Fic: Your P's and Q's
TITLE: Your P's and Q's
CHAR: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gore/Horror, H/C
SPOILERS: General for Season 6
RATING: R (see warnings)
WARNINGS: Swearing, Cannibalism
WORDS: 1773
A/N: This was written for the awesome Horror comment-fic meme happening over at sharp_teeth, for the prompt: Which is the true evil? The brother who now survives on human flesh or the one who willingly supplies the meat? I kinda left out the whole evilness aspect of the thing, and replaced it with plain ol' angst. I'm kind of a one-trick pony like that.
SUMMARY: Sam just wants to save his brother. Dean just wants to know what the hell is going on.
*Eta: Fixed a couple of heinous spelling mistakes. It was 3 am when I posted this, cut me some slack!
your p's and q's
You've been sick forever, no idea what day it is or who's bed you're in or even what the fuck is wrong with you except that there must be rats in your stomach, gnawing at you from the inside out it hurts so much and you can't really see straight or think straight and maybe you can talk but you can't think of any words right now, just GHHHHHAAAAAH! And you're having deja-vu about the whole thing, like maybe you're gonna just groan in pain like this until you pass out and then wake up and start all over again. And you fucking hope you pass out soon. Please.
Someone's trying to uncurl you from your ball and you will not have that shit because your ball is all you've got right now, the only thing that makes it hurt just a little less. Don't they know that? This... this person with big cool hands and whispers of, "Dean," and "please," who might be your brother, and might want to help you, but does he have any fucking clue how much this hurts? No. No he does not. So fuck him. You're gonna fucking stay in your ball and use the rest of your body to keep all your internal organs from spilling out through your stomach. And then you are going to pass the fuck out. Please.
The next time you wake up you are not in your ball. You're tired as hell, but the rats have fucking vacated the premises, thank god almighty. There's some junk in your nose though, a tube or something and that's fucking weird because you're not having any trouble breathing, not that you're aware of and... oh. Fuck, you are having some trouble breathing 'cause, gross, this tube goes all the way down your damn throat. Holy Shit. What's that about?
You start to cough and pull at the tube where it sticks out of your nose, and then Sam's back, pushing your hands away.
"Sammy," you say, and it sounds like a goddamn duck being strangled.
"Don't touch that, man," he tells you, not even a trace of a smile to show he's happy you're awake, feeling slightly more human. And that's fucking scarier than the damn tube. Maybe you aren't getting better. Maybe he's just pumped you with the Kevorkian shit and you're on your way out the door.
"Sam? What's goin' on?" AM I DYING?
"You need to leave it in. It's... for your medicine," he says, like he's actually pissed at you for needing to know. Which makes no fucking sense at all. And you're still in the fucking dark.
"What happened to me?"
"You'll be... you'll pull through. Just... just try to get some rest, okay?" Alright. Now he's not even fucking looking at you. This is out of hand.
You push the sheets back as Sam wanders over to the window on the other side of the room. Your body's not too cooperative but you manage to plant your feet on the floor. The tube dangles on your lap and you follow it up to an empty bag, like a blood sac, but the residue that's left on the inside looks like it's a light greyish-pink. Like watered-down Pepto.
Medicine. Okay.
You push yourself up off the bed and feel your knees start to shake right away, the room spin around you, and you don't even see him look back again, but suddenly Sam's got his hands under your elbows and he's swearing and helping you sit the fuck back down. Shit. Well at least you've got his attention.
"Tell me, Sam. Just tell me," you say, grabbing his wrist as tight as the sickness will let you. Sam frowns.
"You just... got sick. That's all." He yanks his hand free and the way he stares at you is downright unsettling. "Now do you want to get better, or what?"
Maybe he lost his soul again somehow, because seriously? You are the sick one here, right? And Sam is usually all lovey-dovey let-me-feel-your-forehead-you-poor-thing in this type of situation. And as annoying as that is, it's normal. And you'd give anything to be swatting his grabby hands off of you right now.
Something's not right. And you have a feeling it has a hell of a lot to do with that Pepto crap.
"What is this stuff?" you ask, nudging your chin towards the plastic blood bag dangling on the bed post.
A real emotion seems to flash across Sam's face finally, as he pinches his lips together and squints his eyes. "Dean, please..."
"No. You please. I've got a fucking tube down my nose and I don't even know what day it is. I'm freakin' out here, man."
"I can't tell you. Not yet. I just.... I can't."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better? Fuck."
"I just don't want you to feel worse, okay? You... you were so sick. You were suffering so much, Dean. I can't watch that again. I can't."
"Sammy. I'm not... I don't fucking get it."
"I'm sorry," Sam says, and leaves quietly.
You're out of fucking steam, and you know you'll be passed out soon. But you promise yourself, that as soon as you're strong enough to stand, you're going to get to the fucking bottom of this bullshit.
You wake up and you're pretty damn sure you shouldn't have. The room comes into focus and you can see Sam's legs like goddamn Redwoods by your head and he's fiddling around with something over the bed. He taps on something and you realize he's got a fresh bag of the pink stuff on the Slip 'n Slide to your belly. The shit that saved your life, or at least took the excruciating pain away. You're having trouble appreciating it at the moment.
"Sam," you whisper, and it startles him like a damn doormouse. Then he looks at you. Stares at the tube that he put there with wide eyes.
"Oh, God," he mutters, but you fucking hear it. "Go back to sleep Dean. Just go back to sleep." He shakes his head and looks away, and Christ, he sounds so... so... disgusted.
"Did I do something?" you ask. Because you just want to make it fucking right, whatever the hell it is. You just want to get that look off Sam's face.
"What?"
"Can't 'member. Did I fuck up?"
Sam's eyes softens a little, and he kneels down next to the bed. His hand squeezes your leg and it's the first time since you've woken up that you aren't fucking terrified. "No. Jesus, no. None of this is your fault. It's just... complicated." Right. Well you've gathered that much.
"You gotta tell me, Sam." You say it like a warning, in your big-brother-says-so voice.
Sam stares at his fingers as they twist at the sheets and he nods. "I think... I think I need to show you."
You take a deep breath and push yourself out of bed and with an arm around Sam's shoulder you manage to stand on your own two feet. Sam unhooks the half-empty bag from the bed-post and passes it to you.
"Do you think you could... uh... hang onto this?" he asks, making it sound as appealing as a make-out session with a fucking cold-sore. Sure thing, buddy. No problem. You take it in your free hand and the grey-pink liquid sloshes around so that you can see now that it's not perfectly smooth. Oh, nasty. It's actually kind of chunky, like wet raspberry jam. And it's making it's way into your system, whatever the hell it is.
It looks like you're squatting in some old summer cottage. There's plastic tarps on most of the furniture and a big bay window that looks out onto a huge lake. The sun's just coming up, and it's actually beautiful.
"Nice place, Sammy."
Sam looks like he tries to smile, but he doesn't seem to want to take credit for it. Instead he leans you up against the formica kitchen counter and says, "First, you gotta understand. I tried everything else. Pigs. Cows. Even goat."
"What?"
"I couldn't watch you suffer like that. But I knew you... you wouldn't be able to... Not by choice, anyways."
"Out with it, Sam!" You growl, sick of only having half the puzzle pieces and no picture of what the hell it's supposed to be.
Sam reaches behind him, wraps his hand around the handle of the old Frigidaire.
"God. I am so sorry," he says, tired more than anything. You feel something crumple in your chest, a lung, maybe both, as he pulls the door open without even turning to look.
You stare at the contents, and for a second you think maybe you're supposed to laugh. That this is too fucking absurd to be happening. You're not a zombie from some 50's B movie. Jesus. But the look on Sam's face is no joke. He's on the verge of tears.
"The brains, they... they had to be-" but he shuts his eyes, and slams the fridge closed, incapable of finishing.
The joke's on you though. Because for a minute, you've forgotten what you're holding in your hand. You stare at it, mesmerized for a moment, until the wave of panic hits.
"NO!" you yell, and gag as you yank the bag off the tube and whip it across the kitchen, a thin trail of finely blended grey matter trailing behind it. You tug at the tube where it's taped down to your cheek and it's incredibly fucking painful but you need it out right the fuck now. Nownownownownow!
Sam is trying to stop you but you are pretty fucking passionate about this cause and you shall fucking overcome, you better fucking believe it. You cough and choke as the tube comes out along with a bunch of bodily fluid that you're pretty sure isn't supposed to see the light of day. And when it's finally out completely you cough some more and wish you were puking. Puking all that shit out of you. But you aren't.
Because you need it to live.
You're in your ball. You feel like ten kinds of rodents are making a buffet of your fucking intestines and you don't know up from down, don't know if it's day or night or who the fucking president is anymore. But you're okay. You're in your ball. And Sam is here and his hands don't try to take your ball away, they just rest on your back and he tells you, "It's okay. We'll find another way. I promise."
fin
CHAR: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gore/Horror, H/C
SPOILERS: General for Season 6
RATING: R (see warnings)
WARNINGS: Swearing, Cannibalism
WORDS: 1773
A/N: This was written for the awesome Horror comment-fic meme happening over at sharp_teeth, for the prompt: Which is the true evil? The brother who now survives on human flesh or the one who willingly supplies the meat? I kinda left out the whole evilness aspect of the thing, and replaced it with plain ol' angst. I'm kind of a one-trick pony like that.
SUMMARY: Sam just wants to save his brother. Dean just wants to know what the hell is going on.
*Eta: Fixed a couple of heinous spelling mistakes. It was 3 am when I posted this, cut me some slack!
your p's and q's
You've been sick forever, no idea what day it is or who's bed you're in or even what the fuck is wrong with you except that there must be rats in your stomach, gnawing at you from the inside out it hurts so much and you can't really see straight or think straight and maybe you can talk but you can't think of any words right now, just GHHHHHAAAAAH! And you're having deja-vu about the whole thing, like maybe you're gonna just groan in pain like this until you pass out and then wake up and start all over again. And you fucking hope you pass out soon. Please.
Someone's trying to uncurl you from your ball and you will not have that shit because your ball is all you've got right now, the only thing that makes it hurt just a little less. Don't they know that? This... this person with big cool hands and whispers of, "Dean," and "please," who might be your brother, and might want to help you, but does he have any fucking clue how much this hurts? No. No he does not. So fuck him. You're gonna fucking stay in your ball and use the rest of your body to keep all your internal organs from spilling out through your stomach. And then you are going to pass the fuck out. Please.
The next time you wake up you are not in your ball. You're tired as hell, but the rats have fucking vacated the premises, thank god almighty. There's some junk in your nose though, a tube or something and that's fucking weird because you're not having any trouble breathing, not that you're aware of and... oh. Fuck, you are having some trouble breathing 'cause, gross, this tube goes all the way down your damn throat. Holy Shit. What's that about?
You start to cough and pull at the tube where it sticks out of your nose, and then Sam's back, pushing your hands away.
"Sammy," you say, and it sounds like a goddamn duck being strangled.
"Don't touch that, man," he tells you, not even a trace of a smile to show he's happy you're awake, feeling slightly more human. And that's fucking scarier than the damn tube. Maybe you aren't getting better. Maybe he's just pumped you with the Kevorkian shit and you're on your way out the door.
"Sam? What's goin' on?" AM I DYING?
"You need to leave it in. It's... for your medicine," he says, like he's actually pissed at you for needing to know. Which makes no fucking sense at all. And you're still in the fucking dark.
"What happened to me?"
"You'll be... you'll pull through. Just... just try to get some rest, okay?" Alright. Now he's not even fucking looking at you. This is out of hand.
You push the sheets back as Sam wanders over to the window on the other side of the room. Your body's not too cooperative but you manage to plant your feet on the floor. The tube dangles on your lap and you follow it up to an empty bag, like a blood sac, but the residue that's left on the inside looks like it's a light greyish-pink. Like watered-down Pepto.
Medicine. Okay.
You push yourself up off the bed and feel your knees start to shake right away, the room spin around you, and you don't even see him look back again, but suddenly Sam's got his hands under your elbows and he's swearing and helping you sit the fuck back down. Shit. Well at least you've got his attention.
"Tell me, Sam. Just tell me," you say, grabbing his wrist as tight as the sickness will let you. Sam frowns.
"You just... got sick. That's all." He yanks his hand free and the way he stares at you is downright unsettling. "Now do you want to get better, or what?"
Maybe he lost his soul again somehow, because seriously? You are the sick one here, right? And Sam is usually all lovey-dovey let-me-feel-your-forehead-you-poor-thing in this type of situation. And as annoying as that is, it's normal. And you'd give anything to be swatting his grabby hands off of you right now.
Something's not right. And you have a feeling it has a hell of a lot to do with that Pepto crap.
"What is this stuff?" you ask, nudging your chin towards the plastic blood bag dangling on the bed post.
A real emotion seems to flash across Sam's face finally, as he pinches his lips together and squints his eyes. "Dean, please..."
"No. You please. I've got a fucking tube down my nose and I don't even know what day it is. I'm freakin' out here, man."
"I can't tell you. Not yet. I just.... I can't."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better? Fuck."
"I just don't want you to feel worse, okay? You... you were so sick. You were suffering so much, Dean. I can't watch that again. I can't."
"Sammy. I'm not... I don't fucking get it."
"I'm sorry," Sam says, and leaves quietly.
You're out of fucking steam, and you know you'll be passed out soon. But you promise yourself, that as soon as you're strong enough to stand, you're going to get to the fucking bottom of this bullshit.
You wake up and you're pretty damn sure you shouldn't have. The room comes into focus and you can see Sam's legs like goddamn Redwoods by your head and he's fiddling around with something over the bed. He taps on something and you realize he's got a fresh bag of the pink stuff on the Slip 'n Slide to your belly. The shit that saved your life, or at least took the excruciating pain away. You're having trouble appreciating it at the moment.
"Sam," you whisper, and it startles him like a damn doormouse. Then he looks at you. Stares at the tube that he put there with wide eyes.
"Oh, God," he mutters, but you fucking hear it. "Go back to sleep Dean. Just go back to sleep." He shakes his head and looks away, and Christ, he sounds so... so... disgusted.
"Did I do something?" you ask. Because you just want to make it fucking right, whatever the hell it is. You just want to get that look off Sam's face.
"What?"
"Can't 'member. Did I fuck up?"
Sam's eyes softens a little, and he kneels down next to the bed. His hand squeezes your leg and it's the first time since you've woken up that you aren't fucking terrified. "No. Jesus, no. None of this is your fault. It's just... complicated." Right. Well you've gathered that much.
"You gotta tell me, Sam." You say it like a warning, in your big-brother-says-so voice.
Sam stares at his fingers as they twist at the sheets and he nods. "I think... I think I need to show you."
You take a deep breath and push yourself out of bed and with an arm around Sam's shoulder you manage to stand on your own two feet. Sam unhooks the half-empty bag from the bed-post and passes it to you.
"Do you think you could... uh... hang onto this?" he asks, making it sound as appealing as a make-out session with a fucking cold-sore. Sure thing, buddy. No problem. You take it in your free hand and the grey-pink liquid sloshes around so that you can see now that it's not perfectly smooth. Oh, nasty. It's actually kind of chunky, like wet raspberry jam. And it's making it's way into your system, whatever the hell it is.
It looks like you're squatting in some old summer cottage. There's plastic tarps on most of the furniture and a big bay window that looks out onto a huge lake. The sun's just coming up, and it's actually beautiful.
"Nice place, Sammy."
Sam looks like he tries to smile, but he doesn't seem to want to take credit for it. Instead he leans you up against the formica kitchen counter and says, "First, you gotta understand. I tried everything else. Pigs. Cows. Even goat."
"What?"
"I couldn't watch you suffer like that. But I knew you... you wouldn't be able to... Not by choice, anyways."
"Out with it, Sam!" You growl, sick of only having half the puzzle pieces and no picture of what the hell it's supposed to be.
Sam reaches behind him, wraps his hand around the handle of the old Frigidaire.
"God. I am so sorry," he says, tired more than anything. You feel something crumple in your chest, a lung, maybe both, as he pulls the door open without even turning to look.
You stare at the contents, and for a second you think maybe you're supposed to laugh. That this is too fucking absurd to be happening. You're not a zombie from some 50's B movie. Jesus. But the look on Sam's face is no joke. He's on the verge of tears.
"The brains, they... they had to be-" but he shuts his eyes, and slams the fridge closed, incapable of finishing.
The joke's on you though. Because for a minute, you've forgotten what you're holding in your hand. You stare at it, mesmerized for a moment, until the wave of panic hits.
"NO!" you yell, and gag as you yank the bag off the tube and whip it across the kitchen, a thin trail of finely blended grey matter trailing behind it. You tug at the tube where it's taped down to your cheek and it's incredibly fucking painful but you need it out right the fuck now. Nownownownownow!
Sam is trying to stop you but you are pretty fucking passionate about this cause and you shall fucking overcome, you better fucking believe it. You cough and choke as the tube comes out along with a bunch of bodily fluid that you're pretty sure isn't supposed to see the light of day. And when it's finally out completely you cough some more and wish you were puking. Puking all that shit out of you. But you aren't.
Because you need it to live.
You're in your ball. You feel like ten kinds of rodents are making a buffet of your fucking intestines and you don't know up from down, don't know if it's day or night or who the fucking president is anymore. But you're okay. You're in your ball. And Sam is here and his hands don't try to take your ball away, they just rest on your back and he tells you, "It's okay. We'll find another way. I promise."
fin