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FIC: Amends to the Dead (1/1)
Title: Amends to the Dead
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Wincest
Disclaimer: I don't own them.
A/N: Inspired by the lovelypoisontaster, betaed by eponin10 and mona1347. In which Dean's not okay.
They found him with the kid's body. Gore everywhere, blood and deeper things steaming on his hands. He'd tried to hold the kid's (Adam, his name was Adam; he had a name and a little sister and untied shoes) guts inside, even with half of them gone, even with the body cooling and Adam's face hollowed in from one big bite.
He didn't remember making a sound, couldn't remember anything past the boom of the shotgun and the wraith's body falling. He didn't remember, just wondered who the fuck was making those tearing animal sounds when Sam was talking -- victim voice for crazy people -- when Sam was right next to him trying to take Adam from out of his hands. "Dean, man, let him go, there's nothing you can do, there's, God, let go, let me take him, let me--"
Adam slipped out of his hands, blood-sticky-thick-metal smell, and fell into Sam's lap. His small fist opened, and a bubble gum wrapper tumbled out onto the warehouse floor. Its wrapper was bright in the blood.
"You might want to hide that before Sam wakes up."
Dean drops the remote. It hits the carpet, the dull noise raking over his raw nerves, and settles against his foot. He stares at it, because it's easier than meeting his father's eyes. Or looking at the research he's spread out on the rickety, garage sale, coffee table.
After two months of this routine, Dean can gauge how bad it's going to be by seating arrangement. If John pulls over a kitchen chair, it's going to be a quick five minute thing before they can go back to staring at the 4 am infomercials. If John takes the other end of the couch, they're going to have to talk or something. And if both Sam and John are up and he's surrounded, he can give up on getting any peace unless he pisses somebody off enough that they need air.
At least they'd moved to an apartment. When they'd been at Bobby's, nobody would let him out of their sight.
John sighs, then sits on the couch. He still smells like sleep, a comfortable mix of sweat and soap and Dad. His knee bumps Dean's. "Thought we agreed you weren't going to do research for a while."
Dean shrugs. "I'm up."
"Yeah. We said something about you sleeping, too."
"I sleep while you're at work." Some wounded animal in his head adds, when did you start to give a fuck? Dean swallows and manages a smile. "Long naps, daytime TV. Y'know, somebody could pick me up some bon bons if I'm gonna be the housebitch."
"I'm not stupid."
Fuck. Here it goes. "I didn't call you stupid-"
"Dean," John says, quiet-sharp, and Dean hates himself for twitching. Because it isn't a flinch, he isn't cringing from his dad like a little bitch. "Look at me when I'm talking to you."
So Dean looks. Hates the way John stares at him now, assessing some critical weakness, looking like he does when something made him think of Mom.
"I'm not stupid," John repeats. "You can lie to damn near anybody else, but not me and Sam. You're not fine. And I don't know what to do about it."
And there it is; Dean's broken them all down, far enough that his dad actually says crap like that to him or thinks he even has to. "It's not your problem."
It's supposed to be comforting, or at least to stop the Winchester guilt before it gets started, but John shuts down like he did when he fought with Sam and something scored a direct hit. "You're my son."
You're supposed to be better than this.
"I know," Dean says. "I'm-- yeah. Sorry."
Scrubbing at his face, John exhales long and low like he's counting. Trying to hold on to his temper. When he looks at Dean again, it's the hunting look; the 'you will do what I tell you' look. "There's a doctor in town. Deals with this."
All the air leaves Dean's lungs. When he can talk again, he says, "A shrink?"
The silent tightening of John's jaw was an answer.
Dean pulls away to stare at him. "You think I'm crazy?"
"No. I think you need to check out all your options. She's dealt with hunters before. Sam's already checked her out." Trying for a smile, John says, "She's cute."
Sam had gone along with this. Sam helped plan this.
Dean gets that in his bones, a cornered up feeling, hot like shame and blood on his hands. He stands up, his pulse running so hard he feels it in his fingertips and his toes, and goes for his boots.
As he's pulling one on, he feels a hand on his shoulder, and jerks so hard he drops the second boot with a thud. The sound stops him short, his skin crawling with getoutgetoutgetout.
"Dude," his dad says, that awful quiet voice he uses when he knows the wound is serious, "Hey. I'm not gonna drag you there. We'll try something else."
Dean bends, pulls on his other boot, and grabs his jacket. His voice comes out low and clipped. "I need to go out."
"Could wake Sam."
Anger lurches in his chest, chokes him. Dean stops for a second, trying to breathe through his nose, afraid to open his mouth. Of what'll he say.
Like Dad and Sam hadn't torn into him before. Like they didn't deserve it for handing him over to a shrink.
When he turns around, John has his hands shoved in the pockets of his sweatpants. He looks smaller than in Dean's head, thin and tired. Whatever he sees on Dean's face, he says quietly, "Go. Be back by lunch."
Or they'll be coming to get him.
Dean doesn't stay long enough to say thank you.
***
The road stretches on for miles, bleached to bone by the headlights. The Impala purrs around him. He knows he can't actually smell the blood over leather, sweat, home, but it lingers in his head anyway.
At every exit, he thinks about it: taking the girl and running. Driving and driving, only stopping for gas, maybe Mexico or Alaska. Going like hell until he runs out of road. Maybe then he can sleep, if he gets far enough from a nice house in Texas where a little boy was gutted.
His fault. Sam had told him he was getting sloppy on hunts, moving too quick, not sleeping enough. Even Dad had told him to slow the hell down before he got himself killed. But damned if he'd listened, because he hadn't expected somebody else to die.
Adam's mother had folded in the hallway like a ragdoll. She hadn't screamed, hadn't raged or grieved, just sat there. Silent. Extinguished.
Adam would've grown up to look like Ben.
Dawn climbs over the horizon until the sun hurts Dean's eyes.
***
It's nine when the Impala begins to growl for gas.
He pulls off onto one of the towns that the map doesn't show, a diner and gas station town where everything's seen better days. He gets out, limping from sitting too long, and goes to piss. Gets more coffee and refuels the girl. There's no rush for the pump, so he sits on the hood for a minute, nursing his caffeine and listening to the engine click.
"I don't need a shrink," he tells his girl. "I'm fine. I'll be fine."
The attendant looks at him sideways, then heads inside where there's bullet proof glass. Dean salutes him with the coffee just to make him nervous, then drains it and starts to get up.
Something squeaks.
Pulling a gun on a squeak toy is not a sign of PTSD. It's good reflexes, goddamn it.
Sliding the gun back under his jacket, Dean glances around to make sure nobody saw that. The attendant's ignoring him and nobody seems to be panicking, so he starts looking for the noise's source. He doesn't need to be back for a few hours, and digging around in the dust gives him an excuse to dodge the shrink discussion.
Christ, a psychologist. When did they stopped being the enemy? When it wasn't Dad on the couch, or when CPS stopped calling?
He's put up with his family for years, because that's what family does: shoving Dad in the shower and making him eat, cracking jokes with Sam to keep him from brooding. Now that it's him? Bam. 'Dean's crazy. Get the straitjacket.'
Maybe he's just tired. Doesn't mean they need to go outside the family. He can go talk to Bobby if they're that het up for him to...
There's blood in the long grass by the road.
Dean doesn't remember moving, but he's on his knees. Don't be a kid, don't, don't, I can't. Pushing through the grass stings across his bare palms until he touches something cool and stiff with death. For a second he sees hair, but then he blinks and it's fur. Cat fur.
He just kirked out over a damn dead cat.
He sits back on his heels and relearns how to breathe. It isn't Adam; it isn't a kid. He's okay.
The squeak comes again, something stirring under the dead cat's side. Dean hesitates, bracing for all the critters of rot, and shoves the cat over.
Underneath are two slightly flattened, very pissed kittens.
Crap. The cat laid on its (her, apparently) kittens. Died protecting them. They're tiny, eyes still squeezed shut, little paws flailing in a way that reminds Dean of the scent of baby powder and Mom. Their bellies curve out, fur a pale ginger against their pink skin, too small to live on their own. Further out in the grass, Dean can see other small, still, furry bodies.
These are the last two left. The survivors.
Something clicks in Dean's head, wedges itself into place. Three weeks of no, I couldn't and he's hit a solid wall of yes. Yes I can.
Carefully, slowly, Dean slips his hands under the first kitten's squirming body. He's never felt so clumsy, his hands like shovels. It squeaks but doesn't break, even though he can fit it in his palm, so he tries his luck and picks up its brother. Now he has a duet of high chirping in his hands. At least he doesn't have to worry about them kicking off on him before he gets them in the car.
He touches the mother cat's side before he stands up. Her fur's sticky, but he'd rather think of this the next time he smells blood.
Balancing the kittens, he opens up the Impala and slides into the driver's seat. He sits for a minute, looking at their blind faces, and touches their little folded ears with his fingertips. They're velvet soft, cool but getting warmer while he holds them. The smaller kitten cranes his head around, trying to suck Dean's fingers, and mews a complaint when he can't.
"I know. I'm not your mom." Rubbing between the kitten's ears, Dean says, "You're gonna live."
It licks his finger, and the bigger one tries to eat his ring.
Dean looks at his seatbelt, grimaces, and cinches it tight around him. Then he tucks them both inside his shirt and starts the car, turning the music down so it won't spook them.
Maybe they like Ozzy, because they settle down. He feels their hearts flutter against his chest as he drives home.
Authors:
nilchanceRating: PG-13
Pairing: Wincest
Disclaimer: I don't own them.
A/N: Inspired by the lovely
poisontaster, betaed by eponin10 and mona1347. In which Dean's not okay. They found him with the kid's body. Gore everywhere, blood and deeper things steaming on his hands. He'd tried to hold the kid's (Adam, his name was Adam; he had a name and a little sister and untied shoes) guts inside, even with half of them gone, even with the body cooling and Adam's face hollowed in from one big bite.
He didn't remember making a sound, couldn't remember anything past the boom of the shotgun and the wraith's body falling. He didn't remember, just wondered who the fuck was making those tearing animal sounds when Sam was talking -- victim voice for crazy people -- when Sam was right next to him trying to take Adam from out of his hands. "Dean, man, let him go, there's nothing you can do, there's, God, let go, let me take him, let me--"
Adam slipped out of his hands, blood-sticky-thick-metal smell, and fell into Sam's lap. His small fist opened, and a bubble gum wrapper tumbled out onto the warehouse floor. Its wrapper was bright in the blood.
"You might want to hide that before Sam wakes up."
Dean drops the remote. It hits the carpet, the dull noise raking over his raw nerves, and settles against his foot. He stares at it, because it's easier than meeting his father's eyes. Or looking at the research he's spread out on the rickety, garage sale, coffee table.
After two months of this routine, Dean can gauge how bad it's going to be by seating arrangement. If John pulls over a kitchen chair, it's going to be a quick five minute thing before they can go back to staring at the 4 am infomercials. If John takes the other end of the couch, they're going to have to talk or something. And if both Sam and John are up and he's surrounded, he can give up on getting any peace unless he pisses somebody off enough that they need air.
At least they'd moved to an apartment. When they'd been at Bobby's, nobody would let him out of their sight.
John sighs, then sits on the couch. He still smells like sleep, a comfortable mix of sweat and soap and Dad. His knee bumps Dean's. "Thought we agreed you weren't going to do research for a while."
Dean shrugs. "I'm up."
"Yeah. We said something about you sleeping, too."
"I sleep while you're at work." Some wounded animal in his head adds, when did you start to give a fuck? Dean swallows and manages a smile. "Long naps, daytime TV. Y'know, somebody could pick me up some bon bons if I'm gonna be the housebitch."
"I'm not stupid."
Fuck. Here it goes. "I didn't call you stupid-"
"Dean," John says, quiet-sharp, and Dean hates himself for twitching. Because it isn't a flinch, he isn't cringing from his dad like a little bitch. "Look at me when I'm talking to you."
So Dean looks. Hates the way John stares at him now, assessing some critical weakness, looking like he does when something made him think of Mom.
"I'm not stupid," John repeats. "You can lie to damn near anybody else, but not me and Sam. You're not fine. And I don't know what to do about it."
And there it is; Dean's broken them all down, far enough that his dad actually says crap like that to him or thinks he even has to. "It's not your problem."
It's supposed to be comforting, or at least to stop the Winchester guilt before it gets started, but John shuts down like he did when he fought with Sam and something scored a direct hit. "You're my son."
You're supposed to be better than this.
"I know," Dean says. "I'm-- yeah. Sorry."
Scrubbing at his face, John exhales long and low like he's counting. Trying to hold on to his temper. When he looks at Dean again, it's the hunting look; the 'you will do what I tell you' look. "There's a doctor in town. Deals with this."
All the air leaves Dean's lungs. When he can talk again, he says, "A shrink?"
The silent tightening of John's jaw was an answer.
Dean pulls away to stare at him. "You think I'm crazy?"
"No. I think you need to check out all your options. She's dealt with hunters before. Sam's already checked her out." Trying for a smile, John says, "She's cute."
Sam had gone along with this. Sam helped plan this.
Dean gets that in his bones, a cornered up feeling, hot like shame and blood on his hands. He stands up, his pulse running so hard he feels it in his fingertips and his toes, and goes for his boots.
As he's pulling one on, he feels a hand on his shoulder, and jerks so hard he drops the second boot with a thud. The sound stops him short, his skin crawling with getoutgetoutgetout.
"Dude," his dad says, that awful quiet voice he uses when he knows the wound is serious, "Hey. I'm not gonna drag you there. We'll try something else."
Dean bends, pulls on his other boot, and grabs his jacket. His voice comes out low and clipped. "I need to go out."
"Could wake Sam."
Anger lurches in his chest, chokes him. Dean stops for a second, trying to breathe through his nose, afraid to open his mouth. Of what'll he say.
Like Dad and Sam hadn't torn into him before. Like they didn't deserve it for handing him over to a shrink.
When he turns around, John has his hands shoved in the pockets of his sweatpants. He looks smaller than in Dean's head, thin and tired. Whatever he sees on Dean's face, he says quietly, "Go. Be back by lunch."
Or they'll be coming to get him.
Dean doesn't stay long enough to say thank you.
***
The road stretches on for miles, bleached to bone by the headlights. The Impala purrs around him. He knows he can't actually smell the blood over leather, sweat, home, but it lingers in his head anyway.
At every exit, he thinks about it: taking the girl and running. Driving and driving, only stopping for gas, maybe Mexico or Alaska. Going like hell until he runs out of road. Maybe then he can sleep, if he gets far enough from a nice house in Texas where a little boy was gutted.
His fault. Sam had told him he was getting sloppy on hunts, moving too quick, not sleeping enough. Even Dad had told him to slow the hell down before he got himself killed. But damned if he'd listened, because he hadn't expected somebody else to die.
Adam's mother had folded in the hallway like a ragdoll. She hadn't screamed, hadn't raged or grieved, just sat there. Silent. Extinguished.
Adam would've grown up to look like Ben.
Dawn climbs over the horizon until the sun hurts Dean's eyes.
***
It's nine when the Impala begins to growl for gas.
He pulls off onto one of the towns that the map doesn't show, a diner and gas station town where everything's seen better days. He gets out, limping from sitting too long, and goes to piss. Gets more coffee and refuels the girl. There's no rush for the pump, so he sits on the hood for a minute, nursing his caffeine and listening to the engine click.
"I don't need a shrink," he tells his girl. "I'm fine. I'll be fine."
The attendant looks at him sideways, then heads inside where there's bullet proof glass. Dean salutes him with the coffee just to make him nervous, then drains it and starts to get up.
Something squeaks.
Pulling a gun on a squeak toy is not a sign of PTSD. It's good reflexes, goddamn it.
Sliding the gun back under his jacket, Dean glances around to make sure nobody saw that. The attendant's ignoring him and nobody seems to be panicking, so he starts looking for the noise's source. He doesn't need to be back for a few hours, and digging around in the dust gives him an excuse to dodge the shrink discussion.
Christ, a psychologist. When did they stopped being the enemy? When it wasn't Dad on the couch, or when CPS stopped calling?
He's put up with his family for years, because that's what family does: shoving Dad in the shower and making him eat, cracking jokes with Sam to keep him from brooding. Now that it's him? Bam. 'Dean's crazy. Get the straitjacket.'
Maybe he's just tired. Doesn't mean they need to go outside the family. He can go talk to Bobby if they're that het up for him to...
There's blood in the long grass by the road.
Dean doesn't remember moving, but he's on his knees. Don't be a kid, don't, don't, I can't. Pushing through the grass stings across his bare palms until he touches something cool and stiff with death. For a second he sees hair, but then he blinks and it's fur. Cat fur.
He just kirked out over a damn dead cat.
He sits back on his heels and relearns how to breathe. It isn't Adam; it isn't a kid. He's okay.
The squeak comes again, something stirring under the dead cat's side. Dean hesitates, bracing for all the critters of rot, and shoves the cat over.
Underneath are two slightly flattened, very pissed kittens.
Crap. The cat laid on its (her, apparently) kittens. Died protecting them. They're tiny, eyes still squeezed shut, little paws flailing in a way that reminds Dean of the scent of baby powder and Mom. Their bellies curve out, fur a pale ginger against their pink skin, too small to live on their own. Further out in the grass, Dean can see other small, still, furry bodies.
These are the last two left. The survivors.
Something clicks in Dean's head, wedges itself into place. Three weeks of no, I couldn't and he's hit a solid wall of yes. Yes I can.
Carefully, slowly, Dean slips his hands under the first kitten's squirming body. He's never felt so clumsy, his hands like shovels. It squeaks but doesn't break, even though he can fit it in his palm, so he tries his luck and picks up its brother. Now he has a duet of high chirping in his hands. At least he doesn't have to worry about them kicking off on him before he gets them in the car.
He touches the mother cat's side before he stands up. Her fur's sticky, but he'd rather think of this the next time he smells blood.
Balancing the kittens, he opens up the Impala and slides into the driver's seat. He sits for a minute, looking at their blind faces, and touches their little folded ears with his fingertips. They're velvet soft, cool but getting warmer while he holds them. The smaller kitten cranes his head around, trying to suck Dean's fingers, and mews a complaint when he can't.
"I know. I'm not your mom." Rubbing between the kitten's ears, Dean says, "You're gonna live."
It licks his finger, and the bigger one tries to eat his ring.
Dean looks at his seatbelt, grimaces, and cinches it tight around him. Then he tucks them both inside his shirt and starts the car, turning the music down so it won't spook them.
Maybe they like Ozzy, because they settle down. He feels their hearts flutter against his chest as he drives home.
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