A/N Hi y'all. Not much to say. I'll be in Vancouver for the convention this weekend. If anyone else is going and wants to say hi just PM me. This is set sometime after season 6, but there are no major spoilers. This is a mostly plotless but angsty drabble though I may continue if the muse comes out from hiding I have ideas but I also have stories to finish. I won't go into details but this is in a way a response to how I feel about how the show has been treating Dean lately. Not only does it look like he doesn't have a storyline of his own but there's been so much fuss about how awful Sam's hell was but it feels like they (the writers) have completely forgotten that Dean was there too. (I still hate that they sent Sam there too in the first place, but I digress...)
Anyway, in "Wishful Thinking" Dean tells Sam that there is no forgetting and that it'll stay with him forever. (Not a little over half a season). So that's what this is about.
Warning: Unbetaed and written in haste. Forgive any mistakes.
Enjoy, and please tell me what you think!
He wakes up in a cold sweat,, trembling. His skin crawling like there's thousands of fire ants residing under his skin, digging, stinging and moving around under the surface. He looks at his shaking hands for a moment, assuring himself that they're still there, that he's real, and that he's not in Hell anymore as he has every morning since he came back. Time hasn't seemed to heal or ease the wounds the memories left him and the phantom pain of past torture stiffens his movements. The only thing time has managed to do is make it easier to pretend he's OK and to keep his screams silent when the constant nightmares wake him up.
As he does every time a nightmare wakes him, he reaches under his pillow for his knife, pauses to contemplate using it to off himself but reminds himself of what that would do to his brother who needs him, and then moves to the flask he keeps next to it, pulls it out, unscrews the cap and takes a long swig. The liquid burns his throat on the way down and he gags a little and takes a deep breath trying to push the memories away and hide them where the waking hours can't find them. It's the only way he can cope, but it's almost impossible to do most of the time without help. He takes another long drink willing it to help.
Glancing over at his sleeping brother he sighs and waits for the numbing effects of alcohol to kick in and help him forget. This latest nightmare is the worst he's had in a while, and it's vivid too. A part of him is convinced that if he were to look at himself, he'd see gaping wounds all over his body, oozing with infection. He can almost smell the phantom infection and can feel the fire ants under his skin carry the fire of fever throughout his body.
As he does every morning, he reminds himself that he's not in Hell anymore, that what he's feeling isn't real, that it's nothing more than a memory, but this time the nightmare is so bad the alcohol isn't enough to help dull the pain. He sighs, because it looks like right now he needs the good stuff.
Hating himself for it, he quietly digs through his duffel until he finds the bottle and pops one little white pill into his mouth and chases it with whiskey. It's not healthy, but it's the only way he can get through the day sometimes without losing it. There's too much on his plate, too many people counting on him, too much to do, too much to fight... he can't do it all if he can't keep it together. He knows it's not good for him but he's long since convinced himself that he'll only do it when it's really bad because it's the only thing that'll take the edge off when the whiskey's not enough. He's OK as long as he's careful and doesn't overdo it.
Grey morning light seeps through the cracks in the heavy motel room curtain and he sighs, accepting that he's not going to get anymore sleep despite the fact it's still only 5:30 in the morning, so he gives himself a moment to let the tremors wracking his body to ease up and heads to the bathroom to take a shower and shave and prepare himself to face the day and all the stress and chaos that comes with it.
When he goes into the bathroom and takes a good look at himself in the mirror, under the florescent lights he groans at the sight that greets him. The poor lighting is enough to make anyone's complexion look ghastly, but his pallor is a sickly shade of grey, the dark circles under his eyes and five o'clock shadow on his chin, a stark contrast. He looks like a ghost. Even his haunted eyes seem to be a duller, greyer version of their normal color.
With a groan and a yawn he turns on the hot water and hopes a nice long shower will help him feel human again. Or at least something that somewhat resembles human. He hasn't felt human since Hell, not that anyone would know. Fake it 'til you make it, that's his motto. People are counting on him to keep it together, he can't fail them.
The heavy stream of water is soothing to his aching body and he sighs under the high pressured heat of the shower forcing himself to relax. No one can know how much Hell still torments him, least of all his brother who's suffering enough as it is and doesn't need the extra burden. He forces himself to believe that he's OK because if he can convince himself, he can convince the world and that's what matters.
He grins weakly as his hands finally stop shaking and he can feel the pill kick in. He stands under the hot water, psyching himself into believing that he's OK. His mind feels clearer now, his broken walls back up. Turning off the water he climbs out of the shower, wraps himself in a towel and heads back into the room. He finishes off the whiskey in his flask as he digs through his duffel for clothes and picking out a grey t-shirt and faded blue jeans he quickly gets dressed and goes back into the bathroom to shave.
Wiping away the steam on the mirror he takes a look at himself and forces a smile on his face. His reflection smiles back, though it looks weak and forced but once he gets his coffee and wakes up a little it might look real. Nonetheless he convinces himself that he no longer looks like a ghost. All he needs is a shave and a coffee and he'll look like himself again. It's much easier to play the part if he can look the part.
Once he's finished he runs his hands down his face, sighs, and forces himself to believe that he's ready to face the day.
Maybe if he can believe it, it'll one day be true.
Deep down he knows it's not true, he knows it's a facade, he knows he's not OK, but he forces himself to ignore the fact. Too many people are counting on him to be OK and keep the world around him from falling apart, counting on him to fix everything.
Even if he cannot fix himself.
A/N Thanks for reading! Tell me what you think!