penny-hearteyes - Tumblr blog

penny-hearteyes · 3 years

Text

Title: Old Wounds Summary: Dean finds your old scars (gender neutral) Rating: PG-13 for blood & language typical of SPN TW: discussion of previous self harm ***

The cut on my thigh was so deep, I could see the muscle move when I shifted. Dean tried to carry me into the motel room, but I refused, insisting all I needed was his shoulder to lean on.

When I got out of the car, my words came back to haunt me as I tried to put weight on my bad leg and nearly passed out on the spot. With slow, laborious steps, Dean and I gradually made our way into the motel and he eased me down to sit on the edge of the bathtub.

“Let me see,” he said.

Gingerly, he peeled aside the torn edges of my jeans. Thick splotches of blood plopped onto the bathroom floor. I flinched when his fingertips brushed my leg and I grabbed a fistful of his shirt.

“For Christ’s sake, Dean, don’t poke it,” I hissed through gritted teeth.

“I didn’t,” Dean protested.

“Just get me a first-aid kit. At the rate I’m losing blood, I’ll be unconscious in a few minutes.”

He twisted around, dragging the well-used first-aid kit off of the counter. When he set it on the toilet lid and fished out a needle and thread, I pushed against his shoulder.

“Out,” I said.

For a split second, Dean just stared at me until comprehension finally dawned on him.

“You can’t be serious,” he said.

“I can take care of myself,” I countered. “I’ve stitched up you and Sam more times than I can count.”

Dean huffed a laugh of disbelief. “It’s different taking a needle to someone else. When it’s your own leg...”

He glanced down at me. I was a bloody, sweaty, tired mess. The hunt had done a number on me and I was beyond exhausted. My arm trembled as I gripped the bathtub’s edge, fighting to stay awake and not sag to the floor.

“Dean,” I said. “In order to clean that cut properly, I’ll have to take off my pants. And I’m not doing that in front of you. Now get out.”

Dean clenched his teeth, jaw twitching. But in the end, he relented and rose to his feet, stepping out of the bathroom.

“If you need anything - “ he started.

“I’ll be fine, Dean.”

Reluctantly, he closed the door. Judging by the shadow under the door, I could tell he hadn’t budged.

With slow, careful movements, I worked my jeans off. Every shift sent a fresh lance of white hot agony through my leg. I bit the inside of my cheek and did my best to not make any noise. If I was too loud, Dean would insist on helping me and that was the last thing I needed right now. I didn’t have much strength left to argue with him.

I dug out the small bottle of rubbing alcohol from the first-aid kit and unscrewed the cap. As I held the bottle over my leg, my hand shook so violently that the liquid sloshed.

“This is gonna hurt like a son of a bitch,” I muttered.

Then I tipped the bottle over.

Fire. Excruciating, searing heat blazed through my leg. I tried to stay quiet but a scream tore out of me anyway. My good leg buckled, my arm gave way and I slid to the floor. Darkness crackled at the edges of my vision and in between one blink and the next, I felt myself falling.

But I blacked out before my head hit the ground.

***

I woke to soft sheets and a dull, pounding ache in my thigh. The room was a dull darkness - not the inky black of night, but faded shadows, warded off by curtains.

The click-clack of computer keys echoed from a corner of the room behind me. I turned my head to find Dean seated at his laptop, the screen’s light casting a pale glow over his face.

He must have heard me move because he glanced up in that moment.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” he said. “It’s good to see you conscious for the first time in twenty-four hours.”

I grunted in response. Then I frowned as my memories pieced themselves together.

“I don’t remember getting into bed,” I said.

Dean cleared his throat. “Because you didn’t. You passed out.”

Silence filled the room as I realized what that meant.

“Oh,” was all I said. I looked away from him, turning my gaze to the opposite side of the room.

Dean’s chair squeaked when he stood. The carpet softened his footsteps as he approached. A moment later, the bed dipped as he sat next to me.

“Don’t,” I said in a flat tone of warning.

“You know we need to talk,” Dean said gently.

“No we don’t.”

I pushed myself up, shaking my head. It was only then that I realized I wasn’t wearing pants. If I wanted to escape Dean and this conversation, I would have to march to the bathroom in my shirt and underwear. I could tolerate the humiliation better than the impending topic I did not want to discuss.

Dean said, “You don’t have to tell me anything - “

“Good. Because there’s nothing to tell.”

I shoved the sheets off and swung my legs over the side of the bed. But as soon as I stood, my injured leg buckled and I went down with a squawk of pain and indignation.

Dean swore under his breath, hurrying around the foot of the bed to help me up.

“Stop!” I said. “Just stop! Please. I’m fine.”

I clutched at the sheets, dragging them off of the bed to cover my bare legs. I felt more than a little vulnerable, not just because of my scant clothing but because Dean had seen me, witnessed what I never wanted anyone to witness.

Dean held up his hands in surrender but he didn’t leave, didn’t move away. Then he brushed his knuckles against my cheek. I closed my eyes at the contact, something trembling - dangerously close to breaking - deep inside me. My breath hitched and I bit the inside of my cheek in an attempt to regain my composure.

“I was hoping you’d just...tangled with a demon or werewolf or something,” Dean said, very, very quietly. “But you put those scars on your thighs, didn’t you?”

My throat felt thick and too tight to respond. So I just nodded. Once. Very small. I kept my gaze straight ahead, locked onto a spot of mold on the motel wall. I knew if I looked at Dean, I would crumble.

Slowly, Dean let his hand wander from my cheek to cradle the back of my head.

“I noticed the scars were old,” he said haltingly. “But...are there any new ones?”

I shook my head. Swallowed hard. My eyes prickled with tears. Would this change how he saw me? Would he lose respect for me because he thought I wasn’t stable enough, wasn’t strong enough to handle things anymore?

Dean eased himself to the floor, sitting beside me.

“Have you...talked to someone about this before? Have you told anyone?”

I managed to find my voice this time, hoarse and scratchy though it was.

“My mom,” I croaked.

Dean brightened slightly. “That’s good. I’m...I’m really glad you did that.”

“She said it was stupid.”

My words came out barely more than a pained breath. And then the stunned silence stretched and stretched, long and miserable.

It had happened years ago. I’d made my peace with it. Or so I thought.

But the emotions came bubbling up now. Hot and fast. Too quickly to tamp them down again. The tears started, sliding down my cheeks before I could stop them. And it was getting hard to breathe, as if I’d just run a marathon in two minutes flat as I heaved in giant gulps of air.

“I’m fine,” I choked out over and over, to convince myself more than Dean. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.”

Then Dean slipped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me into him, squeezing me so tight, I thought I’d burst. My fingers curled into his shirt and I buried my face in his chest, both relieved and mortified that he was here, seeing me fall apart like this.

Before I realized what I was doing, the words began to pour out of my mouth, rambling, babbling, barely coherent in between my sobs.

“I just wanted to be good enough, I wanted to punish myself. I wanted the hurt to stop. I thought I deserved it. And when I took it out on myself, it was easier to think - “

“Stop, stop, stop,” Dean said, his words spilling together. He cupped my face in his hands, his palms warm and calloused and rough against my cheeks, and yet he held me so gently, so carefully as he tilted my head up to look at him. “Sweetheart, you never deserve to inflict pain on yourself. Never. Okay?”

I nodded, sniffling and swallowing a shaky breath of air.

“I know, I realize that now.”

“So you don’t do that anymore, right?” Dean said, eyebrows raised, hopeful.

I shook my head. “It’s been a few years.” I swiped at my eyes, releasing a low breath. “I guess it piled up on me more than I had any idea.”

Dean frowned, brushing my hair back from my forehead. God, it felt good to be held, to be heard. I closed my eyes, soaking in the moment.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Dean said. “Or Sam? Or Bobby?”

I groaned and dipped my head, hiding my face against Dean’s chest for a second.

“Because they’re old scars. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“The fact that you’d rather run away from me in your underwear on a freshly stitched up leg instead of have this conversation with me suggests it does still matter. I don’t want you bottling this shit up, sweetheart.”

I snorted. “You always bottle shit up.”

“Yeah, well, don’t follow my example, okay? You know I’m full of crap and you’re smarter than me. The next time you feel like hurting yourself, you come straight to me. Or Sam. Just...someone. Got it?”

“Dean...” I hedged.

Dean cupped my chin and looked me dead in the eye.

“I’m serious,” he said. “I never want you to feel like you’re alone. Because you’re not. I don’t care if it’s in the middle of the night, I will be right there the second you need me. I will always have your back.”

“Really?” I whispered.

“Swear to God.” Dean leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my forehead. I slid my arms around his middle, sagging against him with relief.

“Besides,” he added, a wry note in his voice, “I won’t turn down any opportunity I can get to see your cute butt in that underwear.”

I pinched him and he squirmed away from me, laughing.

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester imagines #supernatural imagines #supernatural x reader #penny's fics

178 notes · View notes