Word Count: 2,651
Spoilers: Pretty much everything up to episode 217:Heart.
Summary: For Dean, physical pain is a way of life. And after Madison, Sam starts to agree.
Written for spn_boc. Lyrics are from the song "Good to Feel Hungry" by Blue Oyster Cult. Dedicated to my dear friend roseganymede for starting this lovely comm, and to sammynce because he is such a sweetheart! Muwaah!! :D
Notes/Warnings: Not a love story. Sam is OOC. Self-mutilation and musings on suicide, but nothing too graphic. Reads like the ramblings of a deranged mind, which isn't so far off the truth anyway :P Oh and angst, lots of it.
Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one. This is purely a
It's good to feel hungry when you're about to eat well
It's good to be angry when you're ready to yell
It's good to be angry…
Dean was four when he felt his first pain, or at least, the first time he truly realized what that four-letter word meant. A word he would use the least in spoken language, and empathize the most with for the rest of his life.
Pain was hot, pain was searing. Pain was sneaky and unexpected. Pain was angry and merciless, deafening as it raged and destroyed everything he’d ever known and held dear, right in front of his helpless young eyes. Pain that followed him around, long after the flames died down, long after dad dunked himself into the bottle to emerge obsessed and vengeful. Long after he stopped waiting for mom to come tuck him in at night and long after he stopped tucking Sam in. Pain stayed and made Dean its home. Eventually Dean stopped fighting it, embraced it, hell stopped noticing it even. Realized that Dean Winchester without his pain… was neither Dean nor a Winchester, at all.
“You be a brave boy now, Dean. Does it hurt?”
“No sir. Not at all.”
Dean was nineteen when he first felt his brother’s pain, truly… truly felt it. Desperation was also pain. Frustration, a frantic need to break free, and the long years of struggle that followed it, was excruciating.
Sam’s eyes were filled with it when he showed Dean the three letters. Pain brimmed and spilled over at the bus stop when Dean turned away and didn’t respond to his wave goodbye. By the time Dean rationalized the sense of betrayal in his head, made it to Stanford and hid behind… something… just to steal a look at his little brother all grown up, he found it there still, the pain, only softer. Muter, didn’t shine so bright as it once did, overwhelming everything else that was Sam. Dean couldn’t make up his mind about what he felt right then, and left without saying hello.
“Hi there!! You’ve reached the voice mail of Sam…”
“I love you. No, not YOU. We’re kinda busy right now if you know what I mean…”
“Ouch okay! Leave a message!”
Dean was twenty-six when he first realized how much Sam could mask and internalize, his pain. No longer did he rage or stomp or scream obscenities at the top of his lungs like he used to, before. He didn’t so much as snivel and hell even Dean thought the girl was nice enough to deserve a tear or two. Sam held it all inside, not sharing with Dean. Leaving Dean crippled, helpless to help because pain he understood. Pain he could deal with, offer a thump on the back and a shot of single malt to. What does one do with numbness?
He waited, three days, six… two weeks passed and Sam went from numb to near catatonic. He couldn’t feel, neither hunger nor thirst, not the sea sawing weather and not the apathy of civilized society everywhere they went. Sam didn’t feel the need to sleep, until he’d wake up and realize he’d nodded off again. Dean of course, didn’t do words, didn’t know how. Instead he offered to let Sam drive the Impala and yet Sam said nothing. Felt nothing. It broke through, the pain, on the sixteenth day when Sam didn’t feel the sting of a razor cutting deeper and longer than it was designed to.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“Fuck you! Give it back.”
“You want it? Come and get it.”
Dean was twenty-six when he first hit his little brother with absolute and deliberate intent to hurt. He saw red, of the blood spilling down Sam’s naked face and chest before he snatched the razor out of Sam’s white-knuckled hands. And when Sam punched him… he found his opening, something he could work with, at last.
Pain was good. Pain was all he shared besides genetics with his brother, their common ground. He hit back as viciously as he could and Sam fought back maybe, maybe he didn’t. Sam screamed, and cursed and wept for the woman he had loved more than life itself, and who died because she loved him back. He lashed out, he attacked, he surrendered… and he welcomed it, the pain. Letting Dean take control, wrenching his deadness away from him in ways nothing and no one else could. Sam was, after all, his brother’s brother. Pain was good. Pain was progress… a catharsis of the past where everything was lost, impetus for the present where everything is going to be avenged. And hope for a future when someday, maybe, the pain could be buried once and for all but not now. Not right now.
“Fuck me Dean… please…”
“You’ve lost your fucking mind.”
“Coward. Get out.”
Dean was twenty-six when he first saw how much of him existed inside his little brother, inside Sam. He witnessed an honest to God physical manifestation of Sam’s pain. Saw it go from elusive and untouchable to a ghastly corporeal monster sucking the air out of their miniature rented room. But one that could be fuckin’ destructified, salted and goddamn burned. One that could be screwed, literally, into the ground and where hopefully it would stay, indefinitely. Maybe.
Sam lunged for the razor again. Dean caught him by his sides and dragged him out of the bathroom, flinging him onto the closest bed with minimal effort. Exhausted, weakened from days of neglect, Sam didn’t bother to protest. Instead he stretched out and spread his legs, his never-ending naked legs, as wide as they would go until he knew he had a captured audience. Pain stood frozen, barely an arm’s length away, both revolted and sorely tempted. Sam propped up his knees, licking the blood off his split lip, and waited.
It's good to feel certain even when you're not right
Sweep back the curtain and let in some light
If there is any light.
She calls me, she summons me with a purr
And no amount of cryin' will set me free from her
And only deep feeling, finding my way into feeling
Only just being, will free me from her.
Sam was seven when he first heard his father’s heartrending scream of pain. It was a little past o-two hundred hours and he was not allowed to come downstairs once Dean tucked him in. But he did, and he saw it… the hideous face of pain… an empty bottle of scotch clutched in his father’s right hand and eleven year old Dean dressing his shoulder wounds, mopping up the blood everywhere as best as he could.
Sam wanted to cry for the shattering illusion of a father’s invincibility every kid seems to be born with. But the Winchesters were not a family of wimps. He studied his father’s stark expression as he fought to keep from screaming again. He watched as Dean tried real hard not to give in to his own despair. Sam quietly crawled back into bed practicing the technique of biting down on his lower lip, and holding it there.
“Fuck! Dad that hurts!!”
“But…? …Yes sir.”
Sam was fourteen when he first fell in love. With an eighteen year old Transylvanian gypsy (or so he said) boy. Dima was everything his family would doggedly disapprove of, if they knew that is. Enigmatic and dangerous, a hash junkie and vodka drinker, a proud lawbreaker who couldn’t care less for anything remotely resembling order and authority. He liked it rough and he didn’t play fair and Sam was fucking smitten. Dima didn’t care that Sam was the new kid, the resident geek with an abnormally high IQ. He didn’t notice if Sam was socially awkward or physically clumsy, not yet used to his growing limbs. He didn’t even know that Sam was a virgin when they met. Nor did he care how often, when caught in the throes of passion Sam would call out his brother’s name.
The night before they were moving (again), Sam let loose an emotional outburst, replete with tears and iloveyous and a desire to run away with Dima, something his lover had no patience nor appreciation for. It came to blows and a furious scuffle until Dima overpowered the younger boy. Fucked him hard and long until Sam begged him to stop. Dima left, never looked back and Sam held on to the memory of that pain… that intense wet-hot slip-slide violating his insides, leaving him shuddering for days after. Sam never forgot Dima, and never wept for him again.
“Sammy? You asleep?”
“I, uh. I know about your boyfriend.”
“I know you’re upset and… I’m sorry we had to move. Again. Uhh… okay, go back to sleep.”
Sam was twenty when he first saw an angel. Least that’s what he thought she was, blonde hair shimmering around her like a halo in the sunlight. Jessica Moore.
Pain crawled into a deep dark corner at the back of his mind, surfacing only briefly through throbbing scars and the occasional nightmares in the two short years that followed. No more masking of emotions with half-grunts and shoulder shoves, because Dean was nine states away. The illusion of fragility that surrounded her did not fool Sam, after all he was the one those athletic legs wrapped around every night. And when the demon came, Sam knew she must have fought hard, just as Sam knew his mom did to protect him. The knowledge made Sam throw up thrice that night.
Dean’s arms were warm and careful and did precisely nothing for him, his pain returning with a vengeance like an angry spirit escaping her grave. Pain he could not articulate, pain that oozed and boiled and burned, coursing like venom through his veins. A poison, that could only be neutralized by something more poisonous.
“Coward. Get out.”
“Sammy, you don’t know what you’re…”
“I know what I want Dean. Do you?”
The next morning Dean woke up to the familiar scent of hot vanilla latte, and found Sam clicking away on his laptop. Showered and dressed and ready to go. No new razor cuts.
Sometimes I flirt with despair, as if she were a lady
A pale and black-haired lady
A cool and bloodless lady, yeah
Sam was twenty-three and it wasn’t the first time he’d be responsible for the death of someone he loved. Mom, Jessica, Dad… and now Madison. Yes, he’d fallen in love with Madison. And then he’d killed her, shot her point blank in her supernaturally beating heart. When dad died, Sam pulled himself together for the sake of Dean who was falling apart. He had no such excuse this time. Numbness returned, chilling his bones to sub-zero and the world collapsed into a tight claustrophobic cocoon of dark, freezing pain. So much pain, filling his eyes and ears and throat, clogging his nerve endings until nothing else could break through. Not even Dean.
Dean knew that, and quietly moved all razors, weapons and sharp objects under his own bed. And he waited, two days… four. On the fifth night he slept, exhausted because there was no way he could keep his eyes open after ninety-eight hours of constant vigilance. Sam would have smirked, laughed even, at Dean’s protectiveness had he been aware of it. All he could think of, was his fucking destiny. Sam’s destiny seemed writ by the yellow-eyed bastard himself, in blood… the blood of his loved ones, and he was well on his way to fulfilling it. Dad failed to stop him, Dean was failing to protect him and there seemed to be no escaping it… except maybe in death. The more painful the better, he mused… wondering if he’d be reunited with dad in hell.
“Sam… please, talk to me.”
“It’s gonna be okay, you hear me? It’s going to be okay Sammy.”
Sam was twenty-three and sitting on his bed, staring off into empty space when it first hit him. A stark realization out of the blue, the epiphany of a lifetime and suddenly it became clear to him as fucking crystal that… things were never going to be okay again. Never.
The cocoon started to close in, squeezing the shallow breaths out of his lungs and holding him immobile, unable to break free. Survival instinct flicked on and with it the memory of a sharp object Dean forgot to remove from his person. He took out the small knife from his left boot and stared at it. The shiny toothed edge beckoning invitingly, potentially capable of piercing through his prison of misery, maybe, maybe not. Either way, it could be worth the few precious moments of distraction, and relief. The only question that now remained was… left hand first or right? Sam glanced over to his right at his sleeping brother, and he made his choice.
“Who knows what I might become? Even now everyone around me dies.”
“Well I'm not dying. Kay? And neither are you.”
Dean was twenty-seven and he hadn’t held a weeping little brother in his arms in fourteen years. He’d slept like a dead man and woken up to trembling hands rolling him onto his back and crudely unzipping his jeans. Dean had felt the water dripping onto his cheeks and nose a second later and curbed all instincts to resist as Sam started to jack him off, strokes rough and short and fast. But he couldn’t not say something when Sam yanked off his own jeans and started to lower himself onto Dean’s erection, dry.
“No. Don’t need. Please Dean… please…”
Sam rose and fell onto his brother’s hard shaft, supporting himself with his hands and knees on the bed. His face contorted in fiery agony as he tore up his ass with the unprepared penetration. Dean watched in silence, steeling his eyes for as long as he could, until he remembered. Pain was good.
Pain was their common ground, and if Sam was to get something out of this exercise, Dean needed to get with the program. He sat up with a sudden jerk, pulling Sam’s hips down over himself and holding him there forcefully until Sam finally, finally screamed. Shifted until Sam’s legs were off the bed and wrapped them around his own waist, then leaned forward until Sam was flat on his back and Dean was bent over him, taking control of the pain. He thrust in and out and in again until he felt hot liquid lubricating him inside of Sam. Sam gasped and sobbed but kept his legs wrapped around Dean tight, his fingernails digging into Dean’s shoulders refusing to let go.
“How does it feel to feel again? Huh Sammy? How does it feel?”
“Shut up and keep going. Right there… ah! Yes… God… harder Dean…”
The Winchesters never did mind the pain. Pain was their ally, a constant companion that urged them on in what they did, because pain must always be avenged. Pain was what they earned on a chase, and pain was what they paid to kill. Pain of the flesh kept the demons inside their heads at bay, and someday when the pain was gone forever, they’d know the demons had been exorcised for good. And then pain would be all stitched up, prettily dressed and relegated to scar status. And pain would make the best punch lines for demon war stories, over tequila shots and pitchers of beer. Someday…
Good to feel, good to feel it's good to feel damn good to feel
Good to feel, it's good to feel, it's good to feel damn good to feel
Damn good to feel.
Damn good to feel.
Damn good to feel.
*** END ***
A/N: Pls let me know what you think?