Fic coda 7.11 "Or don't do it"
Title: Or don't do it.
Author: likiel
Disclaimers: Sam & Dean ain't mine but they want to be.
Rating: G.
Pairing: None.
Warning: Major spoilers episode 7.11, Suicidal ideation, angst.
Summary: Dean felt old, used and abused in a way he never thought possible. But all he had to do was smile.
Notes: A GIANT HUG to monicawoe who beta this fic so quickly, I never had time to angst over it! If you saw the last episode, and want to have a deep reflexion about it, feel free to read my review here. The amazing gifs are from the equally amazing fiercelynormal. Enjoy!
Now available on AO3.
Here’s my advice you didn’t ask for: Quit.
The music of Dear Mr. Fantasy quietly filled the car. It didn’t take long for Sam to drift off into dreamland. Dean knew the kid was exhausted and not “I’ve been blood-sucked by a vetala” exhausted, but more like “I’ve been trying so hard to keep going” exhausted.
The same tiredness enveloped Dean’s body, making his vision blurry, and his bones aching. He didn’t want to scream, he didn’t want to cry, what he wanted more than anything was to kill something, preferably Dick Roman. He wanted to hunt, to burn and to bleed.
Being tired was dangerous, sleeping was dangerous. It was at those moments that the emptiness locked itself inside him. It was the only thing Dean could feel with a terrifying acuity and it felt like it was eating everything, his heart, his soul, his courage… sometimes even his love for Sam.
God knew he didn’t want to feel this way, but it wasn’t the first time it happened. Dean wasn’t stupid, he knew what depression was, and he knew what he was doing with the drinking and the not-sleeping thing. But sometimes destroying himself was the only way to beat the emptiness, to actually feel in control of his life, not just endure it.
It used to be Sam, Dean thought distantly, who was keeping the darkness at bay, his own personal Sasquatch shield. Not that he ever knew it, Dean never shared that information, but it used to be Sam. It was always Sam. And now, he wasn’t enough.
Dean couldn’t quit though, not ever, because Sam wouldn’t. Sam was a hunter, didn’t want to be anything else and didn’t even think he could, because he was carrying heaven and hell in his head. Sam would never stop hunting.
And Dean loved his brother more than he wanted to kill the emptiness, more than he wanted to die so he couldn’t quit.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking about it. Quitting like no more hunting, no more killing, no more emptiness, no more… everything. Quitting like dying, dying, dying, quick, painless and well deserved after all the crap life put him through.
They were dangerous thoughts. Thoughts that would freak Sam out, that would make his father ashamed of him, that would break Bobby’s heart.
Except that Dad and Bobby were dead. Sam was still alive but Dean wasn’t one hundred percent sure that Sam needed him. He hated himself for it, for being so unsure of everything, Sam’s love and his own love too, because if a tiny part of him wanted to die and leave his baby brother alone in this world, that must mean that he didn’t love Sam as much as the kid deserved to be loved.
Dean hated himself so much for this.
You want to keep going? You’re going to drive yourself into the ground first.
But they were just thoughts. He wasn’t going to act on them; he shoved them deep inside the dark places of his soul and forgot they were even there. He could do it. Drinking helped a lot. He found out soon that being numb was very different and far better than being empty. Alcohol was a great way to keep it away. Sam didn’t understand. He was worried about him, and silently disapproved. Dean wanted to explain to him how the emptiness worked, how it ate him on the inside and made everything insignificant.
But he was afraid to even mention it, because sometimes in his nightmares, Dean could hear it roar, feel its claws tearing his soul apart, pushing, wanting to be out, out, out!
During those three last weeks, every time Dean woke up, an inhuman scream in his throat and tears dripping down his face, Sam would stare at him like he was the one who died from a bullet in his brain. And then do this weird thing with his hand.
Make yourself smile because you’re alive and that’s your job. Then do it again the next week. I call it being professional.
Sam shifted in his sleep and buried himself more deeply in the seat. Dean really missed his car, he was, in fact, surprised by how much he missed her. She was the only one who never left him or let him down, she was as familiar as his own skin, and she had been there when he had been all alone, during those years Sam spent at Stanford.
He missed her, but he felt like he should miss her more. He held back a chuckle. Bobby was dead, and he missed the impala more than ever.
Every single day weighed on him like sin on a saint. Dean felt old, used and abused in a way he never thought possible. In their life, things ended up sad or bloody, and more than once he wondered when the end would come for him. Dad always said it was him who was the most sensitive of them, even more than Sam. Dad used to think that Dean took things to heart too often, felt things a little too deeply and couldn’t let go of what hurt him the most. Self-destructive, that’s what he'd said once, when Dean was lying in a bed at the general hospital of Tulsa, during his twenty third birthday.
Dean tried to do better, to be better. He never managed it.
Do it right, with a smile, or don’t do it.
So he didn’t know what made him think he could this time. Maybe it was because, this time, he would lose everything if didn’t try. He could fake it, he did it before with Lisa, even managed to convince himself it was what he wanted. Of course soulless Sam helped with that, but still, pretending to want to live wouldn’t be harder than pretending to be someone he wasn’t. He could do it, even if he didn’t want to.
All he had to do was smile.
Do it right, with a smile, or don’t do it.
He could feel the familiar and faint enjoyment the movement brought in his heart, but as soon as it appeared, it morphed into something dark, ugly, and damaged, so Dean fought harder to keep the smile on his face.
His throat started to ache but his eyes were strangely dry. The enormity of what he was trying to achieve hit him. The smile started to drop but he held it. Inside him he could feel the emptiness, monstrous and unrefined, grow and pulse so he smiled harder.
…or don’t do it.
Wider.
…or don’t do it.
Emptier.
Don’t do it.
---
Author: likiel
Disclaimers: Sam & Dean ain't mine but they want to be.
Rating: G.
Pairing: None.
Warning: Major spoilers episode 7.11, Suicidal ideation, angst.
Summary: Dean felt old, used and abused in a way he never thought possible. But all he had to do was smile.
Notes: A GIANT HUG to monicawoe who beta this fic so quickly, I never had time to angst over it! If you saw the last episode, and want to have a deep reflexion about it, feel free to read my review here. The amazing gifs are from the equally amazing fiercelynormal. Enjoy!
Now available on AO3.
Here’s my advice you didn’t ask for: Quit.
The music of Dear Mr. Fantasy quietly filled the car. It didn’t take long for Sam to drift off into dreamland. Dean knew the kid was exhausted and not “I’ve been blood-sucked by a vetala” exhausted, but more like “I’ve been trying so hard to keep going” exhausted.
The same tiredness enveloped Dean’s body, making his vision blurry, and his bones aching. He didn’t want to scream, he didn’t want to cry, what he wanted more than anything was to kill something, preferably Dick Roman. He wanted to hunt, to burn and to bleed.
Being tired was dangerous, sleeping was dangerous. It was at those moments that the emptiness locked itself inside him. It was the only thing Dean could feel with a terrifying acuity and it felt like it was eating everything, his heart, his soul, his courage… sometimes even his love for Sam.
God knew he didn’t want to feel this way, but it wasn’t the first time it happened. Dean wasn’t stupid, he knew what depression was, and he knew what he was doing with the drinking and the not-sleeping thing. But sometimes destroying himself was the only way to beat the emptiness, to actually feel in control of his life, not just endure it.
It used to be Sam, Dean thought distantly, who was keeping the darkness at bay, his own personal Sasquatch shield. Not that he ever knew it, Dean never shared that information, but it used to be Sam. It was always Sam. And now, he wasn’t enough.
Dean couldn’t quit though, not ever, because Sam wouldn’t. Sam was a hunter, didn’t want to be anything else and didn’t even think he could, because he was carrying heaven and hell in his head. Sam would never stop hunting.
And Dean loved his brother more than he wanted to kill the emptiness, more than he wanted to die so he couldn’t quit.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking about it. Quitting like no more hunting, no more killing, no more emptiness, no more… everything. Quitting like dying, dying, dying, quick, painless and well deserved after all the crap life put him through.
They were dangerous thoughts. Thoughts that would freak Sam out, that would make his father ashamed of him, that would break Bobby’s heart.
Except that Dad and Bobby were dead. Sam was still alive but Dean wasn’t one hundred percent sure that Sam needed him. He hated himself for it, for being so unsure of everything, Sam’s love and his own love too, because if a tiny part of him wanted to die and leave his baby brother alone in this world, that must mean that he didn’t love Sam as much as the kid deserved to be loved.
Dean hated himself so much for this.
You want to keep going? You’re going to drive yourself into the ground first.
But they were just thoughts. He wasn’t going to act on them; he shoved them deep inside the dark places of his soul and forgot they were even there. He could do it. Drinking helped a lot. He found out soon that being numb was very different and far better than being empty. Alcohol was a great way to keep it away. Sam didn’t understand. He was worried about him, and silently disapproved. Dean wanted to explain to him how the emptiness worked, how it ate him on the inside and made everything insignificant.
But he was afraid to even mention it, because sometimes in his nightmares, Dean could hear it roar, feel its claws tearing his soul apart, pushing, wanting to be out, out, out!
During those three last weeks, every time Dean woke up, an inhuman scream in his throat and tears dripping down his face, Sam would stare at him like he was the one who died from a bullet in his brain. And then do this weird thing with his hand.
Make yourself smile because you’re alive and that’s your job. Then do it again the next week. I call it being professional.
Sam shifted in his sleep and buried himself more deeply in the seat. Dean really missed his car, he was, in fact, surprised by how much he missed her. She was the only one who never left him or let him down, she was as familiar as his own skin, and she had been there when he had been all alone, during those years Sam spent at Stanford.
He missed her, but he felt like he should miss her more. He held back a chuckle. Bobby was dead, and he missed the impala more than ever.
Every single day weighed on him like sin on a saint. Dean felt old, used and abused in a way he never thought possible. In their life, things ended up sad or bloody, and more than once he wondered when the end would come for him. Dad always said it was him who was the most sensitive of them, even more than Sam. Dad used to think that Dean took things to heart too often, felt things a little too deeply and couldn’t let go of what hurt him the most. Self-destructive, that’s what he'd said once, when Dean was lying in a bed at the general hospital of Tulsa, during his twenty third birthday.
Dean tried to do better, to be better. He never managed it.
Do it right, with a smile, or don’t do it.
So he didn’t know what made him think he could this time. Maybe it was because, this time, he would lose everything if didn’t try. He could fake it, he did it before with Lisa, even managed to convince himself it was what he wanted. Of course soulless Sam helped with that, but still, pretending to want to live wouldn’t be harder than pretending to be someone he wasn’t. He could do it, even if he didn’t want to.
All he had to do was smile.
Do it right, with a smile, or don’t do it.
He could feel the familiar and faint enjoyment the movement brought in his heart, but as soon as it appeared, it morphed into something dark, ugly, and damaged, so Dean fought harder to keep the smile on his face.
His throat started to ache but his eyes were strangely dry. The enormity of what he was trying to achieve hit him. The smile started to drop but he held it. Inside him he could feel the emptiness, monstrous and unrefined, grow and pulse so he smiled harder.
…or don’t do it.
Wider.
…or don’t do it.
Emptier.
Don’t do it.
---