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Dean did not like being alone. There were instances in which he shut himself in his room for a bit of space, classic rock droning through his headphones at an earsplitting volume, enough to blow out his eardrums, as Sam would say, but Dean couldn’t quite get himself to care because he knew he’d be dead long before it became a problem, and times when he enjoyed having a drink in the kitchen without someone looming over his shoulder. He liked his personal space, especially with how much time he spent with Sam’s doe-eyed face and Disney-esque hair as he hunched over his laptop, poking and prodding as an irritating younger brother should.
Being alone was an entirely different matter than electing to be by himself. Being alone meant there wasn’t someone he could pester when he was bored in the next room, or stick curse-laden sticky notes to the back of when they foolishly fell asleep sprawled on the bunkers table. Choosing to be by himself meant he could rejoin when he was ready, and expect a smartass response about brooding and his diet choices as he pulled a beer from the fridge, but being alone meant he was stuck by himself until someone came back, and he had only himself and his thoughts to mull over while he waited.
Dean wasn’t fond of such an empty feeling. It pricked at his innermost thoughts like a pine needle stuck in his shoe, ever-present but frustratingly difficult to shake out. Eventually, you learned to deal or you stopped everything until you could dig it out and exasperatedly toss it to the side. Much to his irritation, the dreaded sense of loneliness was not something he could pluck out of his shoe and chuck to the corner and continue on his merry way, nor did the world ever give him enough time to stop and change. No, he would have to sit and stew until Sam and his angel pal came back from wherever the hell they were, and pretend like he wasn’t swallowing back bubbling, hot emotion the whole time.
Normally, he dealt. Sure, being alone sucked, but it was never for very long, and Dean would entertain himself with an old Western or a bit of reading (yes, he read the lore books Sam so painstakingly organized onto his laptop) and he would be fine. He wouldn’t even notice he was feeling lonely until Sam or Cas were back and he strutted into the room with newfound energy, suddenly rejuvenated at the thought of pestering his family.
That had been before the Mark.
The Mark of Cain, red and raised like a keloid scar, passed to him by the first killer to walk the unblemished soil of the Earth, was glaring and tight against his skin, mottled with faded scars and patches from years of hunting. The Mark had been a necessary evil, Dean knew that, and he would have endured that painful, burning passing of the torch a thousand times over if it meant he could protect the ones he loved. Nothing he carried mattered in the face of them, and nothing was more important than the safety of his family. Dean had held that burden since his mother had been so cruelly snatched from his life, since he warmed bottles at four years old for a wailing baby brother in a fried motel microwave, and he wasn’t going to drop it anytime soon.
They needed it to kill Abaddon, and Dean wasn’t going to flake out. Even with Cain’s piercing gaze, his rumbled, ominous warnings of the consequences the Mark carried, Dean wasn’t going to back down. And he didn’t. He accepted the consequences with the faith that the punishment it held could be discounted and handled later. A different time.
The Mark was a vicious thing. It was more than a mark, more than a brand from the biblical pits of Hell. It was sentient, pulsating underneath the abused skin of his forearm, beating rhythmically with the flow of his blood, tainting the images of his mind, corrupting his thoughts, demanding to be heard and loved and used. It reminded Dean of the pythons he’d seen in exotic pet stores, or when posing as a fish and wildlife official. The more Dean seemed to resist it, the tighter it choked his lungs, the harder it pushed, the more violent it seemed to throb against his veins.
He’d taken to covering it, losing his characteristic rolled sleeves to block the wretched thing from his sight, if only to give Cas and Sam a break from seeing the cursed brand on him, so they could pretend just a little bit longer that there was nothing wrong with him, and that they still had time to rid it from him. Dean was willing to spoon-feed them that illusion in any way he could. He had already given up on outliving the Mark.
Even more, since gaining the blemish, Dean’s disdain for being alone had turned into a revulsion. Everyone knew the Mark amplified feelings of violence and aggression, brutalizing his thoughts and turning his actions into something akin to indescribable savagery. No matter how many times Dean showered, he could still feel the blood and flesh sticking to his skin and trapped under his broken fingernails, the scent of fear and metal constantly stuck in his nose. The faces of the people he killed burned into his mind.
What many failed to notice, due to Dean’s overall change in demeanor and newfound irritability, was that the Mark amplified all. Instead of a weaseling poke in the back of his mind, being alone had turned hellish for Dean, stretching and dragging and agonizingly tight in his chest. He wasn’t left alone for any longer than normal, in fact, it had probably been less so since Sam and Cas were afraid of what he might do, and for good reason, but the feeling persisted, all the same, blanketing and choking every other emotion until Dean thought he might scream and bash his temples in with his fists.
Sometimes Dean wondered if the Mark was punishing him for not acting on its feral desires.
Sam was not to be gone much longer. He had left only half an hour or so prior, closing his laptop and insisting on a grocery run when Dean sauntered into the kitchen that morning, hair messed from disturbed sleep and half-dressed, pulling an old warm beer off the counter. Sam had encouraged Dean to try and eat something, a few slices of buttered toast or even just some broth, but with Dean’s half glance and beer dribbling from his top lip, Sam relented and grabbed the keys to Baby to head out for some “real food” for his brother to choke down, which probably meant a damn omelet or a salad.
Dean had been invited, Sam holding the jangly keys out to him, but Dean just sat down at the table, running a hand over his face and taking another swig of his beer. He wanted nothing more than to be with his brother, to take a joyride in his beloved car and buy whatever the hell Sam wanted to eat, even that damned veggie bacon he liked, but Sam was going to have to learn to be without him soon enough, and Dean felt far too tired to lug his way up the stairs and peruse the streets with Baby. Sam may ride the brakes too hard, but soon, Sam would be the only one riding her.
“Will you be ok by yourself?” Sam asked tentatively, keys still out, his face annoyingly concerned and soft like Dean would break with a few wrong words. “Maybe Cas..”
“Dude, I’m not four. I don’t need a babysitter.” Dean had said, a bit harsher than he meant, kicking himself when Sam’s eyes faltered ever so slightly, and his brother pocketed the keys with a nod. Dean wished he wasn’t such an ass all the time.
Cas was out, looking for a cure for Dean’s blasted curse, and he wasn’t going to pull the poor, dorky sod from whatever adventure he was on to watch him while Sam picked up food. Dean would manage. Dean always managed. And Sam would be back soon, trying to coax healthy food down his throat in an attempt to keep the Mark at bay just a little bit longer, and Dean would begrudgingly let him, if only to make Sam smile a little bit and give him a bit of hope.
It was selfish, he knew that, but Sam rarely smiled these days, and if eating healthy rabbit food would grant Dean that, he would indulge.
Dean sat at the bunker table, map of the world peaking between swaths of wrinkled papers and old lore books with broken spines, remnants of Sam’s early morning research on Cain’s Mark. There was a small spot across from Dean that was cleared, where Sam had sat prior to leaving, his brother’s old laptop pushed between the piles of paper and scrawled spells, and an old plate of eggs half eaten in the corner.
Dean drummed his fingers against a leatherbound book, rolling the last bits of warm liquid in his beer bottle into a small whirlpool, trying to ignore the dull thrumming of the Mark underneath his patterned shirt. It itched for something, the premonitions that had plagued his sleep not enough to satisfy its hunger for death, and Dean gritted his teeth, clinking his bottle against the table in newfound vexation.
The deep, dark loneliness was growing in his chest, cold and clutching the longer Dean ignored the pulsing seal, and Dean closed his eyes, digging his fingers into the brown glass of his bottle, trying to stave off the painful warmth in the back of his throat, pushing his tongue to the roof of his mouth. The more he ignored the Mark, the harder it tried, filling Dean’s head with flashing images of his nightmares the night before and of what he was capable of.
He had begged Cas to take the Mark from him. In a moment of weakness, he had begged for a solution, for a bit of angelic power to scrub him clean and save him from a doomed fate, but Cas had only given a sad shake of his head and explained it was out of his power to do anything. When all else had failed, Dean had hoped that Cas might have been enough, and his knees had almost buckled with cold dread when even his angel friend could do nothing.
In a fit of barely concealed hysteria, Dean had suggested cutting out the Mark, sloughing it off his skin, but Cas had hurriedly explained that the Mark was merely a physical aspect of the curse, and cutting it off would do nothing. It would not rid Dean of the images that tormented him, and it would not wash away the feelings of savagery Dean tried so hard to keep under wraps.
That was when the last bit of hope Dean had clung to dissipated and he concluded he was a monster.
Dean let out a shaky gasp, an ache starting to gnaw at his clenched hand, and he leaned forward in his seat, elbows digging into the smooth glass, rubbing his face with his hands, swallowing back a strangled sob. He wanted so badly to be cured. He wanted so badly to go back to who he was, to wash his hands of all that he had done possessed by the Mark, but the whole situation was hopeless. He could never be who he was before the Mark, and he could never forgive himself for what he had done while under its influence.
The memory of Sam holding his face, begging Dean to tell him that it was them or him, when he walked into a massacre and a pile of bodies around him, covered in a scary amount of blood flashed through him, and Dean felt sick. Sam’s face, his baby brother’s face, had been broken, and Dean hated himself for it.
If it was plausible, Dean would have offed himself already. To him, a bullet straight to the skull was better than living with the wretched thing defacing his forearm, but the Mark couldn’t even grant him the luxury of death, so desperate to be alive it would bring him back as a demon, a dreaded Knight of Hell, and Dean would not selfishly curse his baby brother with the burden of a demon brother, nor risk the people he would hurt while sporting black eyes.
So instead, he would sit and suffer, and let his family try to cure him until he was too dangerous to be around, and then he would lock himself away from the world until the end of time.
I don’t want that, the childish part of Dean’s mind nagged. I don’t want this. I want to be cured.
Dean hissed, digging his palms into his eyes, trying to shove back both tears and disparaging thoughts. He needed to accept this. He needed to accept his fate. Dean never deserved to be saved, and there was no reason he should wail and whine about it now that it was looming towards him. Salvation was never something that had been written into his gospel, and it was never something that would be read.
The feeling of longing deepened, numbingly empty, and a tear escaped from behind Dean's hand, slipping down his cheek and into the cuff of his flannel shirt. He did not want to suffer. He did not want to carry this burden. Dean wanted to live.
With a sudden fury, Dean slammed his fists into the glass, pain sparking up in the tough part of his hand. The Mark quivered with excitement at his outburst, urging him.
“Dammit!”
His voice was hoarse and warbled, another tear slinking down his freckled cheek, and he angrily wiped it away. The Mark pulsed, ever so encouraging, and his thoughts were spiraling, spiraling into despair and anger and bitterness and fear. Fear of himself, fear of what he could do, fear over the fact that he could not be saved.
Dean was so, so afraid.
Dean didn’t want to suffer anymore.
He had put on a facade, a show of nonchalance and faith that his family would save him, but it was breaking. Splintering, cracking, shattering with each false turn, false lead and hope, and a letdown at every possible solution.
There was a ringing in his ears, and Dean screwed his eyes tighter, fingernails digging into his temples, trying to swallow back the overwhelming, clawing hopelessness he felt. Pain sparked in his temples where his fingernails sliced into his skin, and he clutched harder, trying to distract himself with anything to rid himself of the ringing, of the hurt and fear and pain and the Mark.
A blood-spattered image flashed through his head, of someone’s purple, red-smeared face with bugged-out eyes bathing his thoughts, his hand wrapped so tight around the person's throat he could feel the grating of their broken larynx, hands desperately smacking against his, the Mark of Cain beating excitedly as the life went out of the person's eyes, and their head lolled to the side, and Dean’s soaked hands let go as they crumpled to the ground.
Dean jumped to his shaking feet, chair smacking to the ground behind him with a loud clatter, banging the butt of his palm against his forehead, trying to wash nasty projections from his brain. It had not yet happened, the Mark was nasty like that, showing him bloodcurdling images to drag him further into the dark, and the ringing increased to an earsplitting volume, and Dean let out a sob, trying to crush his ears in between his hands in an attempt to block the noise.
He needed it gone. He needed the Mark gone, and he didn’t care how.
Amid his growing hysteria, Dean caught sight of his beer bottle, knocked over from his earlier outburst, liquid dribbling from the lip and onto an old piece of paper, the puddle slowly growing as the paper soaked up the stuff. With shaking feet, Dean stumbled forward, ringing picking up to a nearly unbearable octave, leaning nearly all his weight into his aching wrists as he hunched over the table.
Maybe Cas was wrong. Maybe the Mark could be cut out. Maybe if Dean peeled it from his skin, the ringing would stop and the blood would rid from the corners of his brain and it would be over.
And even if it didn't, maybe the pain would be enough to distract.
With a trembling hand, Dean gripped the bottle, the smooth, warm glass a direct contrast to the whirlwind in his mind.
“Sammy?” he choked out, looking around with his blurred eyes. He didn’t need Sam to see this. He didn’t want Sam and his practicality to try and talk him down.
Satisfied when he got no response, and reassured that he wasn’t yet home, Dean smashed the bottle against the side of the table, and it shattered with a piercing screech, glass spilling across the ground and amidst the scattered papers. Dean dropped to his knees, letting go of the neck of the bottle, sifting through the broken glass on the floor for a suitable piece. His hands burned as the glass cut across his palms, and blood speckled the glass covered floor, but he couldn’t bring himself to worry as his head started to pound.
Then, his fingers graced against a sharp piece near the leg of the table. It was thick and triangular, serrated at the end, and with bloodied fingers, Dean picked the piece up off the floor and studied it briefly. He dug the tip of his pointer into the tip of it, and when blood spurted from the slice and pain shot down his hand, Dean nodded to himself, satisfied with his choice.
Sitting back down on his haunches, legs crossed, Dean hastily undid the button on his flannel, tugging his sleeve down to expose the Mark of Cain. He swore he could see it beating against his skin, hot and angry, throbbing in tune with the ever-increasing ringing. It was furious and bitter, and Dean didn’t care. He didn’t care how much his hands stung, or how angry his curse was. He wanted it gone. He had almost a drunken giddiness at the idea of causing the Mark such panic. It was afraid, he believed. Afraid that Dean would deface it, and so it was tormenting him, trying to get in his head and burst his eardrums.
Dean would not let it.
Dean tightened his grip around the piece of glass, blood welling around his palm and through his grasp as the sharp edge cut into his palm, bringing the piece down against the Mark. The tip of it brushed the raised bump, and Dean dragged it across, splitting the skin as he traced the shape. The Mark roared, and pain pricked across his forearm, bathing his mottled skin in a bright, lingering ache as blood pounded in his head.
Once a thin, bleeding line was drawn across his arm, and the Mark still pulsated, Dean dug the glass deep into his skin and underneath the blemish.
White, hot pain erupted in Dean’s arm, and he cried out, nearly losing his grip on the glass. Dark, crimson blood spurted up from the divet, and Dean groaned, screwing his eyes shut as the blood made the glass slippery, his fingers losing their grip on his piece. Out of sheer panic about messing up, and being unable to finish his task, Dean drove the piece deeper underneath his skin, trying to pull it forward to scrape off the curse.
His skin screamed in protest, ripping and peeling, bathed in warm blood and tears as Dean tugged at the buried glass, over and over again, pulling his skin up from his arm. Dean let out a muffled screech as the force became too much, and the glass snapped in half, leaving one end buried in his arm and the other caught in his palm. A roll of sliced skin flopped over, cut off from the rest, and Dean grabbed at the slippery, fleshy bit with his fingernails, tears streaming down his face, trying to rip the Mark off his arm.
The ringing blocked everything out by this point.
Hand sticky with blood, covered in glass, Dean ripped at the dissected piece of skin, flesh catching in his fingernails, hot, harrowing agony throbbing as threads of skin snapped and tore, as the divet in his arm grew longer and the Mark began to peel away. Despite the blinding pain, the shocking agony, and the rolling of his stomach, a sort of crazed delight began to overcome him, and Dean clawed at himself with newfound energy.
The Mark was coming off.
Dean’s arm was coated in blood, the stuff spurting and shooting from every new crevice he opened, shiny with tiny pieces of glass that had been caught deep inside as he withered around the ground in pain. His heart was ramming against his ribs, his breathing heavy and hot, and Dean gave a final tug to the floppy piece of skin.
With a final shriek pulled from the back of his abused throat, a burst of sharp, tortuous pain flaring across his arm, the piece tore from its desperate latching to his skin, and Dean’s stomach flipped over, and he craned to the side, abdominal muscles contracting in a tight, hot dance of pain.
He retched.
He tried to push himself upwards, but his ruined arm could hold no weight, and the ground was too slippery with blood from him to get a good hold, and he gasped, crashing back down into the mess of glass, skin, and blood as bile dripped from his teeth and burned his tongue. His chin hit the ground, a sharp pain blossoming as his it cracked against the ground and the skin split.
His stomach rolled again, and Dean’s vision swarmed as he tried to stand, vomit spilling out his mouth as his stomach muscles pulled together, forcing the mix of stomach acid and half-digested beer from his belly, falling and mixing with the concation below him. Dean’s mouth and nose burned with the acidic stuff, and he slipped into the mess, falling into the puddle below him with a garbled, keening cry.
It soaked into the front of his shirt, and Dean gasped, the throbbing in his split arm picking up as he tried to move, screeching in protest as he tried to bend it, to right himself, to pull himself up from the mess he had created. His thoughts were barely intelligible as he struggled upwards, body slick with vomit and blood, blinded by pain and the wretched hope that his Mark was gone for good.
The ringing hadn’t yet ceased.
Dean’s arm shook uncontrollably as he rolled himself over, limps flopping uncoordinatedly as he shuffled away from his sick. His face was slick with sweat and tears, his eyes burning as he fought back a wave of sobs, body hot and light and trembling. Only one thought filled his mind now that he had finished the job.
I have to get up. Sammy can’t see me like this .
With the Mark cut from him, Dean pulled in a shaking breath, coughing as his stomach rolled over again, threatening to put him through another bout of retching if he continued to move. Hot, blinding pain radiated from his arm, and he found it was shaking too much to move, seizing and twitching on the ground beside him. He lay gasping for air, eyes blurred with tears, the salty drops cutting tracks through his dirtied face, trying to mask together half-baked thoughts on how he was going to hide this from his brother.
“Dean?!”
Dean blinked, struggling to push himself upward, shaking his head as it cracked back down onto the hardwood as his elbow slipped into the mess below him. The voice was loud, high above him, causing his head to pulsate and throb, but he reorganized it. It broke through the pain and roaring of the Mark.
“Dean!”
“Sammy?” Dean mumbled thickly, fighting past the lump in his throat. A bit of panic sparked in his chest as quickened footsteps broke through the ringing. No, Sam couldn’t be here. Dean had to pick himself up and fix himself before he got back.
His panic only grew as a blurred face crossed his vision, dark hair swaying slightly as Sam appeared beside him, his hands coasting Dean’s cheeks. “Dean? Oh God, Dean, what did you do? What happened?”
Dean shook his head lazily at the frightened tone, Sam’s calloused hands enveloping his face. “No, Sam, no,” he moaned, trying once again to push himself up. He coughed, throat convulsing as his stomach tried to throw up once again, and Sam removed one of his hands from Dean’s face, cradling his head like an infant while he used the other to ease him downward.
“No, Dean, stop. Stop.” He urged, lowering his voice to a softer, calmer tone, keeping a hand on Dean’s heaving chest. “Stay down.”
“Sammy…”
“Dean, what did you do?” Sam murmured as Dean gagged again, vision going in and out. “Dean?”
“The…Mark,” Dean choked out, eyes blurring, trying to meet Sam’s wide, hazel eyes. “Hadda… get rid of it.”
Dean wheezed, and Sam’s expression dropped, and Dean wished he could slap himself. His breath was catching, vision going in and out, images blurring together into one watery mess.
He felt his head being lifted as his eyes fluttered closed, and something warm pressed against his cheek. He blinked his eyes half open, head pounding, to see his little brother’s gentle face twisted with pain and worry, eyes scanning. Guilt plunged deep into Dean’s stomach.
“Sam…” he warbled, warm blood running down his arm as Sam shifted him, and he winched. “Mhm fine, Sammy.”
“Shhh, Dean, it’s alright. You’re going to be ok.”
Dean furrowed his eyebrows, trying to pick his head up. It was his job to reassure Sam, not the other way around. This whole thing was his fault. He tried to speak again, but his tongue fumbled, and Sam’s voice was distant and cloudy when he spoke again.
“I've got you, Dean. You’re going to be ok.”
***
Warm water surrounded Dean when he woke again.
He hadn’t even noticed he had gone out until his frazzled mind came too once more, though the word was still fuzzy and blurred, and his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, his eyes were half-lidded, and he felt too tired to open them fully.
He was aware of water, water at a warm, soothing temperature, swaddling his legs and chest, soft and comforting and grounding. He shifted slightly, trying to twitch his arm, but there was a hand on his chest, stopping him, and Dean blinked lazily, trying to make out the personage in his peripheral vision.
“S'alright.” The voice rumbled, deep and quiet. “Stay still.”
Dean knew the voice to be Sam’s, and without a second thought, he stilled, allowing Sam to pour water over his head and through his hair, fingers moving against his face and scalp. He sighed, smacking his lips, and tiredness tugged at his brain as Sam kept a hand on his chest, supporting him, speaking soft words he couldn’t quite make out but was reassuring nonetheless.
Dean tried to remember what had happened, tried to recognize what was going on, but his mind was so muffled all he could really recognize was the sound of Sam’s voice and the soothing comfort of the water around him. His body ached, and his arm twitched with sparks of dull pain, and when Sam washed the water over his face, it stung, and he twisted away, a quiet sound escaping his lips.
“It’s just me, Dean. Just cleaning you up.”
Cleaned up? Why did he need to be cleaned up? Dean wanted to protest against it, insisting he was fine and he didn’t need someone cleaning him like a toddler, that was his job anyway, but when he tried to complain, the words came out slurred and mashed, and Sam chuckled. Dean wanted to scowl, but he couldn't get his facial muscles to cooperate.
The smell of spearmint hit his nose, and something cold started to be massaged into his head, and Dean grumbled, blinking his eyes. The spearmint was Sammy’s special, precious shampoo, and he didn’t want him prattling to him later about Dean using his expensive soap. Dean’s clouded brain took a minute to put together that it was Sam using the shampoo, not him, and it was unlikely he’d be yelled at for such a thing.
The shampoo dripped from his head and down his temples as Sam carded his fingers through his brother’s hair, and Dean winched as a soft sting began to rise from underneath his skin. Why was he hurting again? Why did his body ache? What had happened to him?
“Sorry, Dee,” Sam murmured, the nickname slipping from in between his teeth as he washed the soap from his face. His hand came down to pat his cheek gently.
Dean couldn’t remember the time he had been handled so softly. Sam’s hands were tender, warm, and careful as he washed away whatever Dean had stuck to his skin, and he found himself relishing in the contact. Dean knew that if it had been any other circumstance, if he hadn’t been swathed in whatever had dulled his thoughts and senses, he would have never allowed it. Dean was the comforter, always had been, and not the comforted.
Whether it had been his mother before she died, reassuring her that it would all be ok, or his father when he came home drunk off his ass and screaming about his wife, or when Sammy sobbed as a baby and Dean held him close and whispered words of comfort to him, rocking him and sleeping with him, and when he was older, consoling him after another screaming match with his father, Dean had been the one to mediate it all.
That’s all Dean was good for.
His mind began to slip back into the dark underneath Sam’s soft touch, the water soothing his aching muscles, and Dean’s eyes lazily began to slink closed as Sam washed the shampoo from his hair, water cascading over Dean’s bare shoulders. Sam’s hand found his cheek again, and Dean leaned into the calloused palm, a deep breath leaving his lungs as the water lulled him back to sleep.
The next time Dean woke, he was much more aware, and instead of rousing to the soothing lull of water, it was too sharp a sting of pain in his right arm, and he groaned, trying to tug himself away from the sensation. A hand grasped his wrist, keeping him from moving, and Dean twisted his head to the right, narrowing his eyes at the figure hunched over him, right arm sprawled out in his lap.
“Hold on, Dean. I gotta get this glass out.”
“Sammy?” Dean groaned again, raising his free arm to rub his face, temples throbbing with a dull headache. He blinked his eyes open slowly, wincing at the dull light flickering above him, and took in his surroundings, scanning the dull ceiling, door half ajar, and the copious amount of medical supplies that had been piled on a nightstand that had been pulled over to the side.
He was in Sam’s room, he noticed, recognizing the messy desk and books tossed about, Sam’s blanket tucked around his form, and a thick pillow supporting his neck. Sam himself was hunched over him, tweezers in hand, his blunt fingertips pulling back Dean’s open wound, eyebrows furrowed in pure focus as he lowered the utensil and dip the tips into Dean’s arm. Dean balked, a hiss escaping his mouth, and Sam tugged out a shiny piece of glass, holding a bit of bloodied tissue to Dean’s arm.
“You with me, Dean?” Sam asked, reaching forward to feel Dean’s forehead. Dean blinked, nodding his head, flinching as Sam patted his wound. He looked down at himself, seeing Sam’s blanket tucked around his legs and hips, and clean shirt and pants peeking through the gaps. Dean sighed, relieved that he was no longer covered in vomit, then froze once the realization hit him.
“Holy shit.” He whispered, shutting his eyes, hoping that he was dreaming.
No, no, no, no.
“Dean? You alright?” Sam inquired, a nervous tint to his voice.
“Holy shit.” Dean repeated, patting his clean shirt with his free hand, ignoring the scrapes that adorned it. His shirt was clean. His pants were clean. His hair was washed and slightly damp.
“Dean, what’s wrong?” Sam pushed, clearly worried but also slightly irritated by his brother’s antics.
“I’m in clean clothes.”
Sam furrowed his eyebrows. “Yes. You were covered in vomit and blood. I wasn’t going to haul you into my room without cleaning you up.”
Dean blanched, horror creeping into his brain. “You bathed me.” he stated, fuzzy memories of spearmint and warm water starting to crop up.
“Yes Dean, I did.”
“Oh my god.”
“It’s not that big a deal, Dean. We bathed together as kids.” Sam assured, going back to his plucking. Dean did not understand why he was so calm about the situation. “Don’t you remember that time I broke my hand and you washed my hair?”
Dean did remember. Sam’s dominant hand was snapped during a hunt and he was having an incredibly difficult time keeping his cast dry while washing with his other hand. Dean had stepped in without a second thought and helped scrub his hair of blood and dirt.
“That’s different.” Dean insisted, trying to shove down embarrassment as more blurred memories rose to the surface.
“It’s really not,” Sam said, removing another chunk of glass. “You passed out, and I helped you. You weren’t in a state to do it yourself, and I wasn’t going to let you stew in your own juices. You don’t need to be embarrassed.”
Dean cringed. He did not need that mental image of himself covered in sick, and Sam dumping him in the bath and hosing him off, and dressing him in clean clothes. “Sam, please.”
“Please what?” he asked, a shadow of a grin on his face.
“Please don’t ever mention this again.”
“Sure, Dean.”
Despite Sam’s little brother's petulance, he would not cross a line if it was drawn, and Sam knew that taking advantage of Dean’s vulnerable state to tease him later was cruel rather than funny. For that, Dean was grateful. He did not need this brought up at family dinners, and he especially did not need this lording over his head in the future.
Sam continued to preen Dean’s wound, swirling the blood-tipped tweezers around his gash. Dean had his fair share of wound-cleaning experience, going as far as to stick his hands straight into them, but there was something about watching those tweezers deep into him that made him feel sick, and he instead focused on the wall behind Sam, letting out a pained groan when Sam grabbed onto a particularly stuck piece and felt stands of flesh snap.
“That hurts like a bitch.” He rasped, clucking his tongue, and Sam gave a rueful chuckle.
“You gotta lotta glass in it. Haven’t even hit the big piece yet.”
“Lovely.” Dean sighed, pushing his head into the pillow. A thought nagged in the back of his mind, and he swallowed, staring up at the ceiling. “What’s it look like?”
“Like you took a piece of broken glass to your arm, Dean. What else would it look like?” Sam scoffed, going back to digging around in the wound.
Normally, Dean would have shot back with an equally sarcastic retort, but now, he didn’t have it in him. Memories of what happened before he passed out were all too clear, the blood, the desperation, shoving the glass into his skin, and Dean felt foolishly small. “I mean,” he mumbled, turning his head away from Sam, wincing as he tugged out another piece. “The Mark. Is it still there?”
Dean hadn’t gotten a good look at the wound on his arm, but what he could remember from his hysteria-induced state was not good. If he pondered on it a bit too hard, he could still feel the slimy bit of skin he had clawed off with his fingers, and he had to resist the urge to shudder.
Sam rubbed along the edge of Dean’s wound, patting it dry of antiseptic and blood with practiced fingers. “It’s still there, Dean,” he said slowly, kindly, giving Dean’s wrist a grounding squeeze. “You cut it off, but it's still there. It just came back in a slightly different spot.”
“Thought so,” Dean said, voice tight as he blinked away the threat of tears, looking back up at the ceiling. “Cas did say cutting it off wouldn’t work.”
The tweezers were back in his arm, little sparks of pain shooting up his veins, though Sam kept his hand still and extraordinarily careful. “What happened, man? I know you didn’t just go at your arm for shits and giggles.”
Dean sighed, mulling it for a moment. He knew that slicing open his arm with a broken beer bottle would do nothing to stall the advancement of the Mark. He knew that nothing they found would cull the effects it held, and nothing they researched or studied would solve his problem. So, why had he peeled his skin off with his own fingers, to the point where he vomited from the pain of it? Why did he dig at his skin until the glass broke and his arm was slick with blood?
“Think I had a freak-out, Sammy.”
It was the most water downed explanation he could give, and Dean simply had no other idea how to describe it.
Sam gave a scoff, but there was no malice behind it. “I’ll say.”
“How bad is it?” Dean asked, building up the courage to look at his little brother, whose face was soft and mournful.
Sam cocked his head, gently probing the tips of the wound. “Gotta shitton of glass in it, and it’s messy, but it’ll be fine with some stitches.” He took the tweezers, gripping onto the large piece of glass that had broken off in his arm. “How’d this one get in here?”
“Snapped,” Dean answered simply, and Sam nodded, fiddling with the piece. Dean jerked his arm back at the sharp piece caught at a piece of loose skin as Sam tugged at it, and he gave him an apologetic look. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Dean reassured tightly. “My own fault.”
“Shouldn’t have left you alone.”
“Sammy, c’mon, don’t talk like that.” Dean let out a breath, rubbing his jaw. This wasn’t his brother’s fault. This was actually the furthest thing from his fault. “You didn’t know.”
Sam’s gaze went hard, and he paused in his fiddling. “I shoulda known.”
Dean didn’t know what to say to that, and with Sam being a stubborn ass, he said nothing, the swelling feeling of guilt settling in the pit of his stomach. His brother shouldn’t have had to see him like that. Hell, his brother shouldn’t have had to pick him up and bathe him and carry him to his room and pluck glass from a wound he caused.
Imma shitty older brother, Dean thought to himself, cursing internally.
‘I’m sorry, Sammy.” He said after a moment of silence, guilt seeping into his tone.
To his surprise, Sam paused, looking shocked. He gripped Dean’s wrist with a gentle but stern force, widening his eyes in a serious expression. “Dee, don’t be sorry. It’s not you, it's the Mark. And we’re going to fix it, ok? This is just a bump in the road. I won’t let it happen again.”
Dean gave a rueful grin. “You shouldn’t have to take care of me.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “You’re my big brother, Dean. I’ll always take care of you.”
Dean’s heart warmed at his words, a soft, happy feeling bubbling up in his chest, and he swallowed against his sore throat, looking back up at the ceiling. “Alright, enough chick flick moments.” He said, giving Sam a sly grin. “Bitch.”
Sam huffed. “Jerk.”
They lapsed into silence then, Sam continuing to pluck shards of glass from Dean’s arm, Dean occasionally letting out a muffled curse and jerking away. The big chunk of glass was a bitch to get out, and Sam had to dig around a while to make sure nothing was left behind before a fresh tissue to the divet in his arm, soaking up the blood that dislodged once the glass was removed.
Once Sam deemed the wound free of glass, he doused it in antiseptic and coated it in the ointment, before rubbing his fancy lidocaine cream into the skin around his arm before stitching. Any other time, Dean would’ve insisted in just stitching so he wouldn’t have to wait for his skin to numb up, but with how much his head pounded, and how much sweat had gathered on his brow from the cleaning, along with Sam’s stubborn face and nothing to do, he let Sam go through the motions of rubbing circles in his arm.
While he numbed up, Sam moved to his hands, removing all the little shards that had wiggled their way into his skin during his freak-out in the midst of the shattered beer bottle. Sam washed, plucked, cleaned, and bandaged each of the wounds, covering Dean in so many wrappings he looked like a mummy, rolling his eyes when Dean pointed out he didn’t want to be mummified on his deathbed. Sam told him to stop being dramatic and that he wasn’t on his deathbed.
Dean let him believe if only to enjoy a moment with his brother.
When Sam could poke at Dean’s arm with little pain, he set to work with a thin needle and black thread, running the stuff across the wound and cinching it closed. Even Dean had to admit it was nice for once to get stitches and not cringe every time the needle snuck under his skin and pulled his flesh together. Sam then wrapped up his arm, brushing his hands and proclaiming Dean was done with his treatment.
“Thanks, Mom,” Dean said with a wink when Sam had finished and moved to cleaning up the used supplies, wrapping all the bloodied glass bits in tissue.
“Shut your mouth.” Sam spit back, tossing excess into a bag as he pushed himself up from the bed. “Can you sit up?” He asked, giving him a side glance.
‘“Course I can.” Dean grumbled, pushing himself upwards with a little more shaking than he wanted, his wrapped arm buckling slightly under his weight. He rested his head against the headboard, licking his lips. “See? Don’t needa bothersome nurse.”
“Good.” Sam didn’t even spare him a glance, tossing the last bit of trash into the bag, and Dean felt a bit offended. “Stay there. I’m gonna make you something to eat.”
“It better not be one of your stupid salads!” Dean called as Sam trudged out of his room, slamming the door behind him.
“You’ll eat it if it is!” Sam shouted back, voice tinged with irritation.
It turned out not to be a salad or some sort of health freak meal, but a bowl of broth Sam had purchased on his grocery run, and Dean couldn't help but feel like it was payback for not eating breakfast that morning and instead choosing to gulp down an old bottle of beer. Granted, it was also probably Sam’s way to make sure he ate something after vomiting his guts out, and to make sure he didn’t unsettle his stomach. But still.
Sam, bowl of soup in hand, elbowed Dean the ribs, shoving him with his knees until Dean shimmed over on the bed, leaving enough room for Sam’s towering form to slink in and tuck himself next to Dean. Dean wondered when his little brother had gotten so stupidly big and why he always insisted on being right next to Dean when he got hurt. He remembered once when he got stabbed between his ribs and Sam wouldn’t leave his side for two weeks.
Dean put on a grumbling show of annoyance but he honestly didn’t mind his brother being close. He liked it when Sam wanted to be near him, even if they were simply doing their own thing in each other's presence.
What he DID mind was Sam trying to spoon feed him like he was an invalid.
“I can feed myself, Sam.” Dean hissed when his brother shoved the spoon in his face, trying to push him away with his bandaged hands. “Get that outta my face.”
Sam pulled a face, shoving the spoon closer. “Eat, Dean. You haven’t eaten in days and you threw up everything else.”
“I’ll eat if ya give me the damn spoon!”
“Open your big mouth and drink the soup, jerk.”
“Stop tryin’ to feed me! I’m notta kid!”
“Yes, I know, Dean.” Sam huffed, dunking the spoon back in the bowl and getting a fresh spoonful of broth. “But your hands are screwed to high hell and I don’t want you to open anything.”
Dean rolled his eyes with a sneer. “I ain’t gonna hurt my hands by eating, Sam. Give me the spoon.”
He expected another argument, another sassy retort, but instead, Sam just sighed, slumping his shoulders, looking both exasperated and a little endeared. “Dean, just let me help you. Please.”
Dean wanted to protest, insist on feeding himself, and he knew he could win that argument easily and put his foot down, and Sam would relent and watch him like a hawk while he shakily dumped the steaming stuff into his mouth, but there was something about his brother’s face, something about his eyes that made the argument die on his tongue, and gave an annoyed snort.
“Fine,” He said, giving in, and relief washed over Sam’s face. “But you better not speak of this to anyone.”
Sam nodded. “Deal.”
And so he let Sam feed him sips of broth, at a painstakingly slow pace, careful to keep anything from spilling and splashing onto his sleep shirt. It took much longer than if Dean had just fed himself, but Dean found himself being less and less annoyed by the choice when Sam’s face slowly morphed from worried to content, looking incredibly proud of himself that he had managed to convince his brother to accept some semblance of help and care.
Once Dean had eaten as much as he could without making himself sick, Sam passed him a couple of bills and a bottle of water to chug down to help with his headache and the dull ache of his wounds. Sam also gave him something for infection, as a precaution, he said, in case the assortment of ointments and creams slathered on his wounds wasn’t enough.
When Sam left to dump the dishes in the sink, Dean snuggled down into the blankets, content to sleep off the medication while Sam languised over the bunker’s online archives and digging into the Mark of Cain lore. When Sam slunk back in, Dean thought maybe it was because he had forgotten something, or perhaps to kick him out and into his own room, but instead, he plopped down next to Dean, shoving him to the side.
“The hell, man?” Dean grumbled, rolling over to face Sam. Sam merely opened his laptop and stretched out, crossing his legs over each other. The bed was small, and with Sam’s lanky form taking up half the bed, Dean had to press himself against his ribs to avoid being shoved off the edge.
“What?” Sam said, half paying attention as he scrolled through an article, eyes slightly narrowed as he read. “It’s my room.”
“YOU put me in here. Coulda shoved me in mine.”
Sam shrugged. “My room is closer to the bathroom. And you’re heavy. Lay off the junk food.”
Dean groaned, pressing himself deeper into the blanket, throwing it over his head. “Shut up, asshole. Don’t wiggle.”
Sam hummed nonchalantly, and Dean adjusted himself, back to the wall and head pressed against Sam’s ribs. Sam took his right arm and laid it across Dean’s shoulders, hand hanging off the edge, careful to remain still as Dean slowly lapsed into sleep, breathing deepening and leveling out as the time ticked on Sam’s computer.
Dean remained half aware for a while, walking the land between sleep and awareness, occasionally grumbling to himself and shifting when Sam moved, but even though he knew neither of them would speak of it in the morning, he was happy for the comfort, and the break in loneliness, that Sam provided.
If Dean was going to lose himself to the Mark of Cain, he wanted a couple of fond memories to hold onto.