The Runt of the Litter

Forty to Life

Note: hey my loves <3 disappeared again, i'm sorry

thanks so much for commenting and kudos-ing and all that stuff. i truly appreciate it. i hope everybody had a good holiday season with as little family drama as possible and as much love and peace as possible. the world's not too good at that sometimes.

here's a little post-Hell Dean snippet i wrote for literally no reason. he's in a bad place, and here's a TW for self-harm.

overall, this would be a triggering fic for anybody struggling with depression rn

i've not done a lot of deep looks at dean's brain. but it was therapeutically painful writing this so i may do it again

anyway, here's the story. anna is nine, but that's not as important this time

Forty to Life

Dean Winchester has never liked himself. But he can remember a time, if he thinks about it, that he was good. Not that Dean's definition of good lines up neatly with the conventional. It never has. But that's fine. Because he's never been able to coexist peacefully with convention, so why measure himself by it?

Has Dean ever been innocent? Not since he was four years old. Has he been kind? The word doesn't suit him. Has he been soft? Could never afford to be.

But for most of his life, Dean did his damn job. He kept his kids safe, let them be respectable, let them be kind and soft and innocent. He nurtured all the goodness in them that he was never allowed to have for himself, and he was good at it. And it was worth it. Because Sammy grew up with the strength to stand toe to toe with John fucking Winchester, and Anna astounded them all with her willingness to be comforted and to give that comfort back.

Dean's never liked himself. But he's spent a lot of time feeling like he did something right. Because he likes those two kids. Loves them too. But he likes them. He's never liked himself, sure as shit never loved himself either, but especially never liked himself. So seeing the goodness and taking just a little bit of credit? It was enough to keep him going for a long time.

Thing is, Dean's not good at that anymore. He wonders if he ever was.

Because Anna sits beside him with a coloring book, and as she peels a red crayon to make it last a little longer, Dean's thinking about the fingers he skinned in Hell. So he gets up and walks away as calmly as he can, but the second he finds a trashcan or a toilet, he's on his knees vomiting so violently that he pulls something in his neck.

He's never been good but he's always been able to see it. And he can't anymore.

Sam and Anna have a hard time looking at each other. It's the kind of thing Dean needs to fix if it's going to get better. He doesn't know how. He's forgotten how to live up here. And every time he looks at the date, he's reminded that he's spent more time in Hell than he has on Earth. A staggering truth, and if his siblings are there, he has to leave the room to cope with it.

Did he say cope? Maybe cope is the wrong word. Dean deals by carving words and lines into his skin. He knows he's a fuck-up, knows he should have quit this type of emo bullshit when he dropped out of high school. This shit is for weepy teenagers.

It makes him feel a thousand times worse. Because of course Alistair's star pupil would use torture as his panacea.

But it helps, okay?

He's beyond saving. He's known that since he was a kid. Hell, that's why he started cutting in the first place. But this? This is different. This is worse. This is inescapable. He was dead longer than he was alive. And now he's supposed to just go back to living?

He doesn't clean the cuts, doesn't cover them with bandages. He just makes sure not to take his flannel off or roll the sleeves above his elbow. He's never been a shorts guy, so no one wonders about his jeans or sweatpants.

There's a piece of Dean that doesn't even care. He's under no illusion that he's good at camouflage. Everyone can see it on him, everywhere he goes: he wears Alistair's brand like a crown of fucking thorns, and the blood drips in his eyes. He's sure he hardly looks human these days.

But it's for his siblings that he hides the fresh wounds. Anna's only nine. He doesn't have the first clue how he would explain this to her if she ever caught a glimpse. He'd have to lie through his teeth, pretend the blood is an accident. Anna wouldn't believe him– she's too smart for that. What Dean doesn't know is if she'd be more likely to lose faith in him or to copy him. Both ideas make him nauseous.

And Sammy? Sam already thinks Dean is weak. He's been the one person Dean can't fucking fool about the toll the Pit has taken on him. Sam doesn't let things go. He wouldn't ever let this go. He'd try to be the protector, try to take Dean's job away. Dean can't let him do that.

But it's okay. He's hidden this shit from Sam before– did it for years when they were kids. He's hidden it from Anna before, though she was younger then, easier to fool. Still, he can hide it from his siblings now too. He's used to this. He's used to lying.

He's used to disguising his own filth. He only hopes forty years basking in it hasn't left too many obvious stains.

()()()

Anna clings a lot these days. She glues herself to Dean's side, watches Sam with the same wary eyes she used to give their father. Sam doesn't even seem to notice.

It's all a bad fucking dream.

One day, Anna wakes Dean up crying in the middle of the night. He spends almost a full minute relearning how to breathe and another half of one redirecting his brain from images so vivid and disturbing they would have made Stephen King piss his pants.

"What's wrong?" he asks urgently when he finally gets his shit together. "What, Anna?"

She shakes her head and cries harder, turns away from him. And instead of wondering why she doesn't want him to see her cry, Dean's first thought is that Anna must have seen something ugly in him. He panics for a long five seconds, convinced for that short period that this little girl knows what kind of monster he's become.

Then he hears her speaking through the tears. "I'm sorry," she's saying. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Dean sits up, his entire body stiff and sore. "What are you talking about?" He catches her by the arms and hauls her easily up off her side. He's gentle, gentler even than he used to be. And he feels like a fucking loser being so afraid to break everything he touches, but he's not taking any chances with the few good things he has left.

Anna startles him by crawling into his lap and clinging to his neck. "I'm sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" Dean asks as exhaustion sweeps over him. He knows this dance by heart, but he's too tired to perform it gracefully. He holds Anna like she's ten times heavier than she is, says grimly, "You gotta tell me what you mean, Rugrat."

"Everybody's broken," Anna wails.

Dean shushes her solemnly, rocks the way he rarely did even when she was a baby. He doesn't say anything, doesn't tell her that he's okay or that Sam is. There's no point denying what she's figured out for herself. Anna cries until her body is too tired for more, and finally she falls asleep right there in Dean's lap.

In the morning, Dean hates himself for not lying like he should have. He spends the day pretending extra hard, even manages to draw Sam a little closer to them somehow. And at the top every hour, he finds a reason to slip away, pulls his knife out, and bleeds.

This is all he is now; no wonder Anna's noticed.

La Fin