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 Wounds, Post The Benders
Gwyrdd
Posted: Feb 23 2006, 11:41 AM


Member


Group: Members
Posts: 18
Member No.: 9
Joined: 21-February 06



Rating: T (language, people, like seriously...there's an f-word and everything...)

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It was pulled back, glistening, forcing him to stare.

The heat made his eyes water as he unwillingly gulped back the lump in his throat. The poker was so close. So hot. White hot, though it pulsed red and orange.

Hard hands held up, one beneath his chin, pushing him upwards, forcing him to stare, other pulling his head back, grasping at his hair, and pulling it from his scalp, forcing him to stare. Bringing the poker within his eye line. Forcing him to stare.

Brought down on his shoulder, forcing him to stare as it touched skin, and made him cry out.

It was pulled back, glistening, forcing him to stare. Hard hands holding him, forcing him to stare, and the putrid smell, the sweat on his forehead, all of it, forcing him to stare at the poker, shining with the fire, before it was plunged deep into his eye, and an inhumane shriek was torn from his throat as the pain seared through him, and the deep agony wouldn’t go away...

A shot in the distance and whisperings, taunting, “Your brother’s dead.” Another scream, and another, and another...


Dean shot up, breathing hard as he tried to regain any composure he had previously possessed. “Fuck.” He muttered, his shoulder screamed from the motion, and he knew, beneath the crinkled green top he had officially deemed fit for sleep-wear, lay his un-attended wound. He let out a sigh, running his hand over his face as he let his other arm fall limp at his side. It had been bothering him more than he’d ever like to admit.

He had tried tending to it himself. But the angle was difficult, not to mention the intense pain rushing through him each time he tried to do so, slowing his movements until he could barely be bothered to get off of the toilet seat, let alone clean it further and go to bed. So instead he tried his other tactic.

Ignoring it.

He wouldn’t tell Sam about it, the subject matter had never arisen, his brother hadn’t seen his shoulder in the light, and with the younger Winchester looking as though he’d lost a few rounds of some boxing, he took top priority. He never asked if anything had happened while Dean had been bound, and there really wasn’t any reason to. Dean had used his defence mechanism of humour and anger and had ensured that at all times the attention was fully focused on Sam. After all, he had been going insane with worry when he hadn’t been able to find his brother for so long. He had gone to an officer of the law for god’s sake, that alone proved his lack of a handle on the situation.

The wound would most likely heal on its own, and Dean had suffered through worse, though granted, it didn’t help with him insisting on driving, and his constant nightmares tearing him from sleep and jarring the wound. Again and again, every single night since it had happened.

Why was it bothering him? He didn’t understand, Sam was fine, and he was fine, everyone was fine, what did it matter?

Because it almost went so wrong. He had let Sam out of his sight, and keeping his brother safe was his job, his responsibility. What had he said to the cop not so long ago? “Here's the thing, when we were young, I pretty much pulled him from a fire, and ever since then I've felt responsible for him, like it's my job to keep him safe, I'm just afraid if we don't find him fast...please, he's my family.” and now the young man held the bruises, shining on his skin, showing Dean all that he had done wrong.

Was he burying his issues? Probably, but he couldn’t think why. Maybe it disconcerted him, he had –or at least, thought he had– grown as a hunter. Better than ever, and yet, still they had back him into a corner. Tied him up, brought out a searing hot poker and jabbed him in the shoulder.

He shuddered, and then winced at the pain rippling beneath his skin.

They had gotten the better of him. Who gives a crap if there were more of them than he? They were deranged dip-shits; he never should have gotten caught. What if Sammy hadn’t been able to get out? What if they had shot him, killed him? What then? It would have been his fault, just because he hadn’t fought back well enough, just because he hadn’t made the effort. Just because-because he wasn’t good enough.

He laid back, feeling the tired feelings intensify and strange warmth enveloping him while his shoulder stayed frozen as though encased in ice. His throat felt oddly dry, and his eyes were drooping. He let out a whoosh of air before falling back, collapsing, onto the covers, and letting the darkness all around drag him under.


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Something had woken him up, though he wasn’t entirely sure what. It hadn’t been a nightmare, annoyingly enough he had a habit of remembering them, or at least, the cause of enough of a fright to shake him awake. Had someone woken him? No, no one stood near. Had a sound? That made more sense, a crashing, mild but definitely enough to deserve his attention. Blinking away the last remnants of sleep, he brought an arm out of the warm covers and flicked on the lamp on the bed side table of the dingy motel room.

He was surprised, that instead of allowing the ceiling to be adorned in the light, it illuminated the floor. The lamp was on its side, having fallen, the shade having rolled beneath Sam’s bed out of sight, leaving the bulb casting un-protected rays around the room.

“What the-?” He mumbled while masking a yawn. He looked at his watch, and squinted at the small numbers, it was barely morning, even by his crazily early standards, and dawn had slowly, but surely began to show its self through the cracks in the shabby curtains haphazardly drawn over the small windows near the door.

He looked back at the lamp. Had he knocked it over? Unlikely, so then it must have been his brother. Sam looked over at Dean, and frowned.

For someone that tended to keep to relatively similar sleeping patterns, he looked awfully...messy. It was hard to explain, it just didn’t look right. Sam had never seen his brother drunk to the point of being almost paralytic, or passed out on the couch. It was too big a risk for their father to have seen, and Dean would never risk going against the man’s feelings, those feelings being a definite hatred toward unsavoury behaviour. The only time Sam saw his brother sleep, the older brother was tucked beneath the covers, though he differed from front to back, he seemed content with having one arm beneath him, and the other within reach of the nearest weapon.

At that moment, the sheet that had once covered his brother was slowly falling off of the bed, but his light-sleeper of a brother seemed completely unperturbed by this, when normally he would start to complain about the cold creeping in. His body was curving toward the bed side table, his head only just keeping on the edge of the mattress beside the pillow. His cheeks were slightly flushed, the gash on his forehead now cleaned, and clotting, still stuck out like a sore thumb, with a nasty bruise forming around it but his complexion on the whole seemed strangely pale, he lay completely still, almost, too still, and small beads of sweat dripped down the side of his face from where they began on his forehead...

Alarm bells rang in Sam’s head as he jumped out of his own bed, ignoring the dull throbbing of his own bruises as he did so. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

“Dean?” He called, before clearing his throat loudly in an attempt to earn his brother’s attention. Both of which failed. He edged closer and shook his brother’s shoulder lightly, causing his brother to groan and lean away, though still his eyes remained closed. Sam retracted his hand almost instantly. He frowned, and carefully began to lift the sleeve of his brother’s shirt up as far as it would go, though he only caught a glimpse before a moan of pain broke the concentrated silence, Sam could see his brother had been hiding something.

He shook his brother once more, opting for pushing against the older Winchester’s chest this time rather than his injured shoulder. “Dean?” He called, “Dean!” He said, more sternly, but still, his brother lay dead to the world.

Sam put his palm against Dean’s forehead, surprised at the heat radiating off of the damp skin. His brother definitely had a fever and a high one at that. “Dean?” He tried again, ignoring any guilt as he shook the unconscious form, which refused to wake. He had a fever, a bad one too, but Sam was sure he could handle it if he only knew what was the cause. The shoulder obviously. He muttered under his breath about his annoyance toward his older brother, but otherwise stayed silent as he carefully manoeuvred Dean, and took off his shirt, balancing his brother’s body on his own, and keeping him as still as possible. He grimaced when he saw it, though it was nowhere near the most grizzly wound Sam had seen in his time hunting, as he was younger, and more recently, it was still quite bad, he cringed at the thought of how dirty the weapon, or utensil had been, after all, he had seen the family, why would they take any more care of their torturous instruments, than themselves? It stood to reason, that whatever had done this, maybe a poker, and it must have been hot, since the burn ran deep. How much pain had Dean felt at the time? Why doesn’t he ever show tit?

“Asshole, why can’t you just tell me about these things?” He asked, knowing full well he would not get an answer, though he realised he had never actually asked why Dean’s arm fell slightly limp, he hadn’t paid it any heed...


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It was pulled back, glistening; forcing him to stare, eyes watering and stare he did...


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Sam had cleaned the wound, careful not to make his brother feel more pain but frustrated by how little his brother told him as he bandaged it expertly. He had managed to keep the fever down too, but what worried him was the nightmare Dean seemed to be stuck in. He was tossing and turning like a mad man, and more than once Sam had grabbed him quickly to stop him from hitting his head on the bedside table, or falling to the floor completely.

He had tried to wake him up more times than he could count, but now merely decided to ensure Dean wouldn’t hurt himself while stuck with the cruelty of the Sandman. A curious part of him wondered what it was that could bother his brother so much, and he half thought that maybe it had something to do with their most recent escapade. He had found his brother tied to a chair with a very nasty cut on his forehead, a bruise already forming beneath, and the back of his collar was stained with dry blood, but whatever cut had been there from a possible head wound, had already clotted, and since his brother astutely refused any help...

Sam should have pushed it, he knew. He should have bugged his brother like he usually did, quiz him for any injuries, check for concussion, shock, the usual, though he doubted his brother had either, he still should have made sure. Then again, the more he watched, the more he realized that though the small fever was brought on by the ignored wound, it seemed the most distress was brought on from Dean’s nightmare.


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It was pulled back, glistening, forcing him to stare.

The heat made his eyes water as he unwillingly gulped back the lump in his throat. The poker was so close. So hot. White hot, though it pulsed red and orange.

Hard hands held up, one beneath his chin, pushing him upwards, forcing him to stare, other pulling his head back, grasping at his hair, and pulling it from his scalp, forcing him to stare. Bringing the poker within his eye line. Forcing him to stare.

Brought down on his shoulder, forcing him to stare as it touched skin, and made him cry out.

It was pulled back, glistening, forcing him to stare. Hard hands holding him, forcing him to stare, and the putrid smell, the sweat on his forehead, all of it, forcing him to stare at the poker, shining with the fire, before it was plunged deep into his eye, and an inhumane shriek was torn from his throat as the pain seared through him, and the deep agony wouldn’t go away...

A shot in the distance and whisperings, taunting, “Your brother’s dead.” Another scream, and another, and another...

Whisperings from before, “It’s my job to keep him safe.” and the shot echoing in the barn, echoing in his mind through the pain, through the agony, and then there’s Sammy, standing still, but standing in front. Just him and Sam.

“All your fault.” There was a bullet hole in his head, only a trickle falling from the front, but god knows how much from the back. God knows how much blood and grey matter was pooling from the back of his baby brother’s head.

“Oh god, Sammy.”

“All your fault.”

It was pulled back, glistening, forcing him to stare. Hard hands holding him, forcing him to stare, and the putrid smell, the sweat on his forehead, all of it, forcing him to stare at the poker, shining with the fire, before it was plunged deep into his eye, and an inhumane shriek was torn from his throat as the pain seared through him, and the deep agony wouldn’t go away...

It was pulled back, glistening, forcing him to stare. Hard hands holding him, forcing him to stare, and the putrid smell, the sweat on his forehead, all of it, forcing him to stare at the poker, shining with the fire, before it was plunged deep into his eye, and an inhumane shriek was torn from his throat as the pain seared through him, and the deep agony wouldn’t go away...

It was pulled back, glistening, forcing him to stare, and he screamed once more.



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“Dean! Dean, calm down, it’s me, it’s Sammy!” Sam cried, hoping his old hated nickname would be enough to calm his brother, and satisfied that it was enough to gain recognition in the glazed eyes.

Dean had begun to thrash wildly again, but Sam had been more shell shocked by the crystal tear that had passed from his brother’s eye, almost going un-noticed, had Dean not turned his head, and scrunched up his forehead in a look of pain at that moment. His eyes moved rapidly beneath the closed lids, and his breathing became more erratic until suddenly, he woke up, arms flailing to defend, though against what he didn’t know. Deep breaths, and all Dean knew was the presence so close to him, and he reacted instantly, trying to fight him off, but wincing each time he moved his arm, movements sluggish by the fever that was thankfully beginning to die down.

“You okay?” Sam asked as he finally saw his brother begin to calm down, as he muttered, “It was just a dream.”

Dean tried to breathe once more, feeling a pressure alleviate from his chest and shoulders as the burden of his brother’s death fell away.

“You okay?” Sam asked, giving his brother a moment to contain himself, and not daring to mention the tear from earlier.

Dean nodded, and lifted himself up, then feeling the slight tug at his shoulder; he looked down and noticed for the first time his shirt had vanished. He looked quizzically at Sam, and then almost thoughtfully at his now bandaged shoulder. Slowly awareness was returning to him, and he swallowed the lump in his throat.

“Why didn’t you tell me about that?” Sam asked, following his brother’s gaze. And had he been able to, Dean would have shrugged. Instead, he looked over to Sam and whispered, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Sam asked, frustration brewing over to exasperation.

“I didn’t think it was that bad, Sammy.” He said quietly, almost embarrassed by his own actions, for Sam to have woken up, tended to his wound, and sat next to him without him noticing for so long, he knew he must have been pretty out of it, and the lingering dizziness and sweat on his brow, made him doubt this previous decisions to simply ignore.

“Well it was, Dean.” He said, running a hand through hair, too long, in Dean’s opinion. “I mean, what if I hadn’t woken up? Your fever was pretty high, Dean.”

“I’m fine, Sam, really.”

“You were having nightmares Dean, care to share?”

Dean blanched. Surprised, and annoyed at himself for letting his anguish show on the outside as he slept. He remembered the dreams, he remembered them perfectly, or at lest the jist of it all, the faces meshed together, and words no longer made sense, all that he knew, and truly understood was the pain, and losing Sammy.

“It was nothing, everything’s okay, Sam, just drop it.”

“Things aren’t okay if you’re having nightmares!”

“Everyone has them, Sammy, it’s nothing!”

“Bullshit.”

“Don’t take that tone with me, Sam.”

“What tone? The one where I’m acting like I give a damn!”

“I’m allowed to have nightmares Sam, okay? It’s normal!”

“Oh really? What are they about then Dean? Huh?”

Dean kept quiet, but then said simply, “You.”

“So how is that normal?” Sam asked, fighting the urge to force his brother to elaborate.

“Because, Sam, you were missing for days! Because I didn’t know where the fuck you were! Because they made me choose, because they got the better of us Sam, a bunch of crazy fuckers got the better of me!”

Sam stood taken aback by the outburst, surprised at his brother’s anger, and cringing at the thought that maybe his retort that Dean was getting rusty was more than a simple repeat of Dean’s prior taunting, maybe they meant more, because Dean was older, Dean was the protector, and he’d been sidelined by the hillbilly whack jobs who killed for sport.

“We’re not perfect, Dean, we can’t be perfect,” And at his brother’s mouth opening, about to retort, he continued, “No matter what Dad wants, okay?”

Dean stopped, staring at Sam, confused for a moment. Why did everything always have to come back to him? Their not-so-much-of-a father? He grunted and turned away, stretching his aching shoulder as much as the pain would allow, and climbing back into the bed, the warmth now forgotten, and repeated the same words he had spoken earlier, or at least, a similar kind, though somehow, to Sam, it seemed all the more sincere.

“Just, don’t go missing again, okay?”


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It was pulled back, glistening, forcing him to stare. Hard hands holding him, forcing him to stare, and the putrid smell, the sweat on his forehead, all of it, forcing him to stare at the poker, shining with the fire, before it was gone. Torn from their hands, pushed away, pushed far away, ands hands untied him, hands he knew, rough but soft, somehow a little of the two. Hands he recognized.

“It’s me, it’s Sammy.”

It had pulled back, glistened and forced him to stare, but then there was Sam, and the fire went away...



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-Fin
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nana56
Posted: Jul 23 2006, 04:57 AM


Newbie


Group: Members
Posts: 2
Member No.: 167
Joined: 23-July 06



Great Job!!!!
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Kiki
Posted: Oct 9 2007, 01:58 AM


Newbie


Group: Members
Posts: 1
Member No.: 359
Joined: 9-October 07



Wow that was really great.
It made complete sense and you really captured both Sam and Deans' characters.
Great job! biggrin.gif
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birdie
Posted: Nov 10 2007, 03:51 PM


Member


Group: Members
Posts: 12
Member No.: 363
Joined: 28-October 07



smile.gif This fits so well, and rounds out the story, always thought there was more to make of the injury. Thanks really enjoyed it. Birdie x
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