Work Text:
Dean’s settled, tense and jumpy, on the lumpy motel mattress and he’s seriously considering the idea of burying himself back under the ground. The world’s too big, the room’s too big, even the bed’s too big for someone who spent the last four decades confined to a series of tiny rock walled rooms. He can’t concentrate on the pages of the book braced against his chest; research is no competition for the lure of the mirror on the ceiling. He fights the urge to strip down, spread out across the garish bedspread and stare at this meat suit until he’s figured out how all that smooth, unmarked flesh is supposed to belong to him. He flicks glances at his brother, buried behind his own books at the table across the room, silently hoping Sam will come closer and fill up the empty space around him. Sometimes he catches Sam sneaking peeks back and it’s clear that Sam can’t understand it either. How Dean’s here. Why. As the hours drag on Sam closes the books and focuses his attention solely on his brother until Dean cracks under the scrutiny.
“What?”
“You’re breathing, Dean.” Sam still sounds stunned but he looks happy and Dean reflexively curls his lips up in return. “You’re alive.”
Dean’s not sure what one thing has to do with the other, but he’s not about to burst Sam’s bubble. You might not have to breathe after you’re dead, but if you think you do? There’s really not a whole lot of difference. Alastair had an infinite variety of ways to cut off Dean’s air supply and a sudden flashback to the demon’s favorite method has the few bites of food he’s managed to eat threatening to make a return trip. He clenches his teeth and forces the bilious mess back down, internally cursing the fact that this new body came complete with a rebuilt gag reflex.
Sam keeps staring and Dean keeps willing him to come to bed but forty years of sleep deprivation and a rough couple of days that included digging himself out of his own grave finally catch up with him. Inhalations and exhalations that are indicative of exactly nothing deepen until his rebellious eyes drop closed and exhaustion overcomes him.
He wakes, still alone in the huge bed, to a familiar high pitched whine that stops just short of shattering his eardrums. The mirror’s not so lucky and Dean huddles on the floor, arms covering his head as broken glass cascades down around him. Tiny shards nestle in the flesh of his hands and gather in his hair, slicing through his scalp to prickle against the bones of his skull. The sound cuts off abruptly and Dean looks around warily. He’s pretty sure that if Sam were around he would have made his presence known by now, but he gives it thirty seconds just to be sure while he considers the self mutilation possibilities of the many sharp objects now close at hand. Drops of blood bead crimson across his skin, distracting him just long enough for Bobby to burst in and drag him to his feet. The older man’s mouth is moving but his voice is a dim murmur from miles away and Dean takes a stab in the dark as to what he’s saying.
“Same as before at the gas station,” he says, wincing as Bobby recoils. He goes for lower volume and figures he succeeds when Bobby doesn’t leap backward across the room. “Still got no idea what it is.”
Bobby just shakes his head, gripping Dean’s chin. “I said, ‘are you okay’?” he mouths slowly. Dean points at his ears and shrugs, ignoring Bobby’s eye roll. “Where’s Sam?” is fairly easy to lip read but when it only gains Bobby another shrug he drags Dean out the door and down the hallway to his room.
“Stop scratching at ‘em,” Bobby growls later, dabbing Dean’s wounds with iodine. “I didn’t spend the last two hours picking glass out of your hide just so you could mess up all my hard work.”
Dean stops. He can wait. When he’s alone he’ll peel the scabs off over and over before letting them heal. He closes his eyes, picturing a network of fine white scars across the backs of his hands; feeling uneven nubs of skin as he runs his hands through his hair. It’s not even close to enough, but it’s a start.
It’s two weeks, five days and sixteen hours before Dean stops kicking himself for missing the opportunity to be impaled by a shard of broken mirror and then only because a shifter is considerate enough to take care of it for him. He doesn’t know what it is with him and mirrors but really, how much worse can his luck get? He’s not even counting this one as unlucky because the cut is deep and wide and is going to outdo any scar he’s ever gotten topside. It’s going to be practically impossible to recreate the intricate designs Alastair cut into him but once he’s got a good template going he’s going to do the best that he can. His outside, at least, has to be something he can still recognize.
Sam’s freaking out as the towel pressed against Dean’s belly soaks red. He’s shaking by the time the last suture is tied off and in Dean’s mind that’s perfectly fine. Crooked stitches make for better scars. If he thought Sam wouldn’t notice he’d pull a few loose but that might be pushing it even in Sam’s exhausted state.
Sam tosses the bloody towel in the bathtub and comes back with a clean one, damp with warm water. Dean hopes he washes up and falls into bed soon because his brother’s so pale it’s like he’s the one without all of his recommended daily allowance of red blood cells. Dean hisses and pulls away in surprise when Sam begins to wipe him down instead.
“I’m fine, Sam,” he protests, because he is. The pain is familiar, grounding and the mess he’s lying in doesn’t register at all.
Sam’s mouth tightens but he gently sits Dean up to give him as thorough a cleaning as possible before shifting him to the other bed. Dean sighs as he forces himself to spread out instead of curling into a ball. Sam would pick tonight to finally make his move. If he wants to do more than sleep Dean’ s ready; he’s been trained to perform no matter what condition he’s in.
Sam just pulls a chair up to the bedside, eyes dark and miserable as he studies his brother. “Dean…” he begins, cutting himself off with a snap.
“What?” Dean slurs as the painkillers Sam forced on him begin to do their job.
“Remember what Dad used to say?”
It’s not what Sam started to say, Dean’s sure of it, but he’s too looped to figure it out now. “Gotta be a little more specific there, Sammy.”
“He said that as long as you’re pumping out blood you’re still alive. That pain means you’re not dead.”
“Yeah, I think I remember that.” Dean’s pretty sure his father learned how much bullshit that opinion contained when he’d arrived in hell. Pain was pretty much a constant there and rivers of blood flowed into lakes big enough to drown a multitude of souls in and wasn’t that just another knock against Sam’s ‘breath is life’ crap. Alastair had drained Dean’s blood until his cell was like child’s wading pool and he’d splashed around in it with glee just as Dean had when he’d been on the other side of the knife. Blood and pain and breath don’t measure whether you’re alive or dead. They just make it harder to tell the difference. “You comin’ to bed?” he asks, jerking back from the edge of unconsciousness.
Sam shakes his head, settling back into the chair.
“Not ever?” Dean isn't sure in his confused state how he means that but he’s still aware enough to see that Sam’s just as unsure as he is.
“I…you’re hurt Dean,” Sam says, squeezing the bridge of his nose.
“Doesn’t matter,” Dean mutters, stilling as rage flashes across his brother’s face.
“It does to me.” Sam’s voice is tight and he takes a deep breath, visibly calming himself. “You might think you don’t need to rest but you do. Just… go to sleep, Dean.”
Dean knows an order when he hears one and allows himself to be sucked into drugged oblivion.
Sam’s gone tonight, to where Dean’s got no idea but he’s going to make good use of his alone time. He downs half a bottle of Jack but the liquor has its work cut out for it trying to further deaden something that was put in its grave months ago. His knives are honed to razor sharpness (his father and Alastair would approve) and he lays them carefully out on the bathroom counter. He strips mechanically, nothing sensual about it at all, just a function to be performed. The mirror above the sink is small but the door hides one that’s full length and Dean turns in front of it until he’s scanned every inch of skin. The handprint branded onto his shoulder seems to be some kind of claim from heaven, but they’re pretty damned mistaken if they think there’s anything left of him to own.
The scabs on his hands have faded into tiny scars and the slice across his belly puckers red and tight. Dean’s added a bit of knife work himself in the past few weeks and the barely healed lattice of thin red lines across his lower back pulls as he twists to get a better look. He picks up a slim blade and digs the point into the skin under his eye just hard enough to make a nick. A tiny drop of blood beads up and the mark it’s going to leave will have to do for now. As much as Dean hates what he sees staring at him out of the mirror every day the damage he inflicts has to be covered by his clothes. Sam can never know about this.
Dean steps into the tub and runs his hand along the unmarked skin of his left pectoral. He stares into the mirror as he pops the knife through skin and into muscle, hands steady as he slowly works the blade in an ever expanding spiral. Tonight he’s recreating one of Alastair’s most exacting designs and he needs it to be perfect. He’s three quarters of the way there, leaning against the cold tiles to keep from slipping on the blood slicked bottom of the tub when Sam comes home.
“Dean?”
His brother’s voice floats from the other room just seconds before he bursts through the bathroom door. It’s too late to hide, too late to stop, too late for just about everything so Dean just keeps on with what he’s doing. If he stops now he’ll never get it right again. Alastair taught him to focus and his hand continues its steady progress until Sam grabs his wrist, pulling the knife out of its trajectory and cutting across the pattern.
“What the hell are you doing, Dean?” Sam locks his brother’s wrist in an iron grip, twisting until the knife falls to the floor. He swipes at the slick of blood on Dean’s chest, only relaxing slightly when he sees the wounds aren’t deep. “Why would you do this? To make you feel alive? Because you are alive, Dean. Why don’t you get that?”
If there was any humor left in him Dean would laugh at how backward Sam’s gotten this. Dean’s just another twisted refugee from the pit walking around in a long dead meat suit. As it is he keeps silent and doesn’t resist as Sam drags him from the bathroom and throws him onto the bed.
“You want to feel alive, Dean?” Sam says, sliding his hand down Dean’s body. “I can help you with that. If you want.”
Dean’s breath stops for a moment; starts again. He spreads his legs and lifts his arms, gripping the headboard with a pained gasp. “Yes, Sammy, please,” he whispers because he knows this script by heart and because he’s been terrified Sam would never want him like this again.
Sam avoids the bloody wound as he reacquaints himself with every other inch of Dean’s body. Dean hisses and moans as he writhes under his brother, the pain radiating from his chest a perfect counterpoint to Sam’s touch.
“Can’t lose you again, Dean,” Sam whispers over and over as he slowly opens Dean up. “Need you,” becomes the mantra as he spreads his brother’s thighs and fucks into him. Dean’s bucking up to meet Sam’s frenzied thrusts and it’s not long before his orgasm spatters white onto his blood and sweat slicked chest. Sam follows almost immediately, pausing to press a kiss to Dean’s gasping mouth before settling down beside him.
“Alive,” Sam asserts, running his hand through the semen coating Dean’s belly. Dean closes his eyes against the memory of Alastair forcing this same reaction out of him tens of thousands of times.
“Alive,” he lies, eyes still tightly shut. Sam needs him and that’s all he’s ever really needed to hear. He’ll keep breathing and bleeding and hurting and coming; all the things his brother wrongly considers proof of life. He can pretend, if he has to, for Sam, that he’s not dead in every way that matters. Fake it ‘til you make it, he thinks, opening his eyes and smiling at his brother. Fake it ‘til you make it.