[Fic] A Pound of Flesh [gen, R, Dean, Sam]
I could have sworn there was a "post-Hell issues" tag to use, but I couldn't find it before my eyeballs started to bleed. : /
Author: ukefied
Disclaimer: No loitering, no line dancing. Also, this show and its characters do not belong to me.
Word Count: 1,817
Rating/Warnings: R for graphic depictions of ickiness.
Character/Pairings: Dean, Sam [GEN]
Notes: For hc_bingo, “nausea.” Takes place during the three days between 4x01-4x02. Spoiler-y note: I know that Dean technically doesn’t learn the term “the long pig” until a few episodes later, but since he is pretending he doesn’t remember Hell until a couple of episodes after that, I went with the notion that he learned it in Hell.
Summary: Dean doesn’t eat cheeseburgers because he likes them; he eats them because he thinks he should like them. (Post-Hell issues.)
“A Pound of Flesh”
By Mina Lightstar
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
Dean looks up from his plate. “Huh?”
Across the table, Sam is fiddling with his fork. His face is lined with worry. “Bobby said you barely ate anything,” he says, cautiously. “You should. Eat more. Get your strength back up.” He stabs some salad with his fork. “Bobby said he’d get some books together, start researching angels. So we’ll figure it out.”
There’s an awkwardness about Sam that Dean almost finds endearing. Forty years - four months alone, and his little brother is all grown up. Sam looks bigger, has a more commanding presence. Dean doesn’t know if he’s proud or sad that Sam managed so well without him. He does know this different Sam is making it more difficult for him to crawl through the mist of memory and approximate some form of before.
The smell of beef, onions, and ketchup get caught in his throat. He chokes down a gag, covering it by clearing his throat. “I’m not worried,” he lies. “Just can’t believe that I’ve been back less than forty-eight hours and I’ve already got a job to do.” He wants to follow it up with a joke - “It wasn’t exactly a vacation!” - but he’s already decided that he doesn’t remember any of it. It’s best to just not call attention to the Pit altogether.
Sam is still staring at him. Fuck that kid for knowing him so well. Dean’s gaze drops to his brother’s salad; except for the chicken, the fresh greens and dried cranberries tossed with honey dijon look delicious.
“Are you okay?” Sam asks.
“Fine,” Dean says a little too quickly. He makes himself pick up the burger, makes himself look at it. A thick, juicy patty sandwiched between a bun, some onions, lettuce, and tomato. See, he tells himself, that’s not so bad. It doesn’t look like - it’s nothing like….
Sam’s trying humor now. “What, you’re gone for four months and suddenly develop taste buds?” he needles.
Dean takes a bite. His teeth sink in and he pulls it apart, forces himself to chew. He stares at the fries on his plate, chomping methodically, going away as he does so. The diner’s gone, the food is gone, Alastair is gone.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Sam presses. His voice pierces through Dean’s fog and shatters the illusion.
Sam always brings him back to himself - even if he doesn’t want to come back.
His concentration gone, the memories return unbidden. The victim’s screams thunder in his head. She’s shrieking, twisting in Alastair’s grinder, coming apart under the blades. There’s blood everywhere. There’s guts everywhere. She’s still screaming; you can’t die in Hell. There are pieces of her everywhere, and every single one is a motherfucking chunk of agony that Dean remembers from his own time strewn about on the ground.
Dean squeezes his eyes shut, tries to focus, tries to stop it - but it’s too late. Alastair never sends a amateur to do a professional’s job, so he collects the scraps himself. He scrapes the chunks together and beats them into silence, stirs them up and adds a pinch of onion and garlic. “Just for that extra kick.”
“Dude,” Sammy says, sounding worried. “Hey, you’re freaking me out.”
He opens his eyes. The little worms of ground beef are there, smothered in ketchup and topped with some onions just for that extra kick.
Dean drops the burger and scrambles out of the booth, upsetting the table and spilling their drinks. He bolts to the bathroom, ignoring Sam’s shouts and everyone’s stares. No time to close and lock the stall; he crashes to his knees before the first bowl.
He throws up everything, which isn’t much. After the first round of heaves is over he gropes desperately for the flusher. He doesn’t want to see it or smell it or….
He hears Sam shuffle in when he’s throwing up his third round of bile. His brother kneels behind him, waiting it out. He doesn’t say a word, just rubs a hand up and down Dean’s back. He speaks only once Dean’s heard starts to list. “Don’t put your face on that lid.”
With a groan, Dean leans back, away from the toilet. Sam catches him with one arm and reaches with the other to flush again. Then he grabs some toilet paper and starts dabbing the sweat from Dean’s face. Dean turns his face into Sam’s neck and lets his brother work. Maybe they won’t have to talk about it.
Yeah, right. “So what happened over there?” He asks it casually, but Dean can hear the concern underneath.
“My digestive system,” Dean explains. “Probably needs a little longer to get used to things, you know? I didn’t have any food for-” forty years “-four months; that’s gotta take some adjusting to.” He swallows, tasting bitterness. “It’s probably normal.”
Sam actually laughs at that, though it’s a little hollow. “Normal,” he echoes. “Right.”
They stay on the floor for a few minutes more, letting Dean’s stomach settle. He’s starting to cramp up, but doesn’t want to move. He listens to Sam breathe and tries not to think of Hell.
The spell shatters when someone else comes into the bathroom. “Come on,” Sam says, moving. “Let’s get up off this floor, okay?”
***
Dean orders a cheeseburger for dinner.
He ignores Sam’s look, asks the waitress for a side of onion rings, and flashes her a winning smile.
“We could’ve eaten at Bobby’s,” Sam points out. “Why did you want to go out?”
He shrugs. “Felt like a burger. Got cheated out of my last one.” And leave it at that, he adds mentally.
Of course, Sam doesn’t. “The last one made you sick. I don’t think six hours is enough time for your system to adjust,” he adds pointedly.
“And when did you get a Ph.D in Resurrection, huh?” Dean snaps, glaring his brother down.
Sam scrunches his face up, but doesn’t retort. There’s an awkward, tangible silence until their food arrives.
Dean makes it through three bites before running to the bathroom this time. Thankfully, Sam has never been the type to say “I told you so.” Out loud, anyway.
***
He orders sausages with breakfast, despite Sam’s protests. “We have to get some real food in you,” he lectures. “We can’t do that if you keep bringing it back up!”
“Shut up, Sam,” Dean says, mouth dry. Fluffy eggs and fresh country sausages with a side of home fries and toast. Good, traditional American breakfast - and he is going to fucking eat it.
They’re sitting close to the kitchen. Dean can hear the sizzling meat and smell the burnt flesh. No, he decides. Not this time. He glares at his coffee and ignores Sam’s puppy eyes until the waitress sets their plates down.
Dean ignores the eggs and spears a sausage. He takes a generous bites and chews. It’s well cooked and grey on the inside. His cheeks start to tingle a bit but he keeps chewing, averting his eyes. He looks around the diner to distract himself, gaze settling on a poster near the door that claims they only use premium pig.
Premium pig.
Dean drops his fork. It clatters against the plate as he spits out the half-chewed bite. He’s out of his seat and halfway to the bathroom before Sam calls after him.
He stays in the stall once his stomach is empty, leaning against the door and fighting back tears. He can still taste the long pig Alastair forced down his throat, made him chew - made him….
He crawls forward to throw up again. It’s mostly dry heaves and bile but it doesn’t matter. He’ll never get it all out and it isn’t fucking fair. He’s home now. He’s home and he loves cheeseburgers and fuck Alastair if the demon thinks he can taint one of the few things Dean has. Fuck him.
The bathroom door opens as he’s flushing. “Dean?” Sam ventures. “How are you doing?”
“Fucking awful,” he confesses. It’s easier with the door between them.
“You want me…” Sam hesitates. “You want me to come in there with you?”
He shakes his head, forgetting Sam can’t see him, and chokes, “I want to eat something.”
A pause while Sam thinks. “… Okay,” he says. “I have an idea.” He raps one knuckle on the stall door. “But let’s get you some ginger ale or something first, all right?”
***
They drive further into Sioux Falls for lunch, and end up at a little Italian place called Spezia.
“Start small,” Sam advises, and orders them both spaghetti with meatballs. “One piece at a time, with some bites of pasta in between.”
Dean covers his nervousness with a laugh, because Sam sounds like he regularly coaches people with chronic nausea due to forced cannibalism. He gulps down his water and tries to clear his mind. It’s one thing to throw up all over yourself in a truck stop diner. This restaurant looks like it demands a little more decorum.
When their plates arrive, Dean steels himself. Sam asks for parmesan and pepper; Dean waits and stares and lets Sam decide how much to put on his plate. He holds his breath for as long as he can. When he can’t anymore, he inhales - smells the cheese and tomato and spices. Somewhere underneath all that, he catches the scent of the meatballs, but it’s muted - a complement to the rest of the meal.
Dean finds a meatball in his bed of pasta. He cuts it in half and scrutinizes it. Then he twirls some spaghetti around his fork and pierces the meat. Sam’s watching him, pretending to be engrossed in whatever’s happening over Dean’s shoulder. Dean shoves the mouthful in. There’s the initial wave of nausea, but he forces it down. Don’t embarrass Sammy in this nice place, he orders himself.
He can taste the meat, but it’s an afterthought. Mostly he tastes basil and spaghetti and parmesan. He chews slowly, thoroughly, and swallows. Then he waits.
When nothing happens, he takes another bite. Then another. Soon he’s shoveling noodles in his mouth faster than he can chew them. He’s embarrassing Sammy anyway. Sam’s only smiling indulgently, though, and pushes his own plate over and Dean’s is clean.
“Don’t eat too much,” Sam cautions at one point. “Or you’ll be sick anyway.”
He leaves some pasta on Sam’s plate, but the meatballs are gone. When he’s finished, he leans back in his seat. He jokes to himself that Alastair was no match for Italian cuisine, but he knows that isn’t true. Alastair was just no match for Sam.
Sam always brings Dean back to himself.
~End.
Author: ukefied
Disclaimer: No loitering, no line dancing. Also, this show and its characters do not belong to me.
Word Count: 1,817
Rating/Warnings: R for graphic depictions of ickiness.
Character/Pairings: Dean, Sam [GEN]
Notes: For hc_bingo, “nausea.” Takes place during the three days between 4x01-4x02. Spoiler-y note: I know that Dean technically doesn’t learn the term “the long pig” until a few episodes later, but since he is pretending he doesn’t remember Hell until a couple of episodes after that, I went with the notion that he learned it in Hell.
Summary: Dean doesn’t eat cheeseburgers because he likes them; he eats them because he thinks he should like them. (Post-Hell issues.)
“A Pound of Flesh”
By Mina Lightstar
“Aren’t you going to eat?”
Dean looks up from his plate. “Huh?”
Across the table, Sam is fiddling with his fork. His face is lined with worry. “Bobby said you barely ate anything,” he says, cautiously. “You should. Eat more. Get your strength back up.” He stabs some salad with his fork. “Bobby said he’d get some books together, start researching angels. So we’ll figure it out.”
There’s an awkwardness about Sam that Dean almost finds endearing. Forty years - four months alone, and his little brother is all grown up. Sam looks bigger, has a more commanding presence. Dean doesn’t know if he’s proud or sad that Sam managed so well without him. He does know this different Sam is making it more difficult for him to crawl through the mist of memory and approximate some form of before.
The smell of beef, onions, and ketchup get caught in his throat. He chokes down a gag, covering it by clearing his throat. “I’m not worried,” he lies. “Just can’t believe that I’ve been back less than forty-eight hours and I’ve already got a job to do.” He wants to follow it up with a joke - “It wasn’t exactly a vacation!” - but he’s already decided that he doesn’t remember any of it. It’s best to just not call attention to the Pit altogether.
Sam is still staring at him. Fuck that kid for knowing him so well. Dean’s gaze drops to his brother’s salad; except for the chicken, the fresh greens and dried cranberries tossed with honey dijon look delicious.
“Are you okay?” Sam asks.
“Fine,” Dean says a little too quickly. He makes himself pick up the burger, makes himself look at it. A thick, juicy patty sandwiched between a bun, some onions, lettuce, and tomato. See, he tells himself, that’s not so bad. It doesn’t look like - it’s nothing like….
Sam’s trying humor now. “What, you’re gone for four months and suddenly develop taste buds?” he needles.
Dean takes a bite. His teeth sink in and he pulls it apart, forces himself to chew. He stares at the fries on his plate, chomping methodically, going away as he does so. The diner’s gone, the food is gone, Alastair is gone.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Sam presses. His voice pierces through Dean’s fog and shatters the illusion.
Sam always brings him back to himself - even if he doesn’t want to come back.
His concentration gone, the memories return unbidden. The victim’s screams thunder in his head. She’s shrieking, twisting in Alastair’s grinder, coming apart under the blades. There’s blood everywhere. There’s guts everywhere. She’s still screaming; you can’t die in Hell. There are pieces of her everywhere, and every single one is a motherfucking chunk of agony that Dean remembers from his own time strewn about on the ground.
Dean squeezes his eyes shut, tries to focus, tries to stop it - but it’s too late. Alastair never sends a amateur to do a professional’s job, so he collects the scraps himself. He scrapes the chunks together and beats them into silence, stirs them up and adds a pinch of onion and garlic. “Just for that extra kick.”
“Dude,” Sammy says, sounding worried. “Hey, you’re freaking me out.”
He opens his eyes. The little worms of ground beef are there, smothered in ketchup and topped with some onions just for that extra kick.
Dean drops the burger and scrambles out of the booth, upsetting the table and spilling their drinks. He bolts to the bathroom, ignoring Sam’s shouts and everyone’s stares. No time to close and lock the stall; he crashes to his knees before the first bowl.
He throws up everything, which isn’t much. After the first round of heaves is over he gropes desperately for the flusher. He doesn’t want to see it or smell it or….
He hears Sam shuffle in when he’s throwing up his third round of bile. His brother kneels behind him, waiting it out. He doesn’t say a word, just rubs a hand up and down Dean’s back. He speaks only once Dean’s heard starts to list. “Don’t put your face on that lid.”
With a groan, Dean leans back, away from the toilet. Sam catches him with one arm and reaches with the other to flush again. Then he grabs some toilet paper and starts dabbing the sweat from Dean’s face. Dean turns his face into Sam’s neck and lets his brother work. Maybe they won’t have to talk about it.
Yeah, right. “So what happened over there?” He asks it casually, but Dean can hear the concern underneath.
“My digestive system,” Dean explains. “Probably needs a little longer to get used to things, you know? I didn’t have any food for-” forty years “-four months; that’s gotta take some adjusting to.” He swallows, tasting bitterness. “It’s probably normal.”
Sam actually laughs at that, though it’s a little hollow. “Normal,” he echoes. “Right.”
They stay on the floor for a few minutes more, letting Dean’s stomach settle. He’s starting to cramp up, but doesn’t want to move. He listens to Sam breathe and tries not to think of Hell.
The spell shatters when someone else comes into the bathroom. “Come on,” Sam says, moving. “Let’s get up off this floor, okay?”
***
Dean orders a cheeseburger for dinner.
He ignores Sam’s look, asks the waitress for a side of onion rings, and flashes her a winning smile.
“We could’ve eaten at Bobby’s,” Sam points out. “Why did you want to go out?”
He shrugs. “Felt like a burger. Got cheated out of my last one.” And leave it at that, he adds mentally.
Of course, Sam doesn’t. “The last one made you sick. I don’t think six hours is enough time for your system to adjust,” he adds pointedly.
“And when did you get a Ph.D in Resurrection, huh?” Dean snaps, glaring his brother down.
Sam scrunches his face up, but doesn’t retort. There’s an awkward, tangible silence until their food arrives.
Dean makes it through three bites before running to the bathroom this time. Thankfully, Sam has never been the type to say “I told you so.” Out loud, anyway.
***
He orders sausages with breakfast, despite Sam’s protests. “We have to get some real food in you,” he lectures. “We can’t do that if you keep bringing it back up!”
“Shut up, Sam,” Dean says, mouth dry. Fluffy eggs and fresh country sausages with a side of home fries and toast. Good, traditional American breakfast - and he is going to fucking eat it.
They’re sitting close to the kitchen. Dean can hear the sizzling meat and smell the burnt flesh. No, he decides. Not this time. He glares at his coffee and ignores Sam’s puppy eyes until the waitress sets their plates down.
Dean ignores the eggs and spears a sausage. He takes a generous bites and chews. It’s well cooked and grey on the inside. His cheeks start to tingle a bit but he keeps chewing, averting his eyes. He looks around the diner to distract himself, gaze settling on a poster near the door that claims they only use premium pig.
Premium pig.
Dean drops his fork. It clatters against the plate as he spits out the half-chewed bite. He’s out of his seat and halfway to the bathroom before Sam calls after him.
He stays in the stall once his stomach is empty, leaning against the door and fighting back tears. He can still taste the long pig Alastair forced down his throat, made him chew - made him….
He crawls forward to throw up again. It’s mostly dry heaves and bile but it doesn’t matter. He’ll never get it all out and it isn’t fucking fair. He’s home now. He’s home and he loves cheeseburgers and fuck Alastair if the demon thinks he can taint one of the few things Dean has. Fuck him.
The bathroom door opens as he’s flushing. “Dean?” Sam ventures. “How are you doing?”
“Fucking awful,” he confesses. It’s easier with the door between them.
“You want me…” Sam hesitates. “You want me to come in there with you?”
He shakes his head, forgetting Sam can’t see him, and chokes, “I want to eat something.”
A pause while Sam thinks. “… Okay,” he says. “I have an idea.” He raps one knuckle on the stall door. “But let’s get you some ginger ale or something first, all right?”
***
They drive further into Sioux Falls for lunch, and end up at a little Italian place called Spezia.
“Start small,” Sam advises, and orders them both spaghetti with meatballs. “One piece at a time, with some bites of pasta in between.”
Dean covers his nervousness with a laugh, because Sam sounds like he regularly coaches people with chronic nausea due to forced cannibalism. He gulps down his water and tries to clear his mind. It’s one thing to throw up all over yourself in a truck stop diner. This restaurant looks like it demands a little more decorum.
When their plates arrive, Dean steels himself. Sam asks for parmesan and pepper; Dean waits and stares and lets Sam decide how much to put on his plate. He holds his breath for as long as he can. When he can’t anymore, he inhales - smells the cheese and tomato and spices. Somewhere underneath all that, he catches the scent of the meatballs, but it’s muted - a complement to the rest of the meal.
Dean finds a meatball in his bed of pasta. He cuts it in half and scrutinizes it. Then he twirls some spaghetti around his fork and pierces the meat. Sam’s watching him, pretending to be engrossed in whatever’s happening over Dean’s shoulder. Dean shoves the mouthful in. There’s the initial wave of nausea, but he forces it down. Don’t embarrass Sammy in this nice place, he orders himself.
He can taste the meat, but it’s an afterthought. Mostly he tastes basil and spaghetti and parmesan. He chews slowly, thoroughly, and swallows. Then he waits.
When nothing happens, he takes another bite. Then another. Soon he’s shoveling noodles in his mouth faster than he can chew them. He’s embarrassing Sammy anyway. Sam’s only smiling indulgently, though, and pushes his own plate over and Dean’s is clean.
“Don’t eat too much,” Sam cautions at one point. “Or you’ll be sick anyway.”
He leaves some pasta on Sam’s plate, but the meatballs are gone. When he’s finished, he leans back in his seat. He jokes to himself that Alastair was no match for Italian cuisine, but he knows that isn’t true. Alastair was just no match for Sam.
Sam always brings Dean back to himself.
~End.