FIC - After the Wall
title: After The Wall
pairing: Sam/Dean
rating: R/NC-17
a/n:; h/c, drug use, angst because I am a total angstwhore, established relationship by implication.
summary: Spoilers for season 6 finale, so don’t read if you haven’t watched.
“What the fuck is it, exactly, that I’m supposed to do?”, Dean thinks, for approximately the 2,738th time in the past week.
There’s enough already. He’s lost his best friend. He has no idea how to fix anything and he’s not used to feeling like this. Dean always knows what to do. He is a fixer. He does not look on, wishing he could help. He helps. He does…things for Christ’s sake, he DOES things. Cas is gone, Bobby is distant and Sam -
Jesus, Dean never thought he’d see something like this ever in his life. He’s seen Hell, he’s seen the Apocalypse, he’s seen demons and monsters and death. Oh, and Death. But coming back to their room and seeing this again is unbearable.
The wall has come down. His Sammy is broken. Dean knows what it’s like, having to remember being in Hell. But Sam was in the Cage. He has no idea what his brother has suffered, exactly the things he remembers, what happened for that time when he was gone, because Sam doesn’t speak anymore. Dean does his best to control it, but there’s no way to keep his eyes on his brother 24/7.
So here he is again. Walking into the room, and looking down at this wreck who used to be someone else, naked and passed out. An empty bottle of Southern Comfort on the floor next to the bed, next to another empty bottle of Southern Comfort on the floor next to the bed. A bloody razor blade on the little wooden table. Sharp, straight lines down the inside of Sam’s left arm, down the left side of his torso, the inside of his left thigh, the outside of his left thigh, and Dean guessed Sam passed out by the time he got to ripping lines through his skin about halfway down his calf.
Another razor blade, this one clean and lying on its side, reflection gleaming in the mirror with the tiny remnants of cocaine that are left behind.
His brother is a drunk and a cutter and right on his way to becoming a drug addict. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever been so torn in his entire life. Let him have it, a piece of his brain pipes up, what the fuck, he’s got to have some way to cope and if he has to be a little self-destructive while he finds his way, just back up and let it burn off, because it will. Right? It’s a phase. A defense mechanism against these feelings and once he gets a handle on it, all this will go away, because it’s Sam and Sam is stronger than anyone except for Dean gives him credit for, and he’s going to land on his feet on this other side of this and find a way to keep on moving without this bullshit.
And there goes the other part of Dean’s brain. End this NOW, make it stop, don’t just stand there like an idiot while your brother destroys himself. Dean knows he could do it. He could stop everything else, he could lock Sammy in a room like he did before. Twice before, he had done it, and hated it, but knew he had to, to make Sam better, so he could do it again, no matter how much his heart broke into a million pieces to hear his baby boy scream his name and beg to be let go.
But for right this minute, Dean was without any kind of compass at all. What was his life without his Sammy? The real Sammy? What was he supposed to do?
He would have asked Cas. If he could.
Fucking Cas, who did this to his baby brother, who lied to them, who helped Dean even when he knew it would not bridge the gap between them. Cas honestly believed he had been doing the right thing. Dean had managed a few moments of sympathy, knowing he’d done some stupid shit himself when he had a crazy idea in his head.
Until this. The whole “I am God” thing was terrifying, yes, and no matter what had happened between them, Dean still worried about Cas. Until this. Castiel had broken his brother, despite his promise of saving Sam.
So, here was the question. Did Dean get on with the process of trying to save Sam? Or did he wait and let Sam save himself?
Back to the moment. A naked Sammy sprawled out on top of the covers used to be like a complimentary box seat to the greatest show on Earth. But like this, it was just an icepick in Dean’s chest cavity.
Fixing. The rest of the fixing would have to wait, since Dean had no plan for it. But he takes the mirror with the clean razor blade and washes them both off in the sink, resists the urge to throw them in the garbage and puts them back into the side pocket of Sam’s duffle, seeing the telltale tiny, bright-colored plastic Ziploc bag that let him know Sam had indeed passed out before he was done. He drops the empty liquor bottles into the trash and heads back over to the bed. The bloody blade is immediately discarded, and Dean starts to touch the straight, even, almost OCD-perfect lines cut into his brother’s skin. None are deep or dangerous, which Dean guesses is a bright side, if such a thing exists. He makes his way soundlessly to the first aid kit in his bag and starts gently spreading antibiotic cream over the cuts. Sammy might need whatever he is getting from this self-destruction, but fuck if Dean is going to let him risk getting necrotizing fasciitis or MRSA or whatever from this bullshit.
Because this flesh belongs to him. Sammy belongs to him and Dean takes care of what’s his.
pairing: Sam/Dean
rating: R/NC-17
a/n:; h/c, drug use, angst because I am a total angstwhore, established relationship by implication.
summary: Spoilers for season 6 finale, so don’t read if you haven’t watched.
“What the fuck is it, exactly, that I’m supposed to do?”, Dean thinks, for approximately the 2,738th time in the past week.
There’s enough already. He’s lost his best friend. He has no idea how to fix anything and he’s not used to feeling like this. Dean always knows what to do. He is a fixer. He does not look on, wishing he could help. He helps. He does…things for Christ’s sake, he DOES things. Cas is gone, Bobby is distant and Sam -
Jesus, Dean never thought he’d see something like this ever in his life. He’s seen Hell, he’s seen the Apocalypse, he’s seen demons and monsters and death. Oh, and Death. But coming back to their room and seeing this again is unbearable.
The wall has come down. His Sammy is broken. Dean knows what it’s like, having to remember being in Hell. But Sam was in the Cage. He has no idea what his brother has suffered, exactly the things he remembers, what happened for that time when he was gone, because Sam doesn’t speak anymore. Dean does his best to control it, but there’s no way to keep his eyes on his brother 24/7.
So here he is again. Walking into the room, and looking down at this wreck who used to be someone else, naked and passed out. An empty bottle of Southern Comfort on the floor next to the bed, next to another empty bottle of Southern Comfort on the floor next to the bed. A bloody razor blade on the little wooden table. Sharp, straight lines down the inside of Sam’s left arm, down the left side of his torso, the inside of his left thigh, the outside of his left thigh, and Dean guessed Sam passed out by the time he got to ripping lines through his skin about halfway down his calf.
Another razor blade, this one clean and lying on its side, reflection gleaming in the mirror with the tiny remnants of cocaine that are left behind.
His brother is a drunk and a cutter and right on his way to becoming a drug addict. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever been so torn in his entire life. Let him have it, a piece of his brain pipes up, what the fuck, he’s got to have some way to cope and if he has to be a little self-destructive while he finds his way, just back up and let it burn off, because it will. Right? It’s a phase. A defense mechanism against these feelings and once he gets a handle on it, all this will go away, because it’s Sam and Sam is stronger than anyone except for Dean gives him credit for, and he’s going to land on his feet on this other side of this and find a way to keep on moving without this bullshit.
And there goes the other part of Dean’s brain. End this NOW, make it stop, don’t just stand there like an idiot while your brother destroys himself. Dean knows he could do it. He could stop everything else, he could lock Sammy in a room like he did before. Twice before, he had done it, and hated it, but knew he had to, to make Sam better, so he could do it again, no matter how much his heart broke into a million pieces to hear his baby boy scream his name and beg to be let go.
But for right this minute, Dean was without any kind of compass at all. What was his life without his Sammy? The real Sammy? What was he supposed to do?
He would have asked Cas. If he could.
Fucking Cas, who did this to his baby brother, who lied to them, who helped Dean even when he knew it would not bridge the gap between them. Cas honestly believed he had been doing the right thing. Dean had managed a few moments of sympathy, knowing he’d done some stupid shit himself when he had a crazy idea in his head.
Until this. The whole “I am God” thing was terrifying, yes, and no matter what had happened between them, Dean still worried about Cas. Until this. Castiel had broken his brother, despite his promise of saving Sam.
So, here was the question. Did Dean get on with the process of trying to save Sam? Or did he wait and let Sam save himself?
Back to the moment. A naked Sammy sprawled out on top of the covers used to be like a complimentary box seat to the greatest show on Earth. But like this, it was just an icepick in Dean’s chest cavity.
Fixing. The rest of the fixing would have to wait, since Dean had no plan for it. But he takes the mirror with the clean razor blade and washes them both off in the sink, resists the urge to throw them in the garbage and puts them back into the side pocket of Sam’s duffle, seeing the telltale tiny, bright-colored plastic Ziploc bag that let him know Sam had indeed passed out before he was done. He drops the empty liquor bottles into the trash and heads back over to the bed. The bloody blade is immediately discarded, and Dean starts to touch the straight, even, almost OCD-perfect lines cut into his brother’s skin. None are deep or dangerous, which Dean guesses is a bright side, if such a thing exists. He makes his way soundlessly to the first aid kit in his bag and starts gently spreading antibiotic cream over the cuts. Sammy might need whatever he is getting from this self-destruction, but fuck if Dean is going to let him risk getting necrotizing fasciitis or MRSA or whatever from this bullshit.
Because this flesh belongs to him. Sammy belongs to him and Dean takes care of what’s his.