Fic: His Brothers' Right Hand
Oct. 4th, 2015 02:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
majestic_duxkRating: G
Word count: ~1700
Kinks/Warnings: mild angst, self hatred, mild physical disability, permanent disability, brotherly love, caretaking, hurt!Dean, negative self-talk regarding disability, disability slurs, Dean’s self hatred, protective!Sam, unaware!Sam,
Summary: This is written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
waywardjay as part of the spn-summergen challenge (originally posted here), for the prompt Either Sam or Dean deal with a disability. Can be from a young age or one acquired in a hunt. They support each other but still struggle with pride and stubbornness.
many thanks totsukichibi for the beta.
--
“Dean! No!”
Sam jolted upright, words still on his lips even as sleep fled. Rubbing cold hands along his arms, he shuddered at the clamminess.
Another nightmare. Another fucking nightmare. Throwing himself backwards, his hit the mattress. He couldn’t help but berate himself, after all he was fine. What the hell was he doing having nightmares? If anyone should, it should be–
The faint sound of tinkling glass ticked his ears. Before he even had time for thought, Sam’s feet had hit the ground and he was padding towards the kitchen. He found exactly what he expected: Dean slumped in a chair, staring at the shards of glass that littered the floor around him.
Sam swore he never made a sound, but Dean’s head still shot up.
“Go away, Sam. It’s fine.”
Sam wanted nothing more than to turn around and leave. He wanted to ignore all the pain and anger in the room, march back to his room and bury his head under the blankets until everything was fixed.
But they’d been down this road before. It lead to 102 stitches and hours scrubbing the blood from the floor. Sam couldn’t deal with that again, so holding in his sigh he walked to the cupboard and grabbed the dustpan. This was going to piss his brother off – a lot – but better a couple of hours of sulking than the hours of tears and self-recriminations and embarrassment and the fucking injuries.
“I said-“
“I know exactly what you said, Dean. And I know exactly what I’m going to do, And do you know why?”
Dean glowered but said nothing. With effort, Sam relaxed his shoulders. He was not going to fight with Dean.
“It’s ok to ask for he-“
“I’m not a fucking cripple.”
Sam put the brush down, leaning heavily on the table. Without looking at his brother he bit out the words.
“Actually, Dean, you are.”
So much for good intentions. Dean’s gasp was audible above the blood throbbing in Sam’s ears. Sam knew he’d stepped over the line Dean had drawn firmly and deeply in the sand. But sand washes away, and this was ridiculous.
“Fuck you-“
“You have no use of your right hand. You can’t bend the fingers. You can’t straighten the fingers. You can’t move your fucking fingers. You were hamstrung Dean. A werewolf sliced through your-”, Dean’s pained breath stopped Sam for a moment, but he stubbornly continued. “So you have no weight bearing capacity in your left leg. Which reminds me, Dean.” And yes, Sam’s voice was really fucking sharp. “How exactly did you get up and down from the basement the other day? Because I know how much trouble you have-“
“Enough!”
Dean went to slam his hand on the table. Muscle memory dictated that his right hand would fist before it slammed forcefully against the table; physical limitation decreed that it would instead flop ineffectively. Dean stared at the limp digits, as if through sheer force of will he could make them do something, anything, and for a moment Sam thought that it would happen. That Dean would be able to somehow make his hand work.
But even with the full force of Dean Winchester behind it, the appendage hung weak and unmoving.
“Fuck!”
With a wild sweep of his arm, the bottles on the table went crashing to the floor.
It would be so easy to get mad at Dean. It was not only childish but fucking annoying. And there was more glass to clean up. But that wasn’t going to help anything. At least, Sam thought wryly, that was alcohol Dean wouldn’t be able to consume.
Without another word, Sam set to cleaning up the glass.
~o~
“I know I’m fucking useless.”
It was a close thing, but Sam almost dropped the shattered glass on the floor again. Silence had reigned for the last half hour, and Sam had been sure Dean was going to ignore him for… well, it was always hard to tell, but certainly longer than that.
This was a break from the usual routine, so Sam chose a different response, too. Instead of rushing to fill the silence, Sam finished emptying the glass in the trash. He then methodically returned everything to its place before grabbing two beers and sitting down at the table. Dean was staring at the tabletop, tracing patterns – Devils traps? Banishing sigils? It was hard to tell from this angle – with a fingertip.
Popping the cap of his beer, Sam took a long draw and waited. If Dean was going to talk, then he would let Dean talk.
“I said, I know I’m fucking useless.”
Sam nodded an acknowledgement, but said nothing.
Finally, Dean looked up. Sam’s expression was (he hoped) mildly encouraging. Inside he was desperately waiting for Dean to share.
Since the accident, Dean had closed off. And Sam understood that Dean was grieving. After all, it had stolen a quintessential part of Dean’s identity: the Hunter. It was all he knew, all he thought he was. The first few weeks had been harrowing. Sam didn’t leave Dean’s side, afraid that if he glanced away infection or heartbreak would take his brother from him.
Even now, Sam couldn’t say Dean was recovered. Not even close. He wasn’t living, he was just existing. And though Sam was desperately grateful that Dean was still here, he wanted more for his brother. Dean was so fucking strong, he should be able to deal with this! Plenty of people only had use of one arm. Plenty of people couldn’t use one leg. Fuck, some people lost the use of both legs – not that Sam was willing to bring that up, as Bobby’s injury was still too close to the bone.
Dean was resilient and brave. He’d proven that again and again. The man had fucking died so many times Sam couldn’t count them. But this? This completely broke him. Dean had so much to live for, so many options, yet he refused to do anything. Sam just couldn’t understand why he was so unwilling to move past this. Dean wouldn’t even discuss it, and after the last time, when Sam had ducked just in time to miss a beer bottle to the head, Sam had stepped back. He’d be what he could – which was never enough – but there was no moving Dean until he was ready.
Sam wasn’t a praying man. Not anymore. But, as Dean opened his mouth and the words began to tumble out, Sam wondered if there was someone who listened, after all.
~o~
Dean couldn’t stand himself. He looked in the mirror and all he saw was something so broken it could never be fixed. Sure, he’d always been broken, but at least that was on the inside, where he could hide it. Now his failures marbled his skin, there for all to see.
He’d failed on the job.
He’d failed.
Dean had only ever been good for one thing and now he was a fucking cripple who couldn’t hold a glass, let alone a fucking gun, without dropping it! A fucking waste of space who couldn’t do a single fucking thing. He was useless, and what did Sam expect him to do? Ride a rainbow farting unicorn into the sunset?
No, what Sam asked for was far harder: he wanted Dean to settle down, to be okay with it, and let Sam look after him.
Because he was fucking useless.
But every time he tried to explain it to Sam, his brother just turned eyes brimming with understanding on him. Which, under other circumstances would have been pretty fucking hilarious, because Sam understood nothing. Not that Dean expected him to. Dean had never been good with his words before the accident. And now, even though his injuries only affected his hand and leg, Dean felt that the few words he did have had been cut as effectively as his hamstring.
And Sam wanted him to talk.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried. After all, Dean would do anything for Sam. But when it came down to it, he didn’t know what to say. The few words he’d managed, Sam had disputed straight away.
“You’re not useless, Dean. You’re not a waste of space. Of course I won’t leave you, I love you.”
Dean couldn’t understand why Sam was still here. What was his brother thinking? This was the perfect opportunity. Sam could stroll out the door, and Dean wouldn’t do anything. If Sam left, all Dean was capable of doing was sitting and watching his brother’s back as he walked beyond Dean’s reach.
It was inevitable. Sam hadn’t wanted to be around Dean when he was whole, and now that he was broken and useless?
Dean laughed bitterly. Why would Sam ever want to keep such a burden of a brother? And why was he still here?
~o~
Sam could only stare.
Dean seemed unaware that he’d spoken aloud. Sam sat quietly, letting Dean’s self-loathing wash over him. Although it wasn’t exactly a surprise, the depth and viciousness sent him reeling.
And Dean was wrong. Every single thing that he heard was just wrong.
Eventually, silence settled. Dean had gone back to staring at his empty bottle, while Sam stared at Dean. He knew that there was nothing he could say – nothing about Dean that would get through – but maybe… maybe…
“What if it was me?”
Dean’s head jerked up, confusion in his eyes. He’d been so caught up in his thoughts he’d forgotten Sam was there.
“If what was what?”
“What if it had been me that jumped in front a werewolf and saved you? What if it were me that were crippled? Would you leave? Because I was useless? Because I couldn’t even hold a fucking beer? Would you walk out on me?”
The fury in Dean’s eyes brought tears to Sam’s own. It was the most emotion he’d seen on his brother’s face since the accident.
“What the fuck, Sam? I’d never leave you. Never.”
Sam was in Dean’s face before Dean had time to retreat. Go hard, or go home, he thought grimly to himself. He might never have another opportunity to make his point.
“So if you wouldn’t leave me, Dean, why the fuck do you think I’d leave you?”
Dean didn’t seem to have an answer, and taking his time, Sam sat back down in his chair. Unhurriedly, he picked up his bottle, letting his head drop back as he swallowed the last of the lukewarm beer.
Dean still hadn’t moved by the time Sam carefully set the bottle back on the table.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
It’s was Sam’s promise, and maybe this time, Dean would believe it.
Word count: ~1700
Kinks/Warnings: mild angst, self hatred, mild physical disability, permanent disability, brotherly love, caretaking, hurt!Dean, negative self-talk regarding disability, disability slurs, Dean’s self hatred, protective!Sam, unaware!Sam,
Summary: This is written for the
waywardjay as part of the spn-summergen challenge (originally posted here), for the prompt Either Sam or Dean deal with a disability. Can be from a young age or one acquired in a hunt. They support each other but still struggle with pride and stubbornness.many thanks to
tsukichibi for the beta. --
“Dean! No!”
Sam jolted upright, words still on his lips even as sleep fled. Rubbing cold hands along his arms, he shuddered at the clamminess.
Another nightmare. Another fucking nightmare. Throwing himself backwards, his hit the mattress. He couldn’t help but berate himself, after all he was fine. What the hell was he doing having nightmares? If anyone should, it should be–
The faint sound of tinkling glass ticked his ears. Before he even had time for thought, Sam’s feet had hit the ground and he was padding towards the kitchen. He found exactly what he expected: Dean slumped in a chair, staring at the shards of glass that littered the floor around him.
Sam swore he never made a sound, but Dean’s head still shot up.
“Go away, Sam. It’s fine.”
Sam wanted nothing more than to turn around and leave. He wanted to ignore all the pain and anger in the room, march back to his room and bury his head under the blankets until everything was fixed.
But they’d been down this road before. It lead to 102 stitches and hours scrubbing the blood from the floor. Sam couldn’t deal with that again, so holding in his sigh he walked to the cupboard and grabbed the dustpan. This was going to piss his brother off – a lot – but better a couple of hours of sulking than the hours of tears and self-recriminations and embarrassment and the fucking injuries.
“I said-“
“I know exactly what you said, Dean. And I know exactly what I’m going to do, And do you know why?”
Dean glowered but said nothing. With effort, Sam relaxed his shoulders. He was not going to fight with Dean.
“It’s ok to ask for he-“
“I’m not a fucking cripple.”
Sam put the brush down, leaning heavily on the table. Without looking at his brother he bit out the words.
“Actually, Dean, you are.”
So much for good intentions. Dean’s gasp was audible above the blood throbbing in Sam’s ears. Sam knew he’d stepped over the line Dean had drawn firmly and deeply in the sand. But sand washes away, and this was ridiculous.
“Fuck you-“
“You have no use of your right hand. You can’t bend the fingers. You can’t straighten the fingers. You can’t move your fucking fingers. You were hamstrung Dean. A werewolf sliced through your-”, Dean’s pained breath stopped Sam for a moment, but he stubbornly continued. “So you have no weight bearing capacity in your left leg. Which reminds me, Dean.” And yes, Sam’s voice was really fucking sharp. “How exactly did you get up and down from the basement the other day? Because I know how much trouble you have-“
“Enough!”
Dean went to slam his hand on the table. Muscle memory dictated that his right hand would fist before it slammed forcefully against the table; physical limitation decreed that it would instead flop ineffectively. Dean stared at the limp digits, as if through sheer force of will he could make them do something, anything, and for a moment Sam thought that it would happen. That Dean would be able to somehow make his hand work.
But even with the full force of Dean Winchester behind it, the appendage hung weak and unmoving.
“Fuck!”
With a wild sweep of his arm, the bottles on the table went crashing to the floor.
It would be so easy to get mad at Dean. It was not only childish but fucking annoying. And there was more glass to clean up. But that wasn’t going to help anything. At least, Sam thought wryly, that was alcohol Dean wouldn’t be able to consume.
Without another word, Sam set to cleaning up the glass.
~o~
“I know I’m fucking useless.”
It was a close thing, but Sam almost dropped the shattered glass on the floor again. Silence had reigned for the last half hour, and Sam had been sure Dean was going to ignore him for… well, it was always hard to tell, but certainly longer than that.
This was a break from the usual routine, so Sam chose a different response, too. Instead of rushing to fill the silence, Sam finished emptying the glass in the trash. He then methodically returned everything to its place before grabbing two beers and sitting down at the table. Dean was staring at the tabletop, tracing patterns – Devils traps? Banishing sigils? It was hard to tell from this angle – with a fingertip.
Popping the cap of his beer, Sam took a long draw and waited. If Dean was going to talk, then he would let Dean talk.
“I said, I know I’m fucking useless.”
Sam nodded an acknowledgement, but said nothing.
Finally, Dean looked up. Sam’s expression was (he hoped) mildly encouraging. Inside he was desperately waiting for Dean to share.
Since the accident, Dean had closed off. And Sam understood that Dean was grieving. After all, it had stolen a quintessential part of Dean’s identity: the Hunter. It was all he knew, all he thought he was. The first few weeks had been harrowing. Sam didn’t leave Dean’s side, afraid that if he glanced away infection or heartbreak would take his brother from him.
Even now, Sam couldn’t say Dean was recovered. Not even close. He wasn’t living, he was just existing. And though Sam was desperately grateful that Dean was still here, he wanted more for his brother. Dean was so fucking strong, he should be able to deal with this! Plenty of people only had use of one arm. Plenty of people couldn’t use one leg. Fuck, some people lost the use of both legs – not that Sam was willing to bring that up, as Bobby’s injury was still too close to the bone.
Dean was resilient and brave. He’d proven that again and again. The man had fucking died so many times Sam couldn’t count them. But this? This completely broke him. Dean had so much to live for, so many options, yet he refused to do anything. Sam just couldn’t understand why he was so unwilling to move past this. Dean wouldn’t even discuss it, and after the last time, when Sam had ducked just in time to miss a beer bottle to the head, Sam had stepped back. He’d be what he could – which was never enough – but there was no moving Dean until he was ready.
Sam wasn’t a praying man. Not anymore. But, as Dean opened his mouth and the words began to tumble out, Sam wondered if there was someone who listened, after all.
~o~
Dean couldn’t stand himself. He looked in the mirror and all he saw was something so broken it could never be fixed. Sure, he’d always been broken, but at least that was on the inside, where he could hide it. Now his failures marbled his skin, there for all to see.
He’d failed on the job.
He’d failed.
Dean had only ever been good for one thing and now he was a fucking cripple who couldn’t hold a glass, let alone a fucking gun, without dropping it! A fucking waste of space who couldn’t do a single fucking thing. He was useless, and what did Sam expect him to do? Ride a rainbow farting unicorn into the sunset?
No, what Sam asked for was far harder: he wanted Dean to settle down, to be okay with it, and let Sam look after him.
Because he was fucking useless.
But every time he tried to explain it to Sam, his brother just turned eyes brimming with understanding on him. Which, under other circumstances would have been pretty fucking hilarious, because Sam understood nothing. Not that Dean expected him to. Dean had never been good with his words before the accident. And now, even though his injuries only affected his hand and leg, Dean felt that the few words he did have had been cut as effectively as his hamstring.
And Sam wanted him to talk.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried. After all, Dean would do anything for Sam. But when it came down to it, he didn’t know what to say. The few words he’d managed, Sam had disputed straight away.
“You’re not useless, Dean. You’re not a waste of space. Of course I won’t leave you, I love you.”
Dean couldn’t understand why Sam was still here. What was his brother thinking? This was the perfect opportunity. Sam could stroll out the door, and Dean wouldn’t do anything. If Sam left, all Dean was capable of doing was sitting and watching his brother’s back as he walked beyond Dean’s reach.
It was inevitable. Sam hadn’t wanted to be around Dean when he was whole, and now that he was broken and useless?
Dean laughed bitterly. Why would Sam ever want to keep such a burden of a brother? And why was he still here?
~o~
Sam could only stare.
Dean seemed unaware that he’d spoken aloud. Sam sat quietly, letting Dean’s self-loathing wash over him. Although it wasn’t exactly a surprise, the depth and viciousness sent him reeling.
And Dean was wrong. Every single thing that he heard was just wrong.
Eventually, silence settled. Dean had gone back to staring at his empty bottle, while Sam stared at Dean. He knew that there was nothing he could say – nothing about Dean that would get through – but maybe… maybe…
“What if it was me?”
Dean’s head jerked up, confusion in his eyes. He’d been so caught up in his thoughts he’d forgotten Sam was there.
“If what was what?”
“What if it had been me that jumped in front a werewolf and saved you? What if it were me that were crippled? Would you leave? Because I was useless? Because I couldn’t even hold a fucking beer? Would you walk out on me?”
The fury in Dean’s eyes brought tears to Sam’s own. It was the most emotion he’d seen on his brother’s face since the accident.
“What the fuck, Sam? I’d never leave you. Never.”
Sam was in Dean’s face before Dean had time to retreat. Go hard, or go home, he thought grimly to himself. He might never have another opportunity to make his point.
“So if you wouldn’t leave me, Dean, why the fuck do you think I’d leave you?”
Dean didn’t seem to have an answer, and taking his time, Sam sat back down in his chair. Unhurriedly, he picked up his bottle, letting his head drop back as he swallowed the last of the lukewarm beer.
Dean still hadn’t moved by the time Sam carefully set the bottle back on the table.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
It’s was Sam’s promise, and maybe this time, Dean would believe it.
