obstinatrix (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
obstinatrix) wrote2012-01-10 03:24 pm
obstinatrix) wrote2012-01-10 03:24 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Purgare (Gen)
I still have a ton of Ficmas prompts to write, I know. This is...not any of them. Oops? Um, technically it is gen, but when I was writing it, I sort of felt as if it would not be out of place on a kinkmeme, somehow, so do bear that in mind. I've been hoping someone else would write this fic since 702, but I got impatient. ;)
Title: Purgare
Pairing: Sam, Dean (gen)
Rating: R (for potentially disturbing themes)
Word Count: ~1400
Summary: When Sam gets like this, it's like there's something inside him and he can't get it out. That leaves Dean to excise it, because it's Dean's job to do for Sam what he can't do for himself. General S7 fill-in-the-blanks thingy. (Warning: triggers for self-harm.)
"Dean?"
Dean's mostly asleep, but he doesn't ever slip right under these days, and Sam's voice pulls him easily back to the surface. When he rolls over, Sam's right there, the long looming shape of him throwing its shadow over Dean's bed, and Dean knows what that means, what it's always meant. Can't sleep. When they were kids, it was a wordless plea for Dean to throw the blankets back and let Sam crawl in under his arm. Now, Sam's shifting from foot to foot, breathing thready and anxious, and it's not a cuddle he wants.
"Yeah," Dean says, sitting up and rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes. "Okay, I gotcha. Hit the lights?"
When they first started with this shit, Sam wanted to do it in the dark, always, and Dean can understand why. Keep this crap out of the daylight, and maybe they could both pretend it never happened. Dean gets that, but there are practical matters to consider, and the reality is that things could go bad fast if he tried to do this blind. No, if they gotta do it, they're gonna do it right.
Sam makes a small unhappy sound, but he snaps on the bedside lamp without further protest and stands blinking in its glare. "Where d'you want me?"
"Bed," Dean says, with a curt nod. Maybe the bathroom would make more sense, but the idea of going in there makes the whole thing seem somehow more serious, like the end result will be a tubful of blood.
Sam sits mutely on the edge of Dean's bed. His t-shirt is straining, probably one of the old ones that've become sort of communal, and there's a tiny hole in the collar. He's wearing the boxers Dean accidentally dyed pink in the wash last summer. It's midwinter, but Sam's sweating in his grungy shrunken clothes, like he's burning up with something he can't get out. Something Dean has to excise, because it's Dean's job to do for Sam what he can't do for himself. Even when it's hard, like this. Even when anyone else would think they were both crazy.
Dean's knife is under his pillow, like always. He pulls it out by the hilt, lamplight flashing on the blade, and holds it up. "Where, Sammy?"
"Don't care," Sam says, teeth gritted like he's in pain, and Dean knows he is. But it's not the right kind of pain. That's what Dean has to fix for him.
"We did inner arm last time," Dean suggests, gently. "Thigh? The last bunch must be healed by now."
"Yeah," Sam says, and he spreads his legs a little so Dean can see the pale row of healed-over slashes, still faintly pink, like stitches of silk on his inner thigh. Dean nods a little, runs his thumb over them.
"Same lines again?"
Sam nods, jerky and tight, and his eyes keep going wide, watching something over Dean's shoulder. Someone. Dean sighs and weighs the knife in his hand. They're still trying to keep the marks to places nobody'll see, like Sam's some emo teenager cutting in his room, hence the inner thigh, the upper arm. But it's stupid, really, when they've both got
so many other impossible scars. The fatal wound at the base of Sam's spine is still there, still angry. Dean has a faded burn on his arm in the shape of a man's hand. Nobody who saw that shit would think twice about a few cuts on Sam's wrist. Luckily -- unluckily, whatever -- there's nobody to look at either of them without their clothes on anymore. Probably, Sam will never again be undressed in front of anyone but Dean if he doesn't get any better. If he gets any worse.
"Hey," Dean says, raising his voice a little as he sets blade to skin. "Sam. Look at me, okay?"
Sam looks, and Dean holds his eyes as he presses the knife in, breaking the skin. The first time, this was the part he dreaded, the pain on Sam's face, but what he gets -- it isn't pain, not quite. Sam sighs, muscles going slack with relief as Dean pulls the blade across his thigh, as if Dean were anointing his wounds, instead of creating them. As if Dean were giving him what he needs.
"Yeah?" Dean prompts, as the blood wells up and spills, dribbling down the inside of Sam's leg. "Working?" He retraces the course of the cut with his thumb, pressing, and Sam cries out, shocked hurt and gratitude.
"Yeah," he says, nodding. "Yeah, 's good. More."
The first cut is the hardest. When Dean lowers his knife for the second, it seems to move through the flesh as if it were butter, and Sam groans, catching Dean's wrist in the circle of his fingers. He stares down at Dean, eyes hazel-green-gold around the wide bloom of black, like he's on drugs or some shit, like this is getting under his skin and pushing everything else out. He presses down on Dean's hand, shoving the flat of the knife against the new cut, and Dean lets him, his free hand loose and reassuring on Sam's other knee.
There's blood snaking down Sam's leg in little red rivulets, but the pressure of the knife alters their course, the twin mouths of the gashes gaping wide for a moment until Dean forces his hand back, pulling off. Above him, he hears Sam's little wounded breaths, but that's good, he knows that now. That sound means Sam's almost had enough, he's doing better.
"How's that?" Dean pushes. Sam's biting at his lip, breathing through his nose, but his eyes are still on Dean's face where they need to be and he isn't shivering anymore, the frantic restlessness gone out of him. "Okay? Is he gone?" He feels bad needling like this when Sam's still pulling himself together, but it's important. He's got to ask.
Sam swallows, a careful, decisive gesture. Dean tracks the motion of it in his throat. Then the hand on Dean's wrist skips up to his shoulder, Sam's strong fingers digging into the muscle there. "Gone," Sam says, and pulls his lower lip between his teeth for a second. "Do one more?"
Dean doesn't ask. Maybe he should, but it's too late for damage control here, really; that's not what this is. This is a last resort, a holding pattern, and if Sam wants another cut, Dean'll give it to him. He presses the heel of his hand to the two parallel lines on Sam's inner thigh and listens to the harsh catch of Sam's breath, the half-vocalised protest. "One more," he says.
Sam's fingers twist into Dean's hair as he draws the knife across, and Dean lets him, even though he's pulling too tight, making the nape of Dean's neck ache. When he sets the knife down, Sam doesn't let go, the weight of his hand on the back of Dean's skull drawing him in. Dean could resist it, but he doesn't have the energy. He lets Sam pull his head down, tucks his face into the juncture of Sam's neck and shoulder where the skin smells cleanly of sweat and a little fear. Familiar.
"Think you can sleep now?" Dean asks. He should disentangle himself, make Sam go get some rest, but -- maybe Sam needs this, too. Maybe Dean can just stow his manly pride for a cotton-pickin' minute and let Sam have it, so it isn't just pain that Dean makes real. It won't kill him to sit here in the quiet a while, Sam's big hand cradling his head. For Sam.
Sam nods; Dean can feel the motion of it against him, the twitch in his arm. "Gone," Sam confirms, soft. "Thanks, Dean."
Still, it's twenty minutes before they pull apart and turn out the light.
Title: Purgare
Pairing: Sam, Dean (gen)
Rating: R (for potentially disturbing themes)
Word Count: ~1400
Summary: When Sam gets like this, it's like there's something inside him and he can't get it out. That leaves Dean to excise it, because it's Dean's job to do for Sam what he can't do for himself. General S7 fill-in-the-blanks thingy. (Warning: triggers for self-harm.)
"Dean?"
Dean's mostly asleep, but he doesn't ever slip right under these days, and Sam's voice pulls him easily back to the surface. When he rolls over, Sam's right there, the long looming shape of him throwing its shadow over Dean's bed, and Dean knows what that means, what it's always meant. Can't sleep. When they were kids, it was a wordless plea for Dean to throw the blankets back and let Sam crawl in under his arm. Now, Sam's shifting from foot to foot, breathing thready and anxious, and it's not a cuddle he wants.
"Yeah," Dean says, sitting up and rubbing the back of his hand over his eyes. "Okay, I gotcha. Hit the lights?"
When they first started with this shit, Sam wanted to do it in the dark, always, and Dean can understand why. Keep this crap out of the daylight, and maybe they could both pretend it never happened. Dean gets that, but there are practical matters to consider, and the reality is that things could go bad fast if he tried to do this blind. No, if they gotta do it, they're gonna do it right.
Sam makes a small unhappy sound, but he snaps on the bedside lamp without further protest and stands blinking in its glare. "Where d'you want me?"
"Bed," Dean says, with a curt nod. Maybe the bathroom would make more sense, but the idea of going in there makes the whole thing seem somehow more serious, like the end result will be a tubful of blood.
Sam sits mutely on the edge of Dean's bed. His t-shirt is straining, probably one of the old ones that've become sort of communal, and there's a tiny hole in the collar. He's wearing the boxers Dean accidentally dyed pink in the wash last summer. It's midwinter, but Sam's sweating in his grungy shrunken clothes, like he's burning up with something he can't get out. Something Dean has to excise, because it's Dean's job to do for Sam what he can't do for himself. Even when it's hard, like this. Even when anyone else would think they were both crazy.
Dean's knife is under his pillow, like always. He pulls it out by the hilt, lamplight flashing on the blade, and holds it up. "Where, Sammy?"
"Don't care," Sam says, teeth gritted like he's in pain, and Dean knows he is. But it's not the right kind of pain. That's what Dean has to fix for him.
"We did inner arm last time," Dean suggests, gently. "Thigh? The last bunch must be healed by now."
"Yeah," Sam says, and he spreads his legs a little so Dean can see the pale row of healed-over slashes, still faintly pink, like stitches of silk on his inner thigh. Dean nods a little, runs his thumb over them.
"Same lines again?"
Sam nods, jerky and tight, and his eyes keep going wide, watching something over Dean's shoulder. Someone. Dean sighs and weighs the knife in his hand. They're still trying to keep the marks to places nobody'll see, like Sam's some emo teenager cutting in his room, hence the inner thigh, the upper arm. But it's stupid, really, when they've both got
so many other impossible scars. The fatal wound at the base of Sam's spine is still there, still angry. Dean has a faded burn on his arm in the shape of a man's hand. Nobody who saw that shit would think twice about a few cuts on Sam's wrist. Luckily -- unluckily, whatever -- there's nobody to look at either of them without their clothes on anymore. Probably, Sam will never again be undressed in front of anyone but Dean if he doesn't get any better. If he gets any worse.
"Hey," Dean says, raising his voice a little as he sets blade to skin. "Sam. Look at me, okay?"
Sam looks, and Dean holds his eyes as he presses the knife in, breaking the skin. The first time, this was the part he dreaded, the pain on Sam's face, but what he gets -- it isn't pain, not quite. Sam sighs, muscles going slack with relief as Dean pulls the blade across his thigh, as if Dean were anointing his wounds, instead of creating them. As if Dean were giving him what he needs.
"Yeah?" Dean prompts, as the blood wells up and spills, dribbling down the inside of Sam's leg. "Working?" He retraces the course of the cut with his thumb, pressing, and Sam cries out, shocked hurt and gratitude.
"Yeah," he says, nodding. "Yeah, 's good. More."
The first cut is the hardest. When Dean lowers his knife for the second, it seems to move through the flesh as if it were butter, and Sam groans, catching Dean's wrist in the circle of his fingers. He stares down at Dean, eyes hazel-green-gold around the wide bloom of black, like he's on drugs or some shit, like this is getting under his skin and pushing everything else out. He presses down on Dean's hand, shoving the flat of the knife against the new cut, and Dean lets him, his free hand loose and reassuring on Sam's other knee.
There's blood snaking down Sam's leg in little red rivulets, but the pressure of the knife alters their course, the twin mouths of the gashes gaping wide for a moment until Dean forces his hand back, pulling off. Above him, he hears Sam's little wounded breaths, but that's good, he knows that now. That sound means Sam's almost had enough, he's doing better.
"How's that?" Dean pushes. Sam's biting at his lip, breathing through his nose, but his eyes are still on Dean's face where they need to be and he isn't shivering anymore, the frantic restlessness gone out of him. "Okay? Is he gone?" He feels bad needling like this when Sam's still pulling himself together, but it's important. He's got to ask.
Sam swallows, a careful, decisive gesture. Dean tracks the motion of it in his throat. Then the hand on Dean's wrist skips up to his shoulder, Sam's strong fingers digging into the muscle there. "Gone," Sam says, and pulls his lower lip between his teeth for a second. "Do one more?"
Dean doesn't ask. Maybe he should, but it's too late for damage control here, really; that's not what this is. This is a last resort, a holding pattern, and if Sam wants another cut, Dean'll give it to him. He presses the heel of his hand to the two parallel lines on Sam's inner thigh and listens to the harsh catch of Sam's breath, the half-vocalised protest. "One more," he says.
Sam's fingers twist into Dean's hair as he draws the knife across, and Dean lets him, even though he's pulling too tight, making the nape of Dean's neck ache. When he sets the knife down, Sam doesn't let go, the weight of his hand on the back of Dean's skull drawing him in. Dean could resist it, but he doesn't have the energy. He lets Sam pull his head down, tucks his face into the juncture of Sam's neck and shoulder where the skin smells cleanly of sweat and a little fear. Familiar.
"Think you can sleep now?" Dean asks. He should disentangle himself, make Sam go get some rest, but -- maybe Sam needs this, too. Maybe Dean can just stow his manly pride for a cotton-pickin' minute and let Sam have it, so it isn't just pain that Dean makes real. It won't kill him to sit here in the quiet a while, Sam's big hand cradling his head. For Sam.
Sam nods; Dean can feel the motion of it against him, the twitch in his arm. "Gone," Sam confirms, soft. "Thanks, Dean."
Still, it's twenty minutes before they pull apart and turn out the light.
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