirlycurls for her prompt and helpful beta, and to hokuton_punch for her dead languages kung fu.
Inside-Outside
Nam ego capior miserabiliter, et tu evellis misericorditer aliquando non sentientem…
--
The world’s made up of places. The world’s an accumulation of memories. The world’s a heart in a junk-man’s hand, still warm, still alive. Bright and smiling, sharp and wicked. Drunk on grief, on the ecstasy of loss.
Things slip all over the place, shards of glass strewn across the floor, slick with fluid. Most of the time he can barely stay upright. Tries not to look down. Only when things shift, when everything shifts so sharply, he can’t help it. His eyes drop and he catches it, the edges of light, the glitter and the sound of laughter. All covered in blood.
He’s lost his footing. Everything’s shifted. He’s found the empty place.
--
His skin splits open with a sharp and vicious noise. Wet and tearing as if his body is soft. Soft and rotting already. Covered in fungus, riddled with worms.
He says, “Okay.” A quiet breath, as his knees buckle. A whisper that barely makes it past his lips. Where is he? Shit, where is he? With his skin torn open and a familiar face leering at him out of the shadows, crouching in the dark. Except…it’s Hell. It’s Hell, and in Hell it’s never dark, never really dark unless it’s supposed to be, supposed to be a black cold room where the stars can get inside, crawl deep inside and light up bright and burn…
He’s on his knees but that’s okay, it’s okay, because skin is made for peeling off, and blood for running out. He grasps at his guts reflexively but he knows better, feels the stab of shame at the action. He’s learned better. Skin is for coming off, and Sam is. Sam is there right there grabbing at him, and Dean breathes out again, another “okay,” but softer this time. Maybe too soft. Tries again.
“Sam, Sam, Sammy, hey,” every word lined with the burn in his gut. Blurry around the edges with it. With the fire coming on, inside. “You gotta-hey…”
Only Sammy isn’t really listening. Is Dean missing something here? Everything’s right where it should be, even deep inside. Deep down under the muscle, squirming against his bones…but Sam is hauling Dean upright and slinging an arm across his back. Dean’s legs sink under the weight and Sam clutches at him and they’re staggering through the black as Sam keeps up a steady stream of noise. Cross-talk. Static. Meaningless. Dean knows what he wants, though. The words aren’t really important. It’s what he wants that matters.
Sammy always gets what he wants.
--
“Hey, Dean,” Sam murmurs, leaning in close. “Hey, kiddo. We’re going to play a game. You like games, right? I remember that about you.”
He smiles broadly, eyes soft.
“I remember lots of things about you.”
--
Sam Sam Sam they have to-Sam I can, I can feel them Sam
Sam
They’re shivering under his skin like strange lights, hungry phosphorescence. Hungry. Always. He needs a better weapon than his own fingers. Needs something sharp. Sam has all the sharp edges. Always has.
No, wait. Dean’s hands grasp reflexively for the sharp cold metal edge Sam should be pushing against his palm. For him. But his hands stay empty. And instead something soft tightens around his gut, around the open places in his skin aroundtheopenplacesinhisskin and that’s-no, no Sam no. No. And Sam shoves Dean into some new dark place that smells of leather and yanks his hands away and Dean’s left staring up at nothing. At the stars. At the light under his skin.
A new trick, a new joke. Wrapped up tight while the little fires kindle and burn, while his muscles twitch and yes, right on time, comes the sound. Not a real sound, of course. (Cicadas in summer) But he squeezes his eyes shut and paws at his ears, fingers sticky and wet. No. Nono. Not that. Not from the inside out. Sam that bastard Sam always with the new tricks always with the jokes always always get them out Sam get them out
Where is he? Where is Sam? Dean can do this. He can do this. He just needs something sharp, needs to finish up. It isn’t too late, right? Shit, maybe it is, Dean should be halfway finished already. Skin. If he doesn’t get it off then-
He has to get it off.
--
“No, no,” Sam lifts his chin, gently, “No, Dean. Open your eyes. There we go. There we go. I knew you were in there. Look at me now. That’s it. Good job.”
--
“Sam. Sam.” Can Sam hear him? Is he even listening? Help me, Sam. Don’t leave me like this. Not again. Don’t make me do it again. No one else can help me help me please please don’t leave it like this
“Sam.” Louder. “Sam!” Help me, Sam. “It's not right. They can't get out. Please, help them get out! Sam!”
He’ll tear the skin off with his bare hands if he has to. Only please. Please.
He’s still bleeding, underneath. He drags his fingers against the bandages, tries not to whimper at the unnatural heat pushing up through his skin. They’re there. They’re not going to wait. Sam. Help me. Sammy.
"You have to finish, Sam. You have to finish so it can start. If you don't get this done, it won't begin again and you can't leave me like this. They're under there Sam, I can feel them. It hurts to finish and it hurts to start, but it's worse if you leave me in between. Please don't leave me in between!" It rips right out of his throat and Sam’s there leaning over him yelling right in his face to stop, just fucking stop and he knows, the bastard, the lying sonuvabitch, he knows Dean can do it why the hell is he fucking around like this, this isn’t the time for games this isn’t the time. Dean isn’t getting anything done like this. Finish it finish it help me make it stop.
"I can feel them Sammy. Please, it didn't finish. Please, Sam!"
Sam’s face is tight, cold, with none of the humor that should be there to go with the joke, with the fucking bandages. But he licks his lips, at least, and in a weird wavery voice says, “Okay," and, "Okay, Dean I'll finish. But we have to get back to the room, man. I can't do it here."
What? Room? No Sammy there’s no time to move him again Sam Christ they’re already tearing up his insides Sam, Jesus fucking God just finish it finish it and Dean maybe says something along those lines but who knows? Christ, he needs to get hold of himself. Needs to calm down. He needs to
to
he needs
he
--
“Shh,” says Sam. “Hey, shh. It’s gonna be okay. Open your eyes now. That’s it. You keep going away on me. Now I know you don’t want me to leave you like this. Do you? Is that what you want? Because you can make it stop, Dean. Anytime. Anytime you want. Hey there. Yeah. That’s better, right? Shh, come on. You’re almost finished already.”
--
Okay. Okay.
He was asleep? He was…he went away for a while. That can happen, he knows. Sometimes. Sleep isn't possible but Dean knows sometimes he goes away. It’s always kind of unexpected and usually Sam’s the one who reaches in and pulls him back. Like now. He rolls his head a bit, tries to get his bearings. Room. Right. The room.
It’s something a little softer, some other place. It’s where Sam needed to get to. It’s where Sam needed to go that was so much more important than getting Dean’s fucking skin off and okay. Okay. He needs to calm down. He scrabbles briefly at what feels weirdly like a bedcover. Why is there a bedcover? Fuck, who knows? Who the hell knows why Sam does anything?
Maybe that’s the joke, though. Something new for Dean. Something’s biting him right across his belly. Something is-
“No!” He tries to shove himself upright when he realizes what Sam has done ohgod what’s he done, he’s yanked the bandages off sometime when Dean was, was somewhere else, and right about now Dean is wishing for bandages, would fucking break down crying for bandages to let out the blood and the heat because Sam has stitched all the tears in his skin shut. He’s actually stitched them all shut.
Fire. Fire. Firefirefire
"You did it backwards!” He hears his voice crack. “Backwards, Sam!"
Sam glances at him, briefly, then goes back to work. Long deft fingers, confident and steady hands. He’s stitching up all the tears. And he’s making shushing noises right in Dean’s face because of course Sam is always so calm and so quiet and this is all some awful stupid game he thought up while Dean was away. Or…Sam was away. Was it Sam? Maybe it was Sam. Making up something worse than the inside-outside game. And. He’s shoved a needle, an honest-to-god hand-to-the-heart needle into the crook of Dean’s arm at some point and. Now he’s putting something in it. Gently. So gently.
Stealing Dean’s time.
No. No Sammy. Sammy, no.
The bed is soft and Sam is. Soft. Quiet hands. Soft. Dean’s got to keep his head. To keep…to stay-focused. He’s running out, time’s fading in and out around him. Pulsing. Softly. Shit. No. It’s not time. It’s not.
(“Shh,” Sam says. “Shh.”)
Time.
--
Sam says, “You’re so good at this.”
--
When he opens his eyes again, Sam’s in a chair. Pretending to sleep or something. Why? Who knows? Who cares? But if that’s the whole game, it’s…Jesus, what is it? It’s not like stitches don’t come out. It doesn’t even take that much work, even though his arms are heavy and his fingers thick and clumsy. But he works at it. He’s good at it. It’s what he’s made for. Pulling and tearing. Nothing sharp really needed, a good carpenter never blames his tools everybody gets a happy. A happy ending. He sticks his tongue between his teeth and concentrates. It takes a little while but it’s good. Even the steady thrumming hum under his skin can’t distract him. It’s good. It’s fine. It’s peaceful. The stitches come right out and blood runs down his stomach and spills onto the bedcover.
Bedcovers. Heh.
Oh. Sam’s awake. Whoops. He’s upset, too, springing upright. Was this not the game? Did Dean make a mistake? But he’s got to plead with him, if that’s what it takes. Gotta try something. Maybe Sam’ll let go of whatever new thing he’s been planning. Maybe let Dean get his hands on what he needs. He’s shivering a little, trembly on the surface. Sam might not go along with it. But he’s got to. Oh he’s got to.
No more of this, this in-between, inside-inside outside-outside….this shit. Things need to be where they’re supposed to be.
"Why are you leaving me in between, Sammy?” His voice comes out thin and he’s trying not to let Sam see the shaking. Tries not to let it show. Sam might have come up with something worse but now that Dean’s done all this work, Sam will let him finish. He will, right? He has to.
He has to.
Please.
“You know that's the worst.” His voice huddles small and he makes sure he doesn’t lick his lips. Adds tentatively, hopefully, “When it can't get out. Please. Let me fix it?"
No, it’s a new game after all. He knows for sure when Sam grabs him and yanks two pairs of cuffs from someplace below the bed. (Why is he on a bed?) Why a new game? Why now? Okay, so…so maybe Sam got tired of watching? He’s the one who taught Dean the best tricks, anyway. Okay. Dean relaxes a little. Sam’s got this. He’s got Dean. He watches the cuff snap around his right wrist, lets out a little breath.
"That's right, Sam,” he murmurs, “That's good.” He’s trying to be reassuring, hoping he’s guessed right. Keep Sam moving, just in case he changes his mind. His skin’s still shivering and the distant noise is with him now. Incessant. But Dean keeps talking right through it, quietly, reaching for Sam with his words. Sam just has to finish. He did it backwards, but now, it’s gonna be okay. Just finish it Sam. Please.
Please hurry.
But Sam, Sammy, keeps his voice soft and gentle and has the nerve to ask "Finish what, Dean? Finish how?"
Motherfuck.
"Finish what?” He spits in Sam’s face, and maybe it’s not his finest hour but Christ this has gone on long enough. Too damn long. “Finish how, you fucker?” So forgive him, he’s snarling and barking because he’s so sick of waiting, it’s taken too long already and this can’t go on but wait, wait, maybe this is Sam’s new game. To remind Dean. Make him remember, make sure he does remember because the skin is almost inconsequential. What matters is…well, whatever Sam thinks matters, is what matters. Okay.
He wants to hear Dean say it? "Okay. Okay, if it gets it done, I'll say it." He nods towards the blood welling from his belly. "You have to finish opening it up.” And he tells him, like he’s talking to a child. About the skin, about the fire that eats from the inside. “You have to take the skin off,” he says calmly. And hurry. Take it off. All of it. Now, do it now.
But Sam’s staring at him like he got it wrong and bleating like skinning Dean is the worst thing he ever heard of. Like he can’t imagine anything more awful. And really? Now? Dean rolls his head back against the pillow and pushes a noise out through his throat. Yanks hard on the cuffs, hands spasming. Sam’s going to-he’s gonna let them. Eat him. Burn right through, clean through. He’s going to. He’s.
And Dean knows he’s screaming. And he knows that whatever he’s saying is just noise now, just words. Irrelevant. Only please Sam, for me. Please don’t. Begging. Begging you. “I’m fucking begging you!” His throat works. He’s. There’s wetness on him. Sticky salt-wet on his face because he’s crying again, he hasn’t cried for Sam in years but Sam’s been so good to him for so long and now, now, why won’t he finish it just please Sammy please for me please help me Sam please help me don’t let them. Don’t.
Don’t let them.
Sammy, I thought you
But he’s not going to. He’s not. He’s got his hand on Dean’s head and making noises and none of it matters. None of it.
Why?
But Dean understands how this works. Understands that he’ll never know why. Never really know. He just rolls his head a little against Sam’s hand and tells him the story about the first time. If he can just…maybe Sam will forgive him. For whatever. Whatever he did. Only please. The first time, right? It can be like that again, maybe. Whatever you want, Sam. Sammy. Promise. Only please. Because Dean can feel them, now. More insistent, if a little muffled. A little, as if Sam’s been holding them back all this time which makes sense, really. It would’ve been over by now if he hadn’t been. So Sam’s been pushing them back just to let Dean make a fool of himself and that’s…that’s just the sort of thing Sam would enjoy. That’s it, that’s what it was all along. But Dean keeps talking anyway. Just because. It’s all he’s got left. If Sam’s not taking off the skin and Dean’s not allowed to do it himself then. Time’s up.
Little fires light up in the dark. Dean shuts his eyes. He can see them, pinpricks on a dark plain. Searing and bright, terrifying stars. Melting together. Keeps talking to distract himself. Doesn’t watch his skin start blistering. Doesn’t watch it peel and burn away. Pulls on the cuffs but can’t cover his ears. Can’t hide from the noise. Can’t.
Sam keeps his hand where it is.
“Dean,” he says. “Dean.”
--
“Good boy,” Sam says softly, and smiles smiles smiles. “Good. Very good. Open your eyes for me, Dean. You’re almost done. Almost there. Keep them open, kiddo. Come on. Come on. You’re doing a really good job.”
--
Dean doesn’t like this new game. But he keeps on talking, anyway.
Sam’s hand rests heavy on his head.
He never asks Dean to open his eyes.
-end-
_________________________________________________
Notes: Quote from Book X of The Confessions of St. Augustine:
“For I am taken miserably, and Thou pluckest me out mercifully; sometimes not perceiving it…”
I had a hell of a time digging the Latin up, seeing as how I don’t speak or read any Latin. At all. Um. I’m not trying to imply some connection here between Sam and Augustine’s god, btw. Just, I like the quote and it’s implication in reference to both this fic and its parent fic. That’s all.