Fic: More Fierce Than Flames (SPN)
Part of The Coda Series.
Coda to 13x18 Bring ‘em Back Alive. Dean gets shot by a poison bullet.
More Fierce Than Flames
His shoulder is a mess of hot spikes and rippling aches, spreading all the way to his fingertips and reaching up behind his ear. The bullet hit his brachial plexus. That or the poison is still in him. Seeping. Circulating. He should probably tell Cas. Get some of that angel mojo and fix it right up. But he doesn’t. Because this is a pain he needs to feel. This is what he deserves. And he doesn’t want it to go away. Not yet. God, not yet.
He closes his eyes and sags, letting his spine curl, cradling the injured shoulder in towards his middle. He’s blind with anger. Or maybe despair. He’s not sure. He can’t tell the difference. Never could.
He’s still cold. Hasn’t been warm since he got back. At least the snow gave him an excuse but now he has none. No excuse. Never any excuse.
“Dean, you should,” Sam pauses, “change out of those clothes. Let us look at that shoulder.”
Dean finds it hard to swallow. His mouth is like cotton wool. He hasn’t had anything to drink in... 24 hours. He shudders, the cold ripping through his bones, more fierce than flames. He’s dehydrated. Can’t think straight. And his shoulder.
“Dean.”
If Sam says his name one more time he’s going to scream. Break another lamp. And that’s a decision he can make. That’s something he can control.
“Sam, maybe you should,” Cas offers gently from across the room. He doesn’t even finish the sentence because everyone knows what he means.
Don’t push it. Leave him alone. Back off. Shut up.
The way Cas says it. It’s almost like he’s afraid. Like Dean’s a loose canon. Or an IED, needing careful craftsmanship to disarm. It’s insulting. And correct.
Dean pushes up to stand and he almost doesn’t make it. He doesn’t look at Sam’s face but his body is tense. Cas’s too. And Dean can’t explain to them again how he failed. How they failed him. How Gabriel failed everyone.
Dean staggers off towards his bedroom, the lights in the hallway are blinding. And they make sounds of their own. A high pitched hum, vibrating through his skull. His head hurts so bad.
He pauses in the hallway, leans, coughs, and vomits on the floor. His puke is red, like bloody bile and he can’t look at it.
He’s sweating and how he has any liquid left in his body he had no idea. The arm is a new level of pain and threatens to cripple him where he stands. But it doesn’t. Because there’s a war going on. One he should still be fighting.
Sam finds him, lying in his bed, red hot and covered in sweat. His head hurts a lot. He can’t even feel the arm anymore. Like it’s not even connected. He couldn’t wiggle his fingers, even if he wanted to.
“Don’t touch me,” Dean grinds out through clenched teeth. Clenched from the cold.
“Dean, man, you’re sick.”
“I don’t care!” He yells with all he has. Everything he has left.
Sam steps towards the door a bellows out for Cas.
When he returns Dean can’t help but say, can’t keep his words inside, “He doesn’t get to say no. He doesn’t get to walk away.”
Sam’s hand is on his forehead and his voice hazy above him.
“I know, Dean. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Tears fill his eyes and he turns away.
Cas appears and puts two fingers against his forehead, and it’s cold and warm at the same time. He doesn’t feel better inside. But at least now he can sleep.
End.
Coda to 13x18 Bring ‘em Back Alive. Dean gets shot by a poison bullet.
More Fierce Than Flames
His shoulder is a mess of hot spikes and rippling aches, spreading all the way to his fingertips and reaching up behind his ear. The bullet hit his brachial plexus. That or the poison is still in him. Seeping. Circulating. He should probably tell Cas. Get some of that angel mojo and fix it right up. But he doesn’t. Because this is a pain he needs to feel. This is what he deserves. And he doesn’t want it to go away. Not yet. God, not yet.
He closes his eyes and sags, letting his spine curl, cradling the injured shoulder in towards his middle. He’s blind with anger. Or maybe despair. He’s not sure. He can’t tell the difference. Never could.
He’s still cold. Hasn’t been warm since he got back. At least the snow gave him an excuse but now he has none. No excuse. Never any excuse.
“Dean, you should,” Sam pauses, “change out of those clothes. Let us look at that shoulder.”
Dean finds it hard to swallow. His mouth is like cotton wool. He hasn’t had anything to drink in... 24 hours. He shudders, the cold ripping through his bones, more fierce than flames. He’s dehydrated. Can’t think straight. And his shoulder.
“Dean.”
If Sam says his name one more time he’s going to scream. Break another lamp. And that’s a decision he can make. That’s something he can control.
“Sam, maybe you should,” Cas offers gently from across the room. He doesn’t even finish the sentence because everyone knows what he means.
Don’t push it. Leave him alone. Back off. Shut up.
The way Cas says it. It’s almost like he’s afraid. Like Dean’s a loose canon. Or an IED, needing careful craftsmanship to disarm. It’s insulting. And correct.
Dean pushes up to stand and he almost doesn’t make it. He doesn’t look at Sam’s face but his body is tense. Cas’s too. And Dean can’t explain to them again how he failed. How they failed him. How Gabriel failed everyone.
Dean staggers off towards his bedroom, the lights in the hallway are blinding. And they make sounds of their own. A high pitched hum, vibrating through his skull. His head hurts so bad.
He pauses in the hallway, leans, coughs, and vomits on the floor. His puke is red, like bloody bile and he can’t look at it.
He’s sweating and how he has any liquid left in his body he had no idea. The arm is a new level of pain and threatens to cripple him where he stands. But it doesn’t. Because there’s a war going on. One he should still be fighting.
Sam finds him, lying in his bed, red hot and covered in sweat. His head hurts a lot. He can’t even feel the arm anymore. Like it’s not even connected. He couldn’t wiggle his fingers, even if he wanted to.
“Don’t touch me,” Dean grinds out through clenched teeth. Clenched from the cold.
“Dean, man, you’re sick.”
“I don’t care!” He yells with all he has. Everything he has left.
Sam steps towards the door a bellows out for Cas.
When he returns Dean can’t help but say, can’t keep his words inside, “He doesn’t get to say no. He doesn’t get to walk away.”
Sam’s hand is on his forehead and his voice hazy above him.
“I know, Dean. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Tears fill his eyes and he turns away.
Cas appears and puts two fingers against his forehead, and it’s cold and warm at the same time. He doesn’t feel better inside. But at least now he can sleep.
End.