Dean Winchester (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kickingand) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
gameofmana2016-09-16 01:37 pm
kickingand) wrote in gameofmana2016-09-16 01:37 pm
Entry tags:
i've been up and down in prison
Who: Dean Winchester & YOUUU
What: waking up at Home and being confused out of his mind
Where: Home!
When: morning sometime
Other: talk of Hell & not overly graphic mentions of torture. also, prose or brackets are welcome!
Dean doesn't have a clue as to where he is. Granted, he doesn't have a clue as to what's going on altogether, but that would be said no matter where it was he was waking up. Because the thing is, he isn't supposed to be here. A thing that likely everyone said upon waking up here, but Dean isn't supposed to be anywhere but Hell. It's a thing he can't comprehend as he wakes up with a start and looks around to find himself not on the rack. The lack of shrill screams in the distance, the dank nonexistent smells wrecking havoc through his brain, making it impossible to do anything but shudder with anticipation of what tool was going to be used today to pry body parts from his soul, over and over and over--
Giving his head a shake, the place he is now is so opposite of what he's endure for the past years that it's nearly startling. It's beyond startling actually, and Dean doesn't know what to do about it when all he can think is he doesn't deserve it. This place is practically happy and somehow blossoms with an easiness that he can't comprehend, his stomach twisting with confusion and ultimately a sheer disorientation that he's struggling his way through. He hardly knows how to move let alone how to think his way through this and he tries to find his voice to shout for the existence of anyone else here. But it clams up in his throat, refusing to puff out from between his lips and instead makes him want to curl up that much more. It's terrifying and soft all at once and he's rejecting it aggressively, trying to butt himself up against the nearest wall and hide, wondering if this is a new breed of torture. Let him see something happy for two seconds before he's dragged back to the reality that is Hell, brutally laughed in the face by Alistair before the torture continues. A psychological thing, maybe.
He doesn't know.
But eventually, he begins to move.
Slowly, he pushes himself out of the bed, taking one cautious step at at time, moving forward and ducking around corners, peering around the edges of the spacious room and trying to adjust to everything he's seeing. Which unto itself is still just weird - if anything, he should've woken up in a dank motel room. His grave maybe. And some part of his mind wonders if he's been shot up to Heaven finally, in some sort of weird Brazil-esque filing error, but that's just ridiculous.
He's supposed to be in Hell. So what the fuck is going on.
Continuing to move, Dean soon finds himself on the stairway leading downwards, though he glances up for a moment and stares, before deciding that down is best way for now. It isn't as if any of this is truly ominous apart from the fact that he doesn't know why he's here altogether but he has to keep moving, try to figure out what's going on, understand this as best as he can before he finds himself getting tugged straight back to the one place he's actually supposed to be.
"The fuck is this-"
Rough words are finally pulled from his throat, scratchy and hard and he steps even further down, slow going as he tries to take it all in. He just wants to know where he is and why, maybe even find someone here. Or maybe he just wants to be alone for a minute, relish in the lack of pain and death fleeing across his vision, the wholeness of his body and the feeling of his limbs stretching out. It's all odd sensations after too long on the rack, at the hands of demons, souls at the hands of him, and he grit his teeth for a moment, squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think before he keeps going, pushing himself forward, and finally gives a shout, sounding distant to his own ears.
"-- Anyone here?"
What: waking up at Home and being confused out of his mind
Where: Home!
When: morning sometime
Other: talk of Hell & not overly graphic mentions of torture. also, prose or brackets are welcome!
Dean doesn't have a clue as to where he is. Granted, he doesn't have a clue as to what's going on altogether, but that would be said no matter where it was he was waking up. Because the thing is, he isn't supposed to be here. A thing that likely everyone said upon waking up here, but Dean isn't supposed to be anywhere but Hell. It's a thing he can't comprehend as he wakes up with a start and looks around to find himself not on the rack. The lack of shrill screams in the distance, the dank nonexistent smells wrecking havoc through his brain, making it impossible to do anything but shudder with anticipation of what tool was going to be used today to pry body parts from his soul, over and over and over--
Giving his head a shake, the place he is now is so opposite of what he's endure for the past years that it's nearly startling. It's beyond startling actually, and Dean doesn't know what to do about it when all he can think is he doesn't deserve it. This place is practically happy and somehow blossoms with an easiness that he can't comprehend, his stomach twisting with confusion and ultimately a sheer disorientation that he's struggling his way through. He hardly knows how to move let alone how to think his way through this and he tries to find his voice to shout for the existence of anyone else here. But it clams up in his throat, refusing to puff out from between his lips and instead makes him want to curl up that much more. It's terrifying and soft all at once and he's rejecting it aggressively, trying to butt himself up against the nearest wall and hide, wondering if this is a new breed of torture. Let him see something happy for two seconds before he's dragged back to the reality that is Hell, brutally laughed in the face by Alistair before the torture continues. A psychological thing, maybe.
He doesn't know.
But eventually, he begins to move.
Slowly, he pushes himself out of the bed, taking one cautious step at at time, moving forward and ducking around corners, peering around the edges of the spacious room and trying to adjust to everything he's seeing. Which unto itself is still just weird - if anything, he should've woken up in a dank motel room. His grave maybe. And some part of his mind wonders if he's been shot up to Heaven finally, in some sort of weird Brazil-esque filing error, but that's just ridiculous.
He's supposed to be in Hell. So what the fuck is going on.
Continuing to move, Dean soon finds himself on the stairway leading downwards, though he glances up for a moment and stares, before deciding that down is best way for now. It isn't as if any of this is truly ominous apart from the fact that he doesn't know why he's here altogether but he has to keep moving, try to figure out what's going on, understand this as best as he can before he finds himself getting tugged straight back to the one place he's actually supposed to be.
"The fuck is this-"
Rough words are finally pulled from his throat, scratchy and hard and he steps even further down, slow going as he tries to take it all in. He just wants to know where he is and why, maybe even find someone here. Or maybe he just wants to be alone for a minute, relish in the lack of pain and death fleeing across his vision, the wholeness of his body and the feeling of his limbs stretching out. It's all odd sensations after too long on the rack, at the hands of demons, souls at the hands of him, and he grit his teeth for a moment, squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think before he keeps going, pushing himself forward, and finally gives a shout, sounding distant to his own ears.
"-- Anyone here?"
no subject
But Sam's question still makes him cringe most of all.
Because maybe something he did made this all his fault. Granted, he doesn't know what that would be, but it's entirely likely at this point, a kind of thing he can't deny because who knows what he's done wrong, what more he's fucked up, what lives he's ruined and tortured and sinned. It makes his gaze drag away and stare down between his knees, head shaking out of sheer desperation because Sam doesn't get it. He didn't get it the first time either, the fact that Dean can't go it alone. He can't. He doesn't know how. Without Dad, without Sam- he's nothing. He's not whole, he's not anything, and to think that he could keep fighting the good fight with only his skin and bones is ludicrous. He's a shell of a human without them at his side, and they had to have known that.
They have to still know it, even know.
"Because, Sam. I know, okay? Nothing I did could'a brought us to this place." His voice was strained, words toppling over one another to try and get there first as Dean squeezed them out between his clenched teeth. Nothing he did would have been idiotic enough to transport them to another world just... because and Dean didn't want think that this was his fault. But more importantly, he knew it wasn't solely because he knew the outcome of what he'd done. Everything had gone right. He'd gotten what he'd wanted, he hadn't fucked it up, and this wasn't his fault.
So whose fault was it?
"Just- just believe me. Nothing I did would'a shot us here- world travelling wasn't exactly what I was goin' for, Sam."
no subject
Because. 'Because I'm older.' 'Because I'm the big brother.' If Sam had a fucking nickel for every time in his life he's gotten that as an answer.
"You realize you didn't actually answer my question."
He hadn't told him what he'd done, the things he had actually tried in order to get Sam back. But Dean is just as stubborn as Sam and Sam knows it, so he's realizing this may be a battle he'll have to save for another day. Not concede defeat, just call a truce maybe until there's a better time. If there ever will be a better time. As much as he'd like to keep pushing to get actual answers, rather than Dean asking Sam to 'just believe him,' like they're still kids. Like Sam's asking about why they move around all the time and where's Dad always going and Dean's telling him just stop asking questions and trust me. Protecting him, or trying to. At his own expense often enough, which is what bothers Sam. His mind is going to keep supplying possible things that Dean may have done to try and get him back, like Sam's life held more meaning than his own, like Sam would just be okay with being brought back at Dean's expense. Because that's what it came down to, didn't it? When bringing people back? You had to make some sort of sacrifice.
It occurs to him then, something else that's struck him as wrong and out of place this entire time that he couldn't exactly put his finger on, since Dean had shown up. His gaze flickers to Dean's neck, where there's always been a chord, down to where the amulet always sits right there on his breastbone. There's nothing. It's gone. Sam straightens up immediately, brows furrowing. How did I even miss that?
"Dean, where's...?" He lifts his hand, touching it to his own chest before pointing at Dean's, looking him in the eye again with a frown.
Had he tried to use it somehow? Because it was something Sam had given him? It didn't seem out of the realm of possibility, that some magic spell or whatever might call for something like that. It held a lot of importance to Dean and he knows, because it's incredibly rare for him to take it off. But he's sort of jumping to conclusions about it, isn't he? Maybe it had absolutely nothing to do with the anything and everything Dean apparently tried to get him back, and his brother just had it in his pocket tucked away for... What, safe-keeping? Or another bad thing had gotten it, like that shapeshifter Sam still has nightmares about occasionally, right along with everything else he has nightmares about. Because being tortured by a sadistic, murderous being wearing your own brother's face wasn't a trauma anyone could get over completely, even after a year. Even after a lifetime, probably.
And it's not like he doesn't trust Dean. He trusts that he's full of good intentions, he trusts that this is Dean and not another possible shapeshifter. It's just that the problem doesn't lie in trusting him, in believing him. It lies in knowing him. And Sam does.
no subject
That he'd tried one thing.
And it had worked.
But the real kicker is, the real one, is not the fact that Dean's lied or the fact that he knows it and doesn't want to say it because he knows what will happen, is what Sam points out next. Dean's brow furrows as Sam gestures and suddenly, Dean's hands are going around his neck like he's trying to throttle himself, feeling out for the leather band that keeps the amulet around his neck and it's not there. Nothing's there. His neck is fresh and clean and sure, everything is in its place, except for the one most important thing of all. The amulet's gone, completely and utterly gone, and he knows its not on his person because why would it be anywhere else but around his neck? It doesn't go anywhere, never leaves his body. Except for, perhaps, in death.
"Shit."
Dean's got nothing. Nothing. He has no lies saved up for that one because in all honesty, he doesn't truly know where it could be. All he can figure is that Sam took it when he died, kept it as some kind of keepsake and now it's gone in some other world that Dean can't reach. It's out of his possession and there's nothing he can dredge up quite so quick to make room for the fact that his keepsake, the one thing that says without words what their relationship is, what they mean to each other, is gone and Dean has no explanation as to where it could be except for the obvious. And he can't give the obvious, he can't do it, he doens't know how. He doens't know how to bring the words to a Sam who's only just freshly dead and he sure can't say the words that he just spent the last forty years in Hell without falling to pieces.
And he can't fall. He can't break. He isn't allowed to crack or splinter or let himself falter, he isn't allowed to be anything but strong in the face of all of this because that's his punishment. His failure is his defeat and he knows it, knows that Sam can't see the parts of him that are so tarnished they'll never be unsung and Dean just hangs his head, because what else can he do?
What else is there but the truth? What Dean can do but not give it, except for how there's nothing else to offer in its place?
"Sam, it's not gone, okay? Didn't lose it."
no subject
How could he have not known? And if he hadn't known, how is he so sure it's not lost? Of course, there's always the possibility that that's a lie, one meant to reassure Sam just the way Dean had done while Sam was dying in his arms a month ago. 'It's not that bad' and 'You're fine' and whatever else he had said as Sam's consciousness and very life had faded.
He'd been wearing the amulet then. Sam can remember clearly it pressed to his own chest while Dean had felt out the damage, the wound at his back.
He wouldn't get mad at Dean for losing it, though, sometimes shit like that happens, and he knows Dean would feel bad and guilty for losing it enough for both of them without Sam expressing disappointment.
The amulet hadn't started out as Dean's. It hadn't even started out for Dean. There hadn't really been much meaning to it at first other than "thanks for being better than Dad," which, granted, was a big part of their relationship, because Dean had always been better at taking care of Sam than John was. The decision to give the amulet to Dean hadn't been a long thought-out one. It was made in the moment because Dean had shown he cared more about Sam and his happiness by trying to make Christmas special for him. Had even tried to give the credit to John, like he'd deserved it. For all of that, Dean had deserved something from Sam. The amulet had been a way to thank him.
But to Sam it had really gained more of its meaning through the fact that Dean had cherished it and kept it on him all these years. The fact that it represented something to him made it represent something more to Sam. But as far as he was concerned, it being lost or being gone would hardly erase their entire relationship.
So he's not mad. He's worried. He's worried what could have happened to Dean that he would have taken it off and forgotten about it. Or lost it entirely. It's Dean he's worried about, not the amulet. Not an object. His older brother.
"What happened?"
no subject
In an instant, images skitter across his mind.
Black pits and the rack, trussed up and losing limbs like nobody's business. Bone took hours to carve through if they wanted it to and everything else took just as long - not that time really mattered when they got right down to it. But it all blipped by in an instant, the steady drip of blood like a echoing scream, bouncing in his ears, sounds he refused to give and panicked chokes that made the world seem as if it was hanging on a wire. Everything was always so frantic, sped up and slowed down and strewn about, his organs a thing that were no longer his to keep in any way shape or form. And then it was everyone else he dug deep into, bodies that became his to tear apart, to take for keeps, to explore in ways that sent blood dribbling up to his elbows.
In the flash of a second it's gone, drops back behind his eyelids and Dean blinks again, emptied and hollowed out and wondering when it will all just go away. When he can forget it, when he can pretend it had never happened. Maybe if he'd been stronger he'd be allowed to forget but as it stood, it's his shameful burden to bear and so he puts it on his shoulders the same way he does everything else, as if he has more than enough room to carry the world and more. And Sam can't know, can't begin to know.
But what lies does he have? What can he come up with on the spot that will be enough, that will be a good enough lie to reflect what has happened.
Can he skip on by all of this, just say he doesn't have a clue where it went and go from there? Because that's the truth: he doesn't know where it is, not physically, but he knows why it was lost in the first places and it still remains as much of a lie as he can figure it to be and it still hurts, makes him hate himself that much more for wanting to twist the words he gives to Sammy in some kind of marbled fashion. Lies with truth, intertwined against the spaces between them until Dean gets away with everything he doesn't want to give when he's always so good at giving Sammy his all.
So what's he supposed to do? What's the outcome of this that doesn't have him climbing up the walls from the sheer weight of his own self hatred?
"Can we just-" The words are gritted out until Dean has to freeze again, jaw clenched until it aches in the pounding of his own head, trying to find the things to say that aren't dickish but are still entirely wrong. Because everything is wrong, nothing is how he wants to say it and no matter what he gives, it isn't the words he wants to say. "Can we just stow it, Sammy? Please?"
no subject
"Dean, you understand I'm just worried about you though, right? I'm not trying to pry into whatever you feel is your business, but... I'd like to help you if you'd let me. And if it has anything to do with me, then I have a right to know, too. If there was something you did for me that you're trying to protect me by keeping it from me or you're afraid I'll be mad at you for it..." He shakes his head. "I'm going to find out sooner or later. But you're my brother and you know I'll forgive you."
He thought that much was obvious by now. Whatever fights or hard times they went through, Dean was and will always be his brother. And Sam will always forgive him his screw ups, his flaws, his wrong-doings, whatever. Some may take more time than others, some fights may leave scars that take longer to heal completely. But there was nothing Dean could or would do that could make Sam hate him, he's certain of that. Outside forces like possession of course could control either one of them to make them turn on one another, but of his own volition? No, there was nothing.
"Better to just get the blows out of the way instead of letting it eat at you, you know?" He wrings his hands together once before placing them back on his knees, leaning back a little with a sigh. "But if you want me to let it go for right now, fine. I'm not giving up, though."
no subject
It's tense, and it hangs right there, loud and raucous in his head like a promise he wants to give over but knows he can't. Instead he's lying from one side of the room and out to the other, tense and nervous and unwilling to share what he so desperately wants to admit to. Because he knows it's going to come bursting out sooner or later, the facts of what he's done, and holding on to it for longer and longer's only going to make it that much worse. Like a festering wound, something open and angry and raw, it's only going to consume him until he chokes up in front of his little brother and falls to his own demise. He knows it, entirely and completely, and yet the words won't come.
I sold my soul for you.
They're sitting there, on the tip of his tongue, just waiting to be pushed forward and yet Dean can't manage it, can't make himself come to terms with what he's been through. Because the question comes with the answer of his own death and Sam's survival and while he desperately wants to let his little brother know that he lived, he doesn't want him to think upon Dean's death. His deaths, a hundred times over, something that'll leave him guilt ridden and more than unhappy. It won't be mad that Sam is with him but mad with himself, furious and pained and feeling as if he should've done everything to keep Dean from going to the pit. He knows it, and he can't do a thing to change his own decision or what he's been through, but he can keep Sam from hearing any more than he has to.
He can keep a secret, he's done it before. And he tells himself again and again that he can keep this one, that it can just be his to have, to keep Sam from even coming close to having to deal with the ultimate ramifications of what they've both been through.
It's easier that way, right? The lie wraps up the whole thing, neat and tidy and Dean's not even lying so much anymore as he's saying that he just can't say it. Can't give himself over yet, because it's too much, because it's everything. In that it's everything Sam doesn't need to know for his own well being. Dean can hold onto it, can keep it safe and can pretend it solves all the problems just be not telling and so he stares down into his lap and gives his head a little shake, pushing his palms against his thighs like he's preparing to dust himself off and then he just shrugs.
No big deal. He can tell himself it's no big deal.
"Just got transported to another world, think there's probably a better time for just about every conversation."
no subject
Sam's lips pull into a tense line for a moment before he nods and tries not to sigh anymore. "Then we'll talk about this world. I can show you around the place, try to answer any questions. But honestly we're mostly still just trying to figure things out. We haven't been left any clues as to who brought us here or why. It doesn't seem malicious, but there's always that chance... especially since we were all brought here involuntarily."
He shifts on the bed, bringing his legs up to sit cross-legged so he can face Dean. It occurs to him he never actually told him his whole afterlife theory, even if it feels like Dean had probably debunked it.
"To tell you the truth, before you got here, I'd considered the possibility that maybe this is just some sort of afterlife, somewhere you go when you die. A way-station between Heaven and Hell, maybe. I asked you how it happened when I first saw you because I thought maybe you had died, too."
And he's a little unsure now whether or not he prefers a theory where Dean didn't die. Because Sam definitely had. So if they were to leave, would they be going back to the same place? Could Sam leave? Would Dean just continue to try and bring Sam back?
Honestly, the thought that Dean may have tried selling his soul for him has occurred to Sam by now. They were both pretty sure John had made some sort of exchange of himself for Dean, and they both were aware of the crossroads demon and the deals they could make. But Dean said he'd tried everything and nothing had been successful. And he was weirdly certain that nothing he had done had caused them both to end up here. All in all, it's still in his head as a possibility, one he doesn't like in the least, that maybe that's what Dean's not telling him. Even if he has his suspicions about that though, the fact that Dean has already been to Hell hasn't crossed his mind at all.
no subject
every time-
Pay attention.
Dean finds himself looking up when Sam is already facing him, talking about the afterlife and thinking that this was somehow it. Their Heaven. Or some version of it, he's not entirely sure, but he supposes he could get behind that theory apart from the fact that you didn't really get transitioned from Hell out of anywhere. And if he could, if he was willing, he might even still be able to make Sam's idea work but he doesn't want to. Can't bring himself to offer the facts to the table that he was dead. It was his fault. It was what he'd asked for so that Sam could keep on living.
The only problem is he doesn't know what to say instead, and so he cants his head a bit, bobbing as if in thought, trying to figure out the best way to broach this without answering or deceiving any more than he has to.
But he's already lied. Why not lie some more.
"You mean what, like- Limbo? Be a pretty nice spot for it, I always thought limbo was, I dunno- supposed to be kind of a shit show." Granted, Dean thought most things were supposed to be a shit show so how was that any different from the norm. He still twists a bit, angling his shoulder against the wall so he can look at Sam straight on, brow furrowing a bit in construed thought, as if he's thinking really hard when he isn't truly thinking about much of anything apart from, well, all the things he doesn't want to think about.
"Could just be another Trickster thing, make us live in our very own little Hobbit Hole for awhile."
no subject
"Maybe..." The Trickster theory is as good as any they've got so far, really, even if the one they'd met they'd already (at least as far as Sam knows) permanently gotten rid of. They hadn't even known about Tricksters before running into that one though, so who was to say there was only one? It seemed odd though that they'd randomly bring a bunch of people from seemingly different universes to one place. What reason was there? The previous one's motivation seemed to be entertainment and their own version of justice. Okay, then entertainment sort of made sense. But what had any of them done that would warrant them this as... what, punishment?
Whatever is going on, it's becoming clear that even with Dean here now and the two of them together, they're not going to solve it by sitting around talking, especially when Dean is avoiding telling him things. So Sam sighs and stands up. "Alright. I'll move all my stuff from my previous room. Then I'll show you around."