Ficlets: Two codas for 14.01
Oct. 12th, 2018 09:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
caranfindelMy recap is coming later, but first, two 14.01 codas inspired by Sam's magnificent Beard of Despair. Because this thing deserves its own fandom.
One
Sam showers. He brushes his teeth. He carries on. The bunker's full of people now, and ignoring his personal hygiene would be rude. They're all damaged, after all. He's no more damaged than any of them. He doesn't have any special right to wallow in his own despair. He owes it to them to keep going, to set an example. To eat and sleep (or lie sleepless in bed but at least he sets a good example, at least it looks like self-care) and shower and change his clothes and keep going. Keep living.
(It's fine. He's fine.)
But after a week he notices Cas eyeing his scruff with a concerned expression and realizes that he's still failing them, that he still has cracks in his mask of normalcy. He slips into the bathroom, lathers his face, and holds the razor against his throat. There, right there. There should be a scar there, where vampires ripped him open. But there isn't, because Lucifer took it away. Because Lucifer took it away and made Sam come back, saved him and broke him in one fell swoop.
(It's fine.)
And now his vessel, his face, not his true face but the face he stole, the face that sneered and the voice that taunted and promised and threatened, the hands that snapped their fingers - this physical embodiment is asleep down the hall.
(It's not Nick's fault. It's fine. Everything is fine.)
Sam puts the razor to his throat again and thinks how easy it would be to crack open the flimsy plastic case, to take the shard of sharpened metal and draw it through his skin there, right there, where a scar should be, to slice through skin and muscle right there, down to the vein. The blood would spurt warm and red, would run down his arm and his chest, and he'd hear the gentle thrum of his own heart behind his eardrums and his knees would buckle and his vision would go dark around the edges and he'd collapse onto the cold, welcoming floor and everything would fade away and he could finally. Just. Stop.
But then he wouldn't be able to save Dean.
He drops the razor into the trash with trembling hands and rinses the soap off his face. The beard is fine.
(Everything is fine.)
~ ~ ~
Two
The third time Dean wakes up, he doesn't shout no, he doesn't mutter something that sounds suspiciously like Enochian, he doesn't curl into himself and chant I'm sorry, I'm sorry like a prayer. He just raises an almost-steady hand to Sam's jaw, barely brushing it. Tentatively, as if he doesn't yet trust himself not to hurt him, not to grab him by the throat and squeeze.
"Sammy?" His voice is a little quiet. A little rough. "How long's it been since you shaved?"
(Translation: I think I'm okay now. Are you okay?)
Sam makes a choked noise that's half laugh and half sob of relief. "I don't know, man. How long have you been gone?"
(Translation: Four weeks, five days, about seven hours, and every time I woke up and had to remember, every time I went to sleep thinking "maybe tomorrow," all of these are etched onto my brain. But I think I'm okay now too.)
One
Sam showers. He brushes his teeth. He carries on. The bunker's full of people now, and ignoring his personal hygiene would be rude. They're all damaged, after all. He's no more damaged than any of them. He doesn't have any special right to wallow in his own despair. He owes it to them to keep going, to set an example. To eat and sleep (or lie sleepless in bed but at least he sets a good example, at least it looks like self-care) and shower and change his clothes and keep going. Keep living.
(It's fine. He's fine.)
But after a week he notices Cas eyeing his scruff with a concerned expression and realizes that he's still failing them, that he still has cracks in his mask of normalcy. He slips into the bathroom, lathers his face, and holds the razor against his throat. There, right there. There should be a scar there, where vampires ripped him open. But there isn't, because Lucifer took it away. Because Lucifer took it away and made Sam come back, saved him and broke him in one fell swoop.
(It's fine.)
And now his vessel, his face, not his true face but the face he stole, the face that sneered and the voice that taunted and promised and threatened, the hands that snapped their fingers - this physical embodiment is asleep down the hall.
(It's not Nick's fault. It's fine. Everything is fine.)
Sam puts the razor to his throat again and thinks how easy it would be to crack open the flimsy plastic case, to take the shard of sharpened metal and draw it through his skin there, right there, where a scar should be, to slice through skin and muscle right there, down to the vein. The blood would spurt warm and red, would run down his arm and his chest, and he'd hear the gentle thrum of his own heart behind his eardrums and his knees would buckle and his vision would go dark around the edges and he'd collapse onto the cold, welcoming floor and everything would fade away and he could finally. Just. Stop.
But then he wouldn't be able to save Dean.
He drops the razor into the trash with trembling hands and rinses the soap off his face. The beard is fine.
(Everything is fine.)
~ ~ ~
Two
The third time Dean wakes up, he doesn't shout no, he doesn't mutter something that sounds suspiciously like Enochian, he doesn't curl into himself and chant I'm sorry, I'm sorry like a prayer. He just raises an almost-steady hand to Sam's jaw, barely brushing it. Tentatively, as if he doesn't yet trust himself not to hurt him, not to grab him by the throat and squeeze.
"Sammy?" His voice is a little quiet. A little rough. "How long's it been since you shaved?"
(Translation: I think I'm okay now. Are you okay?)
Sam makes a choked noise that's half laugh and half sob of relief. "I don't know, man. How long have you been gone?"
(Translation: Four weeks, five days, about seven hours, and every time I woke up and had to remember, every time I went to sleep thinking "maybe tomorrow," all of these are etched onto my brain. But I think I'm okay now too.)
