The Shift -- 1/1
May. 28th, 2011 02:08 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
jennytork.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
hoodie_timeTitle: The Shift
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jennytork
Characters: Dean and Sam
Genre: Gen, h/c
Rating: PG
Warnings: AU set mid-season 1
Summary: “Dean,” Sam says, eyes hot. “Tell me it's not bad. Tell me we can fix it.”
Dean looks away.
And in that horrible moment - Sam knows. He knows.
Notes: Written for the Between the Lines Challenge. Prompt provided bydollarformyname.Prompt is in italics in the story.
Disclaimer: They ain't mine. And by the way I treat them, perhaps this is a good thing!
“Dean,” Sam says, eyes hot. “Tell me it's not bad. Tell me we can fix it.”
Dean looks away.
And in that horrible moment - Sam knows. He knows.
He drops his head into his hands and lets the tears come while his brother's turned away.
After all, it's not like Dean will ever be able to hear him cry again.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Every hunter either knew from the jump or learned along the way the same basic truths about the Hunt.
It was not a hobby, it was a life. You were either in it or you were out. It did not pay, and you were thought to be crazy unless you learned how to lie fast and convincingly.
And there was no retirement plan. There was no peaceful slide into oblivion. Old hunters were very few and far between. The majority of hunters died brutal, bloody, and young. Or they were incapacitated in a way that would not let them continue hunting safely, and had to leave the life.
With no other skills except the hunt, those who were raised in the life had the hardest time adjusting to "normal" if the latter scenario occurred.
Dean Winchester had always considered that he'd end up in the ranks of the dead young and bloody. He hadn't even considered the possibility that he might end up among the ranks of the incapacitated and cut out into normal life.
Yet, that's exactly the position he now finds himself in.
And the bitch of it all is that it didn't seem to start out as anything major! Dean came down with a cold after a successful salt-and-burn turned into the downpour from Hades before they reached the Impala. Sam had laughed it off, and then Dean had given him a bunch more material when he got sick.
Dean always said that Sam was a messy crier, all snot and tears -- but Dean was a mess when he got sick. He tended to fire fevers of alarming height but fortunately short duration. His nose turned into a faucet with a few washers stripped -- steady trickles of snot down his upper lip and into his throat, wrecking his already husky voice. His normally bright emerald eyes tended to turn to flat jade, glazed by mucous and fever. And it hurt -- it always seemed to settle in his joints and muffle the world around him.
The only problem was -- this time the world didn't un-muffle.
At first, it was funny. It was prime teasing fodder to ask Sammy to repeat himself and watch the bitchfaces.
But that got old, fast -- especially when Dean realised that it wasn't going away.
Sam didn't think much of it, at first. He just added it to the long list of teases that his big brother had pulled on him over the years. But then, things started adding up into a formula that Sam didn't like one bit.
Suddenly, Dean exclusively texted him. He never spoke on the phone anymore unless it was a rushed "Call ya right back" -- and the "call back" was always a text.
Suddenly, Dean seemed to be giving unusual scrutiny to people. He'd always been a people-watcher, but now it seemed to be an obsession at worst and a pre-occupation at best. He would just stare as if fascinated. And it wasn't just with Sam or with the people they'd interview -- it was with *everybody*.
Suddenly, there were no more porn websites clogging up their shared laptop. They seemed to be replaced by -- nothing, though the computer was warm from use. It was as though Dean was researching and covering his tracks.
Suddenly, Dean wasn't laughing at comedies any longer. He was just staring at the television, with that same expression of combined intense concentration and unspoken frustration that seemed to have become his default expression.
And he was so quiet that it began to worry Sam. When he did speak, it sounded strange -- as if he was putting great effort into keeping his voice steady. His speech was more precise, almost clipped, with the endings of words slowly becoming slurred or overly enunciated.
But somehow, Sam didn't put it all together until the morning he crashed into the dresser on the way back from the bathroom and knocked off the weapons duffel sitting there. It fell to the ground with a great cacophony of metal and wood hitting each other.
Dean had somehow slept through that horrific noise. Frowning, Sam went over and touched his shoulder lightly, calling his name.
And abruptly, Sam found himself on the wrong end of the hunting knife Dean kept under his pillow. The look on Dean's face was pure shock and clearly startled. He slowly lowered the knife and just stared at Sam.
His huge eyes trailed over and found the upended duffel, with the knives spilling out every which way. They roamed back to his brother, who was staring at him in pure horrified shock, hazel eyes huge and locked onto the knife he still held in his hand.
"Sammy?" Slowly, Sam raised his eyes back to lock onto Dean's. In that new, strangely precise way he now spoke, Dean half-whispered, "I think you need to take me in."
"Take you in?"
'I think you need to take me to the hospital, Sammy. I...."
"You what, Dean?" Sam asked when he seemed to break off.
Dean's eyes dragged from Sam's mouth to meet his eyes again. "I can't hear, dude."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Ever since he was a little boy, Dean had hated silence. Not speaking was one thing -- that was just part of him. And it was a part of him that Sam had never known him to be without. Things got bad, Dean went silent. That's just the way he was.
No, the silence that Dean hated was silence around him. Outside of him. He filled the emptiness with music and laughter and words inside his head.
Now, all there was was silence. Pressing on him like an obscene blanket. Covering him so completely that it seemed a struggle to draw breath.
So he half-lays on the hospital bed/gurney in the ER, his right hand sandwiched between both of his brother's huge hands. The contact helps. He feels like -- though he's not right in his line of sight -- his brother won't let anything bad happen.
But nothing can stop the diagnosis from stealing all the air in the room and making it impossible not to feel like he is drowning.
The cold had been what had made Dean notice -- but according to the tests, Dean had been steadily losing his hearing for quite some time. He had suffered too many blows to the head in the course of their eventful lives, and the hearing centre of his brain had just simply -- and slowly -- shut down.
“Dean,” Sam says, eyes hot. “Tell me it's not bad. Tell me we can fix it.”
Dean looks away.
And in that horrible moment - Sam knows. He knows.
He drops his head into his hands and lets the tears come while his brother's turned away.
Dean can sense Sam is crying. He wants to fix it. He wants to make it all better.
But there is no making this better. There is no fixing this.
There is no longer Dean Winchester, hunter of the supernatural.
Now, all there is is Dean Winchester -- deaf man.
And he is more scared of that than anything he has ever faced before.
END
Author:
jennytorkCharacters: Dean and Sam
Genre: Gen, h/c
Rating: PG
Warnings: AU set mid-season 1
Summary: “Dean,” Sam says, eyes hot. “Tell me it's not bad. Tell me we can fix it.”
Dean looks away.
And in that horrible moment - Sam knows. He knows.
Notes: Written for the Between the Lines Challenge. Prompt provided by
dollarformyname.Prompt is in italics in the story.Disclaimer: They ain't mine. And by the way I treat them, perhaps this is a good thing!
“Dean,” Sam says, eyes hot. “Tell me it's not bad. Tell me we can fix it.”
Dean looks away.
And in that horrible moment - Sam knows. He knows.
He drops his head into his hands and lets the tears come while his brother's turned away.
After all, it's not like Dean will ever be able to hear him cry again.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Every hunter either knew from the jump or learned along the way the same basic truths about the Hunt.
It was not a hobby, it was a life. You were either in it or you were out. It did not pay, and you were thought to be crazy unless you learned how to lie fast and convincingly.
And there was no retirement plan. There was no peaceful slide into oblivion. Old hunters were very few and far between. The majority of hunters died brutal, bloody, and young. Or they were incapacitated in a way that would not let them continue hunting safely, and had to leave the life.
With no other skills except the hunt, those who were raised in the life had the hardest time adjusting to "normal" if the latter scenario occurred.
Dean Winchester had always considered that he'd end up in the ranks of the dead young and bloody. He hadn't even considered the possibility that he might end up among the ranks of the incapacitated and cut out into normal life.
Yet, that's exactly the position he now finds himself in.
And the bitch of it all is that it didn't seem to start out as anything major! Dean came down with a cold after a successful salt-and-burn turned into the downpour from Hades before they reached the Impala. Sam had laughed it off, and then Dean had given him a bunch more material when he got sick.
Dean always said that Sam was a messy crier, all snot and tears -- but Dean was a mess when he got sick. He tended to fire fevers of alarming height but fortunately short duration. His nose turned into a faucet with a few washers stripped -- steady trickles of snot down his upper lip and into his throat, wrecking his already husky voice. His normally bright emerald eyes tended to turn to flat jade, glazed by mucous and fever. And it hurt -- it always seemed to settle in his joints and muffle the world around him.
The only problem was -- this time the world didn't un-muffle.
At first, it was funny. It was prime teasing fodder to ask Sammy to repeat himself and watch the bitchfaces.
But that got old, fast -- especially when Dean realised that it wasn't going away.
Sam didn't think much of it, at first. He just added it to the long list of teases that his big brother had pulled on him over the years. But then, things started adding up into a formula that Sam didn't like one bit.
Suddenly, Dean exclusively texted him. He never spoke on the phone anymore unless it was a rushed "Call ya right back" -- and the "call back" was always a text.
Suddenly, Dean seemed to be giving unusual scrutiny to people. He'd always been a people-watcher, but now it seemed to be an obsession at worst and a pre-occupation at best. He would just stare as if fascinated. And it wasn't just with Sam or with the people they'd interview -- it was with *everybody*.
Suddenly, there were no more porn websites clogging up their shared laptop. They seemed to be replaced by -- nothing, though the computer was warm from use. It was as though Dean was researching and covering his tracks.
Suddenly, Dean wasn't laughing at comedies any longer. He was just staring at the television, with that same expression of combined intense concentration and unspoken frustration that seemed to have become his default expression.
And he was so quiet that it began to worry Sam. When he did speak, it sounded strange -- as if he was putting great effort into keeping his voice steady. His speech was more precise, almost clipped, with the endings of words slowly becoming slurred or overly enunciated.
But somehow, Sam didn't put it all together until the morning he crashed into the dresser on the way back from the bathroom and knocked off the weapons duffel sitting there. It fell to the ground with a great cacophony of metal and wood hitting each other.
Dean had somehow slept through that horrific noise. Frowning, Sam went over and touched his shoulder lightly, calling his name.
And abruptly, Sam found himself on the wrong end of the hunting knife Dean kept under his pillow. The look on Dean's face was pure shock and clearly startled. He slowly lowered the knife and just stared at Sam.
His huge eyes trailed over and found the upended duffel, with the knives spilling out every which way. They roamed back to his brother, who was staring at him in pure horrified shock, hazel eyes huge and locked onto the knife he still held in his hand.
"Sammy?" Slowly, Sam raised his eyes back to lock onto Dean's. In that new, strangely precise way he now spoke, Dean half-whispered, "I think you need to take me in."
"Take you in?"
'I think you need to take me to the hospital, Sammy. I...."
"You what, Dean?" Sam asked when he seemed to break off.
Dean's eyes dragged from Sam's mouth to meet his eyes again. "I can't hear, dude."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Ever since he was a little boy, Dean had hated silence. Not speaking was one thing -- that was just part of him. And it was a part of him that Sam had never known him to be without. Things got bad, Dean went silent. That's just the way he was.
No, the silence that Dean hated was silence around him. Outside of him. He filled the emptiness with music and laughter and words inside his head.
Now, all there was was silence. Pressing on him like an obscene blanket. Covering him so completely that it seemed a struggle to draw breath.
So he half-lays on the hospital bed/gurney in the ER, his right hand sandwiched between both of his brother's huge hands. The contact helps. He feels like -- though he's not right in his line of sight -- his brother won't let anything bad happen.
But nothing can stop the diagnosis from stealing all the air in the room and making it impossible not to feel like he is drowning.
The cold had been what had made Dean notice -- but according to the tests, Dean had been steadily losing his hearing for quite some time. He had suffered too many blows to the head in the course of their eventful lives, and the hearing centre of his brain had just simply -- and slowly -- shut down.
“Dean,” Sam says, eyes hot. “Tell me it's not bad. Tell me we can fix it.”
Dean looks away.
And in that horrible moment - Sam knows. He knows.
He drops his head into his hands and lets the tears come while his brother's turned away.
Dean can sense Sam is crying. He wants to fix it. He wants to make it all better.
But there is no making this better. There is no fixing this.
There is no longer Dean Winchester, hunter of the supernatural.
Now, all there is is Dean Winchester -- deaf man.
And he is more scared of that than anything he has ever faced before.
END
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Date: 2011-05-28 09:10 am (UTC)Thank you for this fic!
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Date: 2011-06-30 06:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-28 03:24 pm (UTC)Beautiful work.
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Date: 2011-06-30 06:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-28 04:10 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2011-05-28 09:05 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2011-06-30 06:43 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2011-05-28 11:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-30 06:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-29 06:35 am (UTC)Poor Dean =(
More please??? =))
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Date: 2011-06-30 06:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-29 09:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-30 06:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-29 11:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-30 06:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-05-31 05:40 pm (UTC)Loved the last line: And he is more scared of that than anything he has ever faced before.
Would love to see this in a verse, or at least a multichapter.
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Date: 2011-06-30 06:45 am (UTC)Thank you for the compliment!
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Date: 2011-06-09 08:01 pm (UTC)no subject
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