Fic: Taking Some Time (SPN) Chapter Nine
Genre: Sick!fic, Epic, Slightly AU
Category: Gen
Rating: T
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby
Warning: Very mild language. Descriptions of Hell. Can be considered slightly AU as Dean is not healed from his old wounds when Castiel raised him from perdition. Angst.
Disclaimer: They're pretty, but they're not mine.
Summary: Dean is a little worse off coming off a hunt than he let on. He's fresh from hell and caring a lot of scars, physically and mentally. A bad back, bad shoulder, PTSD, insomnia, alcohol abuse, and a nasty virus to top it all off. Maybe the boys need to take a break and try to get Dean back on track. It might be harder than they thought.
Taking Some Time
Chapter Nine
Sam drove, and Dean sat in the passenger seat using his phone to look up alcohol and antibiotics. He could drink. He could drink. He just couldn’t get drunk. That was fine with him. It took a lot to get him drunk these days anyway. Dean sighed in contentment and pushed his phone into his pocket, surprised at how relieved he was.
Doctors said not to drink because your body was fighting an infection and alcohol wasn’t great for promoting healing. Also antibiotics wouldn’t work if you drank to intoxication. Well, the one he was on anyway. He couldn’t help but smile smugly, knowing on this one occasion he actually knew more than his little brother. Best to not let him think that though.
“I passed this place when I went to the mall the other day,” Sam said.
Dean laughed.
“What?”
“You went to a mall.”
Sam smiled back, “Well, yeah, dude.”
“It’s just funny,” Dean shook his head.
“Glad to see you’re so amused,” Sam smirked, “You can go next time.”
Dean’s smile faded slightly, “Yeah, maybe.”
Sam’s face grew tight. Dean looked out the window. He knew his brother had said it without thinking. Dean hadn’t been able to go out until now, because of the pain, and the sleep deprivation, and how sick he was. He would have gone if he could have. Then again, if he were well enough to go shopping they wouldn’t be staying in this place. They’d still be hunting down evil, saving people, trying to stop the freaking apocalypse…
“This is big. End of the world, big.”
“Well, just let it end!”
“How’s the pain?” Sam asked, voice hushed as if talking quietly about it was going to change anything.
Dean shrugged. What pain was Sam even referring to? The pain in his back? The pain in his shoulder? The pain in his lungs and behind his eyes? Or the pain in his heart? Which was far greater than any physical pain he could endure.
“Drugs are wearing off,” was all he said.
“You can have more with dinner.”
“I’d rather wait till we get home. I don’t wanna be so out of it I can’t walk back to the car,” Dean chuckled, but it was empty, joyless. Just like him.
Sam chuckled back, meeting Dean’s level of enthusiasm, which wasn’t very high, “Yeah, you might have a point there. Just see how you go. We can come back home as soon as we’ve eaten.”
And there it was. Both of them had said it in a matter of seconds. Home.
…
Dean walked into the bar, slipping back to his cocky, go-lucky attitude, as if nothing was even wrong. After all, he’d been in and out of bars his whole life. The smell of beer and deep fried food. The sounds of the locals and several TV’s displaying whatever game was on at the time. Beautiful waitresses wearing tight black tops. This was what Dean lived for. This was his home.
He tried to walk with the cocky swagger he always adopted when he walked into these kinds of places, but his back was tightening, seizing up his legs till he walked with a slight limp. The sling suddenly felt heavy against his chest, useless arm hanging in it like dead weight, dragging him down, holding him back. He felt eyes on him, almost heard the murmured questions asking what was wrong with that guy? He knew he looked like hell, felt like hell, had been through hell… literally.
“Just the two of you?” the hostess chirped, grabbing a couple of menus.
“Unless you wanna join us?” Dean spoke gruffly, winking at her.
“Try not to hurt yourself, hotshot,” she grinned and flounced off in front of them, directing them to a table.
It should have been a comment he didn’t give a second thought. But it wasn’t.
Sam’s hand gripped the back of his neck as they walked through the tables. Letting Dean know that Sam hadn’t missed what that exchange had felt like to him. The comforting strong hand on the bare of his neck shouldn’t have broken him the way it almost did.
“Here you go, guys,” she said, ushering them to their table, placing the menus in front of their seats.
Dean leaned heavily on the table with his right hand, preparing to lower himself into the chair. It didn’t have arms on it, so he had nothing to brace on. Sam came to his side and grabbed his arm roughly.
“I got you,” he said.
“I got it,” Dean bit, pulling his arm away, “Get off.”
Sam backed away and gave the hostess an awkward smile.
Dean couldn’t tell what he read on her face. Sympathy? Pity? With a hint of amusement? Whatever it was it made his face burn with embarrassment that Dean friggen Winchester should never have had to experience.
“He worries too much,” he tried for his lady-killing grin but he knew he didn’t quite get there.
Geez. Dean considered himself many things. Self-conscious was not one of them.
The hostess laughed a little, clearly flirting with him but the effect had worn off now. Dean wasn’t interested. After all, he was useless anyway.
Dean sat down, easing the burn in his legs.
“Can I get you any drinks?” she said, tossing her hair back off her shoulder.
Dean didn’t dare glance at Sam. He waited.
“Just water, thanks,” Sam said, with a smile in his voice.
Dean just nodded, smirking at her as she shrugged and walked away, uttering a “sure thing” behind her.
…
Dean ordered a steak burger with extra bacon and extra onion, a side of fries and ketchup. He barely glanced up to see what Sam had got. Some grilled chicken thing with lots of green leaves. Rabbit food.
Dean placed his burger down to cough into his elbow. He’d really taken for granted eating a burger with two hands.
“You good?” was all Sam said, as Dean hacked.
He cleared his throat, “Yeah,” his voice was husky.
Dean didn’t polish his plate like he usually did. He was feeling queasy. Too much pain, plus time for more pills. Not a good combination. He began to sweat as he wondered when he’d get his opportunity to head to the bar for a quick drink without Sam knowing. He was starting to think about lying and asking Sam to grab his pills that he’d left in the car, even when he knew they were snug in his coat pocket, when Sam saved him.
“I’m gonna hit the head. Then we can go. You’re looking a little green.”
Dean swallowed, then nodded, and Sam left.
He waited till Sam had disappeared into the men’s room and hurriedly got out of his chair and headed to the bar.
“4 shots of whiskey. Line ‘em up,” he threw a bill down on the counter.
The bartender looked curiously at him but lined up the shots and started pouring.
Dean glanced back over his shoulder at the men’s room door repeatedly.
When the shots were poured he threw them back, one after the other, in quick succession. Hardly time to breathe in between, worried that Sam would catch him.
He headed back to the table while his throat was still burning.
He felt a wave of comfort, of relaxation, of the pure bliss that only one thing provided these days. He took a few more bites of his burger and a couple of chips to get rid of the smell on his breath, lest his deceit be ruined.
Sam showed up and stood over him, “Ready to go?”
Dean glanced up like he hadn’t realised he was there.
“Sure.”
Sam didn’t help him, probably trying not to cause Dean any further embarrassment, but when he got to his feet he swayed, the shots hitting him quick.
“Whoa, you okay?” Sam grabbed him to stop him toppling over.
“Urgh,” Dean shook his head, trying to clear it.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Sam’s hand was on his lower back and he treasured the warmth it exuded.
The hostess was there as they left.
“Have a good night, fellas,” she grinned, then leaned in close to Dean, “Let me know when you’re fighting ready. I like to play rough,” she winked, handing him her number scrawled on the back of a paper coaster.
“I’ll put you on speed dial,” Dean said, lifting his eyebrows and smirking.
Sam rolled his eyes.
“Still got it, Sammy,” he grinned as they walked side by side to the car.
But he tucked the number in his pocket and balled his hand into a fist. Because he wouldn’t call her. He wasn’t good enough.
…
Dean woke the next day sweaty and trembling. He rolled onto his back and gently pulled the sleeve up on his left arm, staring at the warped skin in the shape of a handprint. He thought about Castiel, and why in hell had he deserved it.
You don’t think you deserve to be saved.
He stared up at the ceiling, tried not to imagine bodies pinned there, on fire. This is why he had to keep moving, keep hunting, keep busy. Because he couldn’t be alone with his thoughts. Not like this.
He sniffled, willing away the itch. He didn’t want to sneeze and alert Sam that he was awake. He could hear the kid in the kitchen, cursing at himself as he tried to cook breakfast it sounded like.
Dean could hear the birds outside. His window was open. A neighbourhood dog barked. Dean didn’t like it. He was made for hunting. But maybe, in time he thought, maybe he would.
He decided he wasn’t going to sleep again. He’d slept enough this week for the rest of his life. Sleeping was for losers, and time wasters, and people that hadn’t been to hell. The taste of thick, coppery infection was heavy on his tongue, and was almost too similar to the taste of blood. He coughed quietly. His cough was clearing up. Less desperate and rattly.
He wondered when the angels would find them. Why they hadn’t come knocking already. Why Cas hadn’t appeared to him in a dream yet, or just popped into the room unannounced. Maybe they knew he was a write-off, that he was no good to anyone anymore, no good to the world. Done his dash.
…
Sam had his laptop open on the kitchen bench with a recipe on how to cook an omelette. He was determined to make this morning stress-free and maybe even enjoyable for his brother. Today was the day he went to get an MRI, which shouldn’t have been a big deal. It was just a scan. But it was also confinement, in a long metal tube, with no room to move, and a brother who had post traumatic stress.
He didn’t even know if his brother liked omelettes. He’d never seen him order one. Maybe if he cut up bacon and put it in it…
Sam continued his work on breakfast as he heard Dean stir in the bedroom. He knew he was awake. He’d been listening to his brother his whole life. He could tell from the lack of whimpering and sobs that he’d woken up from whatever dream he was in the midst of. He heard some muffled coughing and thought how it sounded like it was getting better. And at least that was something.
…
Dean’s heart pounded in his chest so hard it felt like it would break ribs. He didn’t know why he was panicking so much. He breathing sawed in and out, quickly, hyperventilating.
“You awake, Dean?” Sam popped his head in the room.
His hands were cold and clammy. His throat tightening so he couldn’t answer.
“Hey, you okay?” Sam was next to him now, big hand on his chest.
Dean slammed his eyes closed.
“Just breathe, Dean… Just breathe…”
Dean got to the point where his body couldn’t sustain the attack anymore and he started to cough. Sam rolled him onto his side so he could breathe, as he hacked. His heart rate slowed and his breathing returned to normal. He was left feeling shaky and sick. Exhausted.
“What the hell was that?” he gasped.
“I think you were having a panic attack,” Sam supplied, rubbing a palm up and down his back.
“It friggen sucked,” Dean closed his eyes. You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.
“Just relax for a minute… I made you breakfast.”
Dean smiled weakly, “Thanks, Sammy.”
…
From there the morning was okay. Not terrible, not great, but okay. Dean had liked the omelette, and the bits of bacon throughout it. He’d made jokes about Sam and cooking, laughed even, like he was almost the Dean he used to be. But Sam knew deep down that that Dean was gone. Hell changes man.
Sam offered for them to go out for burgers after the scan as a sort of reward but Dean’s smile drooped slightly at the mention of it. So he didn’t say anything about it again.
Dean dressed himself, showered himself, did his hair himself, and didn’t once ask for help.
They rode in the car with Metallica blaring, and didn’t say a single word.
Dean got irrationally angry while filling out the form, said the questions were stupid, and no one needed to know that much about him, and who were these people, the real FBI? Sam quieted him and politely smiled at the other waiting patients, and the reception staff. He also apologised to them when Dean slammed the clipboard down on the counter and huffed off to go and sit in the corner.
It was then that Sam’s phone rang.
“Sam? I’m at the house and no one’s home.”
“Hey, Bobby, we weren’t expecting you till tonight?” Sam uttered quietly, waving a hand at Dean and stepping outside.
“Yeah, well, I shagged ass.”
Sam smiled, “Thanks, Bobby. We’re at the scan clinic. Dean’s about to have his MRI. Would be great if you could meet us here. I don’t think Dean’s going to take it well…”
“’Course, Sam. Shoot me the address. I’ll be there in about an hour. I gotta get some food in me before I drop.”
“Fair enough. I’ll text it to you. See you soon.”
He went back inside and started approaching his brother.
“Dean Walker.”
Sam watched his brother’s head go up at the sound of his fake name, and saw the look of shear terror at what was about to happen. It almost broke Sam’s heart.
…
"Okay, Dean. I'm going to give you these ear plugs because it can be quite noisy in there."
"Okay," Dean said, sweat on his upper lip.
"It's going to feel like you have no space but I assure you it's fine and perfectly safe. I'm going to give you this button to hold on to. Anything goes wrong, you start to feel overwhelmed, just press it and I'll bring you out. It's about 20 minutes in there. There's an intercom so you can hear me and your brother speak to you, but we can't hear you, okay? So if you need to come out, just press the button. Try and stay still."
Dean nodded, mouth dry, "Alright, doc. Let's get it over with," he tried to smile.
Dean closed his eyes before he started going in. He figured if he couldn't see how trapped he was, he wouldn't freak out.
“You okay in there, Dean?”
“Super,” he shouted back, not knowing how loud he was talking.
“See you in 20 minutes,” she said and Dean heard the door open and close. And he was alone.
“Okay, Dean. We’re about to start the first set of images. Try to stay still and press the button at any time and we can stop,” a voice came from somewhere above him, loud enough to hear through the ear plugs.
“I’m right here, Dean,” he heard Sam’s voice, “It’ll be over soon.”
“Yeah, thanks for that, Sammy. I feel awesome, so much better now,” he grumbled sarcastically.
“The machine is going to make some clunking noises as it warms up and then it’s going to be quite loud. It’s all normal, so don’t worry. Starting now.”
Dean could feel his own breath blowing back in his face so he knew how close it was pressed around him. He gripped the button tight, without pressing the top, just holding it close in case he needed it. He wouldn’t press it though. He wouldn’t have to go through this again.
The noise came, loud in his ears, despite the plugs, and the songs he was humming. He clenched his eyes shut and wiggled his toes, pursing his lips. Lying on his back he could feel the snot run down his throat and he prayed to whatever the hell was out there that he wouldn’t have a coughing fit right now. Not when he was so… confined.
He’d been in a while now. He thought things were going well. He thought he was handling it. And then he did something wrong... He opened his eyes.
He took a massive inhale, gasping at the shock of how little space he had. He swallowed over a cough and his chest began heaving up and down. Heart pounding, hands tingling.
“Oh, shit, oh, shit,” he breathed, clenching his eyes shut again, but it was too late. Now he knew.
He was in his coffin again. The blackness. The dust. The smell of rotting bodies, of his own rotting body. The feeling of hard, sharp wood against his fists. Splinters in his hands. Blood under his nails. Scratching. Clawing. Screaming.
“Almost done, Dean. Almost done.”
Sammy.
He couldn’t move. Frozen in fear. He was dying, again. Loser.
“Dean, we’re bringing you out now. Just hold on.”
He felt himself moving, opened his eyes again and saw the tunnel he was in. As soon as he was out he sat up, winced and cried out as he moved his arm. Sweating, panting.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Sam was at his side, hands on him, but he was numb, “You did good. We got the images, Dean. It’s over… It’s over.”
Dean swung around off the table, two voices talking at him but he couldn’t focus on them.
He calmed his breathing but his heart continued to pound in his chest as he silently followed Sam back to the change room to get out of the stupid gown and back into his clothes.
“Do you need help?”
“No,” he said, closing the door in Sam’s face.
Sam was still standing there when he came out, shirt buttoned wrong, sling with only one of the three straps done up, probably his fly open too but he didn’t dare check. He stumbled as he pushed past Sam.
“Whoa, Dean. Where are you going? We have to pay first,” Sam said, as Dean stalked away, back to the waiting room, back out the door.
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t… He was so afraid, so useless, in so much pain, and this was the last thing he could take. Everything was bubbling to the surface. His foundation cracking. The walls crumbling to the ground. The dam breaking.
“Dean?”
Dean spun around and saw Bobby in the parking lot, walking quickly towards him.
Dean stared at his bearded, concerned face as he got closer and closer, now standing in front of him, brow furrowed, eyes wide, mouth turned down.
“Oh, Dean…” he sighed, and put a hand on his face.
Dean clutched at Bobby’s grimy vest and felt the arms wrap around him. He buried his face in his shoulder. All the things he had inside, all the things he tried so hard not to feel, everything he wanted to just go away, and feeling so small in the arms of the man that should have been his father… And he broke.
Category: Gen
Rating: T
Characters: Dean, Sam, Bobby
Warning: Very mild language. Descriptions of Hell. Can be considered slightly AU as Dean is not healed from his old wounds when Castiel raised him from perdition. Angst.
Disclaimer: They're pretty, but they're not mine.
Summary: Dean is a little worse off coming off a hunt than he let on. He's fresh from hell and caring a lot of scars, physically and mentally. A bad back, bad shoulder, PTSD, insomnia, alcohol abuse, and a nasty virus to top it all off. Maybe the boys need to take a break and try to get Dean back on track. It might be harder than they thought.
Taking Some Time
Chapter Nine
Sam drove, and Dean sat in the passenger seat using his phone to look up alcohol and antibiotics. He could drink. He could drink. He just couldn’t get drunk. That was fine with him. It took a lot to get him drunk these days anyway. Dean sighed in contentment and pushed his phone into his pocket, surprised at how relieved he was.
Doctors said not to drink because your body was fighting an infection and alcohol wasn’t great for promoting healing. Also antibiotics wouldn’t work if you drank to intoxication. Well, the one he was on anyway. He couldn’t help but smile smugly, knowing on this one occasion he actually knew more than his little brother. Best to not let him think that though.
“I passed this place when I went to the mall the other day,” Sam said.
Dean laughed.
“What?”
“You went to a mall.”
Sam smiled back, “Well, yeah, dude.”
“It’s just funny,” Dean shook his head.
“Glad to see you’re so amused,” Sam smirked, “You can go next time.”
Dean’s smile faded slightly, “Yeah, maybe.”
Sam’s face grew tight. Dean looked out the window. He knew his brother had said it without thinking. Dean hadn’t been able to go out until now, because of the pain, and the sleep deprivation, and how sick he was. He would have gone if he could have. Then again, if he were well enough to go shopping they wouldn’t be staying in this place. They’d still be hunting down evil, saving people, trying to stop the freaking apocalypse…
“This is big. End of the world, big.”
“Well, just let it end!”
“How’s the pain?” Sam asked, voice hushed as if talking quietly about it was going to change anything.
Dean shrugged. What pain was Sam even referring to? The pain in his back? The pain in his shoulder? The pain in his lungs and behind his eyes? Or the pain in his heart? Which was far greater than any physical pain he could endure.
“Drugs are wearing off,” was all he said.
“You can have more with dinner.”
“I’d rather wait till we get home. I don’t wanna be so out of it I can’t walk back to the car,” Dean chuckled, but it was empty, joyless. Just like him.
Sam chuckled back, meeting Dean’s level of enthusiasm, which wasn’t very high, “Yeah, you might have a point there. Just see how you go. We can come back home as soon as we’ve eaten.”
And there it was. Both of them had said it in a matter of seconds. Home.
…
Dean walked into the bar, slipping back to his cocky, go-lucky attitude, as if nothing was even wrong. After all, he’d been in and out of bars his whole life. The smell of beer and deep fried food. The sounds of the locals and several TV’s displaying whatever game was on at the time. Beautiful waitresses wearing tight black tops. This was what Dean lived for. This was his home.
He tried to walk with the cocky swagger he always adopted when he walked into these kinds of places, but his back was tightening, seizing up his legs till he walked with a slight limp. The sling suddenly felt heavy against his chest, useless arm hanging in it like dead weight, dragging him down, holding him back. He felt eyes on him, almost heard the murmured questions asking what was wrong with that guy? He knew he looked like hell, felt like hell, had been through hell… literally.
“Just the two of you?” the hostess chirped, grabbing a couple of menus.
“Unless you wanna join us?” Dean spoke gruffly, winking at her.
“Try not to hurt yourself, hotshot,” she grinned and flounced off in front of them, directing them to a table.
It should have been a comment he didn’t give a second thought. But it wasn’t.
Sam’s hand gripped the back of his neck as they walked through the tables. Letting Dean know that Sam hadn’t missed what that exchange had felt like to him. The comforting strong hand on the bare of his neck shouldn’t have broken him the way it almost did.
“Here you go, guys,” she said, ushering them to their table, placing the menus in front of their seats.
Dean leaned heavily on the table with his right hand, preparing to lower himself into the chair. It didn’t have arms on it, so he had nothing to brace on. Sam came to his side and grabbed his arm roughly.
“I got you,” he said.
“I got it,” Dean bit, pulling his arm away, “Get off.”
Sam backed away and gave the hostess an awkward smile.
Dean couldn’t tell what he read on her face. Sympathy? Pity? With a hint of amusement? Whatever it was it made his face burn with embarrassment that Dean friggen Winchester should never have had to experience.
“He worries too much,” he tried for his lady-killing grin but he knew he didn’t quite get there.
Geez. Dean considered himself many things. Self-conscious was not one of them.
The hostess laughed a little, clearly flirting with him but the effect had worn off now. Dean wasn’t interested. After all, he was useless anyway.
Dean sat down, easing the burn in his legs.
“Can I get you any drinks?” she said, tossing her hair back off her shoulder.
Dean didn’t dare glance at Sam. He waited.
“Just water, thanks,” Sam said, with a smile in his voice.
Dean just nodded, smirking at her as she shrugged and walked away, uttering a “sure thing” behind her.
…
Dean ordered a steak burger with extra bacon and extra onion, a side of fries and ketchup. He barely glanced up to see what Sam had got. Some grilled chicken thing with lots of green leaves. Rabbit food.
Dean placed his burger down to cough into his elbow. He’d really taken for granted eating a burger with two hands.
“You good?” was all Sam said, as Dean hacked.
He cleared his throat, “Yeah,” his voice was husky.
Dean didn’t polish his plate like he usually did. He was feeling queasy. Too much pain, plus time for more pills. Not a good combination. He began to sweat as he wondered when he’d get his opportunity to head to the bar for a quick drink without Sam knowing. He was starting to think about lying and asking Sam to grab his pills that he’d left in the car, even when he knew they were snug in his coat pocket, when Sam saved him.
“I’m gonna hit the head. Then we can go. You’re looking a little green.”
Dean swallowed, then nodded, and Sam left.
He waited till Sam had disappeared into the men’s room and hurriedly got out of his chair and headed to the bar.
“4 shots of whiskey. Line ‘em up,” he threw a bill down on the counter.
The bartender looked curiously at him but lined up the shots and started pouring.
Dean glanced back over his shoulder at the men’s room door repeatedly.
When the shots were poured he threw them back, one after the other, in quick succession. Hardly time to breathe in between, worried that Sam would catch him.
He headed back to the table while his throat was still burning.
He felt a wave of comfort, of relaxation, of the pure bliss that only one thing provided these days. He took a few more bites of his burger and a couple of chips to get rid of the smell on his breath, lest his deceit be ruined.
Sam showed up and stood over him, “Ready to go?”
Dean glanced up like he hadn’t realised he was there.
“Sure.”
Sam didn’t help him, probably trying not to cause Dean any further embarrassment, but when he got to his feet he swayed, the shots hitting him quick.
“Whoa, you okay?” Sam grabbed him to stop him toppling over.
“Urgh,” Dean shook his head, trying to clear it.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” Sam’s hand was on his lower back and he treasured the warmth it exuded.
The hostess was there as they left.
“Have a good night, fellas,” she grinned, then leaned in close to Dean, “Let me know when you’re fighting ready. I like to play rough,” she winked, handing him her number scrawled on the back of a paper coaster.
“I’ll put you on speed dial,” Dean said, lifting his eyebrows and smirking.
Sam rolled his eyes.
“Still got it, Sammy,” he grinned as they walked side by side to the car.
But he tucked the number in his pocket and balled his hand into a fist. Because he wouldn’t call her. He wasn’t good enough.
…
Dean woke the next day sweaty and trembling. He rolled onto his back and gently pulled the sleeve up on his left arm, staring at the warped skin in the shape of a handprint. He thought about Castiel, and why in hell had he deserved it.
You don’t think you deserve to be saved.
He stared up at the ceiling, tried not to imagine bodies pinned there, on fire. This is why he had to keep moving, keep hunting, keep busy. Because he couldn’t be alone with his thoughts. Not like this.
He sniffled, willing away the itch. He didn’t want to sneeze and alert Sam that he was awake. He could hear the kid in the kitchen, cursing at himself as he tried to cook breakfast it sounded like.
Dean could hear the birds outside. His window was open. A neighbourhood dog barked. Dean didn’t like it. He was made for hunting. But maybe, in time he thought, maybe he would.
He decided he wasn’t going to sleep again. He’d slept enough this week for the rest of his life. Sleeping was for losers, and time wasters, and people that hadn’t been to hell. The taste of thick, coppery infection was heavy on his tongue, and was almost too similar to the taste of blood. He coughed quietly. His cough was clearing up. Less desperate and rattly.
He wondered when the angels would find them. Why they hadn’t come knocking already. Why Cas hadn’t appeared to him in a dream yet, or just popped into the room unannounced. Maybe they knew he was a write-off, that he was no good to anyone anymore, no good to the world. Done his dash.
…
Sam had his laptop open on the kitchen bench with a recipe on how to cook an omelette. He was determined to make this morning stress-free and maybe even enjoyable for his brother. Today was the day he went to get an MRI, which shouldn’t have been a big deal. It was just a scan. But it was also confinement, in a long metal tube, with no room to move, and a brother who had post traumatic stress.
He didn’t even know if his brother liked omelettes. He’d never seen him order one. Maybe if he cut up bacon and put it in it…
Sam continued his work on breakfast as he heard Dean stir in the bedroom. He knew he was awake. He’d been listening to his brother his whole life. He could tell from the lack of whimpering and sobs that he’d woken up from whatever dream he was in the midst of. He heard some muffled coughing and thought how it sounded like it was getting better. And at least that was something.
…
Dean’s heart pounded in his chest so hard it felt like it would break ribs. He didn’t know why he was panicking so much. He breathing sawed in and out, quickly, hyperventilating.
“You awake, Dean?” Sam popped his head in the room.
His hands were cold and clammy. His throat tightening so he couldn’t answer.
“Hey, you okay?” Sam was next to him now, big hand on his chest.
Dean slammed his eyes closed.
“Just breathe, Dean… Just breathe…”
Dean got to the point where his body couldn’t sustain the attack anymore and he started to cough. Sam rolled him onto his side so he could breathe, as he hacked. His heart rate slowed and his breathing returned to normal. He was left feeling shaky and sick. Exhausted.
“What the hell was that?” he gasped.
“I think you were having a panic attack,” Sam supplied, rubbing a palm up and down his back.
“It friggen sucked,” Dean closed his eyes. You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay.
“Just relax for a minute… I made you breakfast.”
Dean smiled weakly, “Thanks, Sammy.”
…
From there the morning was okay. Not terrible, not great, but okay. Dean had liked the omelette, and the bits of bacon throughout it. He’d made jokes about Sam and cooking, laughed even, like he was almost the Dean he used to be. But Sam knew deep down that that Dean was gone. Hell changes man.
Sam offered for them to go out for burgers after the scan as a sort of reward but Dean’s smile drooped slightly at the mention of it. So he didn’t say anything about it again.
Dean dressed himself, showered himself, did his hair himself, and didn’t once ask for help.
They rode in the car with Metallica blaring, and didn’t say a single word.
Dean got irrationally angry while filling out the form, said the questions were stupid, and no one needed to know that much about him, and who were these people, the real FBI? Sam quieted him and politely smiled at the other waiting patients, and the reception staff. He also apologised to them when Dean slammed the clipboard down on the counter and huffed off to go and sit in the corner.
It was then that Sam’s phone rang.
“Sam? I’m at the house and no one’s home.”
“Hey, Bobby, we weren’t expecting you till tonight?” Sam uttered quietly, waving a hand at Dean and stepping outside.
“Yeah, well, I shagged ass.”
Sam smiled, “Thanks, Bobby. We’re at the scan clinic. Dean’s about to have his MRI. Would be great if you could meet us here. I don’t think Dean’s going to take it well…”
“’Course, Sam. Shoot me the address. I’ll be there in about an hour. I gotta get some food in me before I drop.”
“Fair enough. I’ll text it to you. See you soon.”
He went back inside and started approaching his brother.
“Dean Walker.”
Sam watched his brother’s head go up at the sound of his fake name, and saw the look of shear terror at what was about to happen. It almost broke Sam’s heart.
…
"Okay, Dean. I'm going to give you these ear plugs because it can be quite noisy in there."
"Okay," Dean said, sweat on his upper lip.
"It's going to feel like you have no space but I assure you it's fine and perfectly safe. I'm going to give you this button to hold on to. Anything goes wrong, you start to feel overwhelmed, just press it and I'll bring you out. It's about 20 minutes in there. There's an intercom so you can hear me and your brother speak to you, but we can't hear you, okay? So if you need to come out, just press the button. Try and stay still."
Dean nodded, mouth dry, "Alright, doc. Let's get it over with," he tried to smile.
Dean closed his eyes before he started going in. He figured if he couldn't see how trapped he was, he wouldn't freak out.
“You okay in there, Dean?”
“Super,” he shouted back, not knowing how loud he was talking.
“See you in 20 minutes,” she said and Dean heard the door open and close. And he was alone.
“Okay, Dean. We’re about to start the first set of images. Try to stay still and press the button at any time and we can stop,” a voice came from somewhere above him, loud enough to hear through the ear plugs.
“I’m right here, Dean,” he heard Sam’s voice, “It’ll be over soon.”
“Yeah, thanks for that, Sammy. I feel awesome, so much better now,” he grumbled sarcastically.
“The machine is going to make some clunking noises as it warms up and then it’s going to be quite loud. It’s all normal, so don’t worry. Starting now.”
Dean could feel his own breath blowing back in his face so he knew how close it was pressed around him. He gripped the button tight, without pressing the top, just holding it close in case he needed it. He wouldn’t press it though. He wouldn’t have to go through this again.
The noise came, loud in his ears, despite the plugs, and the songs he was humming. He clenched his eyes shut and wiggled his toes, pursing his lips. Lying on his back he could feel the snot run down his throat and he prayed to whatever the hell was out there that he wouldn’t have a coughing fit right now. Not when he was so… confined.
He’d been in a while now. He thought things were going well. He thought he was handling it. And then he did something wrong... He opened his eyes.
He took a massive inhale, gasping at the shock of how little space he had. He swallowed over a cough and his chest began heaving up and down. Heart pounding, hands tingling.
“Oh, shit, oh, shit,” he breathed, clenching his eyes shut again, but it was too late. Now he knew.
He was in his coffin again. The blackness. The dust. The smell of rotting bodies, of his own rotting body. The feeling of hard, sharp wood against his fists. Splinters in his hands. Blood under his nails. Scratching. Clawing. Screaming.
“Almost done, Dean. Almost done.”
Sammy.
He couldn’t move. Frozen in fear. He was dying, again. Loser.
“Dean, we’re bringing you out now. Just hold on.”
He felt himself moving, opened his eyes again and saw the tunnel he was in. As soon as he was out he sat up, winced and cried out as he moved his arm. Sweating, panting.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Sam was at his side, hands on him, but he was numb, “You did good. We got the images, Dean. It’s over… It’s over.”
Dean swung around off the table, two voices talking at him but he couldn’t focus on them.
He calmed his breathing but his heart continued to pound in his chest as he silently followed Sam back to the change room to get out of the stupid gown and back into his clothes.
“Do you need help?”
“No,” he said, closing the door in Sam’s face.
Sam was still standing there when he came out, shirt buttoned wrong, sling with only one of the three straps done up, probably his fly open too but he didn’t dare check. He stumbled as he pushed past Sam.
“Whoa, Dean. Where are you going? We have to pay first,” Sam said, as Dean stalked away, back to the waiting room, back out the door.
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t… He was so afraid, so useless, in so much pain, and this was the last thing he could take. Everything was bubbling to the surface. His foundation cracking. The walls crumbling to the ground. The dam breaking.
“Dean?”
Dean spun around and saw Bobby in the parking lot, walking quickly towards him.
Dean stared at his bearded, concerned face as he got closer and closer, now standing in front of him, brow furrowed, eyes wide, mouth turned down.
“Oh, Dean…” he sighed, and put a hand on his face.
Dean clutched at Bobby’s grimy vest and felt the arms wrap around him. He buried his face in his shoulder. All the things he had inside, all the things he tried so hard not to feel, everything he wanted to just go away, and feeling so small in the arms of the man that should have been his father… And he broke.