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dreamersbcll · 10 months

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We get a lot of “Tara gets hurt” or “Sam takes care of Tara” but what about Sam? Obviously we know the way to hurt Sam the most is through Tara, but what about if Sam was hurt in a way that required Tara to have to help take care of Sam in the way that we know Sam does so often for Tara?

“Enneagrams”

for this anon and the other few who wanted this same prompt.

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“Ow. Ow. Fuck. Ow,” Sam hissed.

She wasn’t supposed to be out of bed. Hell, she wasn’t even supposed to be in the bathroom by herself. But she would be damned if she had Tara help her to the toilet.

The stab wound was just a setback. It was from some Stab-obsessed fan who wanted Sam’s signature. Instead of giving it to them, Sam decided to slap them. How was she to know that they had a knife on them?

In hindsight, she should’ve known.

But it didn’t matter now. What’s done is done.

Honestly, the worst part of this whole ordeal was how much Tara doted on her.

Though the pair had been through heaven and hell together, Sam couldn’t handle the care that Tara was providing. Her sister was so gentle and so sweet with her. She didn’t deserve it. It was a sobering thought to know that her baby sister would take her own heart clean apart if it helped Sam’s beat.

Her sister was so good. Tara was the sunshine that came after a storm. She was the sun rising, and the colors shimmered across a calm sea. Sam was the rain that came after, the storms that destroyed cities, and the chill that followed cruel words.

Sam didn’t deserve anything good. She wasn’t a fundamentally good person. Violence was intertwined with every cell in her body. If anyone deserves hell, it was Sam. She could feel the flames licking her skin and her hollow heart crumbling apart.

Yet despite all the damage that came with knowing Sam, her sister stayed.

And she had no idea why. Sam had left her. Tore her foundations down. She shattered her heart onto the pavement. Sam broke Tara and never gave her a chance to heal.

But Tara came back. Every single time. Her arms open, hands ready to take the weight off Sam’s shoulders. Her sister back in her life, loving her as she deserved, was an out-of-body experience. Whenever Sam felt she couldn’t breathe, Tara would take the oxygen straight from her lungs.

She didn’t deserve this. But Tara still stayed.

——

“Sam? You’re supposed to be in bed. Why are you in the bathroom? Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

Sam closed her eyes to her sister’s voice, trying to breathe out through her nose. Nausea rose in her throat, and her vision felt blurry. Too much movement. Too much input.

“Tara, help,” she whispered. She screwed her eyes shut, trying to avoid her reflection in the mirror. If she didn’t look, she didn’t have to see the pathetic human in front of her.

She heard the door open behind her and could feel Tara’s gaze drink her in.

“I’m sorry. I needed to use the bathroom. I can’t get out. It hurts,” she mumbled, gripping onto the countertop.

Her sister pressed a hand to Sam’s back, grabbing Sam’s hand with the other. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you, I promise,”.

Sam sobbed a bit, choking down the bile in her throat. She needed to be stronger. She had to be better. Her sister shouldn’t have to take care of her. Sam should be the one strong enough to stand guard over her own body.

Despite every muscle in her body begging her to stand tall and stand strong, she let her sister guide her to bed. Tara was so fucking careful, laying Sam down and tucking her in. She even had a glass of water and her pain medications ready.

Sam swore she couldn’t let Tara in again, but like a force to be reckoned with, her sister broke down her barriers. And though Sam wanted to fight it, her sister still loved her unconditionally.

Tara wiped her face with cool towels, held her hand as pain rose through her, and kissed her wet cheeks despite the tears that fell.

Maybe, just maybe, Sam could take her armor off. She could put her sword down. She could be loved.

Tara showed her what a great privilege it was to be loved.

Sam wanted to believe her.

#scream #sam carpenter #tara carpenter #carpenter sisters #ao3 author #my writing tag #hurt sam #sam is an enneagram 8 #tara is an enneagram 2 #bc i said so ok #AU: protect my heart

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highfunctioningflailgirl · 4 months

Text

Damage Control - 1x07 Hookman

Dean knows that, when Sam’s not talking, something is up. It can’t just be the pain from his wound, although the slash below his elbow had looked nasty and the way Sam is trying to keep his bandaged arm elevated tells Dean that it’s hurting him. His little brother is quiet in the passenger seat, too quiet, staring straight ahead from eyes that look like thunderclouds.

“Lori is a nice girl,” Dean throws him a bone. “We could still turn around and stay for a couple more days. You could spend some time together while you heal up. You can’t hunt with that arm anyway.”

Sam’s gaze narrows. “I told you, Dean, no! I don’t want to go back. Can you leave it alone already?”

Normally, Dean would. Hell, he’s an expert at not talking about things. At shoving down what hurts and keeping it locked up until he can pretend that it hurts no more. But Sam’s different. While Dean can hold himself together with strength, duct tape, whiskey and a whole shitload of denial, Sam can’t. He’s not built to corral his pain and keep it pent up. In Sam, it will pressure-cook until he breaks apart at the seams.

“No, I can’t leave it alone,” Dean says firmly. “Because I think I know what this is about, and it’s not about Lori.”

“Dean…!” Sam flashes him a warning glare, but Dean ignores it.

Rip the band-aid off.

“It’s about Jess,” he says. “You still think it’s your fault that she died.”

Sam casts his eyes down, simmering. “Because it is.”

Dean slaps the steering wheel. He’d meant to stay calm, but he can’t. “You’ve gotta snap out of this, dude! It’s– how could it have been your fault? How?!”

“If she hadn’t been my girlfriend, she’d still be alive,” Sam answers. He cradles his arm tighter to his chest.

Dean sighs in frustration. “You didn’t put her on that ceiling! You didn’t burn her!”

“No. But the same thing that killed Mom did. The same thing that came into my nursery when I was six months old. It’s connected to me, Dean! And it’s killing the ones I love.”

The Impala swerves a little when Dean jerks around and stares at his brother. “Is that what you believe? Why you didn’t hook up with Lori? You think you’re Doomsday Boy?”

The way Sam looks back at him - defiant, in pain - tells Dean that he’s hit the nail on the head. And, what’s worse - Dean gets it. If their roles were reversed, if Dean had been the baby in that crib staring up at his burning mother, and then, years later, at his girlfriend turning to ash above him, her blood dripping onto his face… he would have felt responsible, too. Terribly, erroneously responsible.

Protective instincts kicking in, everything in Dean screams at him to take that weight off his brother’s shoulders. Because he knows Sammy can’t carry it.

Dean pulls the Impala over to the side of the road and kills the engine. He waits until Sam looks at him and holds his gaze.

“You didn’t cause this, Sammy,” Dean says, using his big brother voice and sounding as solid as he possibly can. “Mom’s death isn’t your fault. Jessica’s death isn’t your fault. And Lori was in danger because of the Hookman, and not because of you. You’re not cursed, Sam! You’re not killing people, you’re saving them! And you gotta believe that, or it’ll eat you alive.”

Sam huffs. “Come on! Wasn’t it you who told me I couldn’t go back to Stanford? That I should cut all ties to my friends? That they wouldn’t understand and I’d only put them in danger?”

“Yes, but…” Dean struggles a little to wiggle out of that one. “I was talking about relationships, Sam. Long-term ones. With people who will never understand the kind of life we live. I wasn’t talking about hooking up with a girl every once in a while.” He lightly slaps Sam’s thigh. “You’re allowed to have a little fun. Fuck it - you need some fun!”

His words fall on deaf ears. Sam turns away from Dean with a wince and stares through the windshield, jaw pushing forward.

“I’m not like you, Dean,” he says, acidic. “I don’t get over things by banging some scuzzy waitress and drowning myself in whiskey.”

Offended, Dean bristles, and his first instinct is to clock Sam one. But he hears the grief in his brother’s voice, and, as different as they are, he recognizes the same toxic coping mechanism that he so often uses - provocation. It’s easier to start a fight than to admit being a wreck. Sam would rather take a punch right now than accept what he really needs and what none of the Winchester brothers ever learned to allow themselves - physical comfort and a good, ugly cry. They may be different. But they’re both John Winchester’s sons.

“You could always try,” Dean says, his own emotions reined in, shrugging laconically. “Doesn’t have to be a waitress and booze. You could do a Stanford girl with salad and sparkling water…” He pulls his mouth into an intentional smirk.

Sam turns his face back to him and looks at Dean from underneath exasperated eyebrows, but his anger’s visibly deflating. “Dude, you’re impossible.”

Dean grins proudly. Humor - another patented Winchester way of dealing with the crap of this world.

“And you’re still bleeding.” He points at the bandage on Sam’s arm that’s slowly turning red. “Hang on.”

Not waiting for Sam to protest, he quickly gets out of the car and fetches the first aid kit from the trunk. When he’s back, Sam rolls his eyes, but he lets Dean take his arm and unwrap the stained gauze. The wound underneath is still oozing.

“Should’ve let them take you to the ER and stitch it up properly,” Dean comments, displeased. Since Sam had refused the trip to the hospital, the EMTs had only been able to patch him up with steri-strips - a far-from-perfect solution that would take longer to heal and definitely leave a scar.

“And wait for someone to recognize your mugshot?” Sam retorts. “You’re still wanted for murder, Dean!”

Right. That. They’d been keeping a low profile since the shapeshifter had killed one of his victims wearing Dean’s face, and although Dean himself tends to be a little cavalier about it, Sam’s right. Even with their well-faked IDs and credit cards, they still need to be careful.

“Besides,” Sam adds woefully. “We’re a little low on funds. The hospital would’ve billed us a fortune, and I’m not in the mood to sleep in the car tonight.”

“I could stitch you up?” Dean offers, inspecting Sam’s arm with a critical eye.

Sam takes a look. “Nah. It’s not that bad. Just wrap it tightly. It’ll stop.”

Expertly, Dean cleans the wound around the steri-strips - with actual disinfectant this time instead of whiskey - and uses a copious amount of gauze to rewrap the whole affair. Sam grimaces but doesn’t make a single sound. Textbook Winchester.

Only when Dean grabs a scarf and fashions a sling out of it does Sam launch into protest. “Oh, come on, Dean, that’s not necessary! I’m not an invalid!”

Dean squares his shoulders. “This is not a debate! I won’t have you bleeding on the upholstery. Suck it up, dude! Compression. Elevation. You’re wearing that sling!”

Either Dean has exuded sufficient authority or Sam is in enough discomfort to surrender without a fight. With another eye roll and an indignant huff, Sam lets Dean tie the scarf around his neck and settle his injured arm in it.

“There,” Dean says, content with his nursing skills. “Comfortable?”

Sam’s responsive grunt remains open to interpretation. But he swings his legs back into the Impala and pulls the door shut. Dean stores the first aid kit back in the trunk. Finally back behind the steering wheel, he pulls a pill bottle from his jacket and opens it to pop two tablets into his palm.

“Here, take these,” he instructs, offering them to Sam.

“What are they?” Sam squints dubiously.

“They’re shut-up-and-take-em pills. Doctor’s orders.”

The fact that Sam only hesitates for a few seconds before grabbing the pills and dry-swallowing them tells Dean that he actually needs them. And Sam looks beat, his forehead lined with pain, shadows under his deep-set eyes.

He’ll be at peace in a minute. Dean gave him the Good Stuff - painkillers of the prescription kind that he didn’t use up after his last hospital stay. They’ll knock Sam out for a couple of hours and give him the rest and the oblivion the kid needs.

And indeed - twenty minutes later, back on the road, a Bob Seger song softly filling the car, Dean sees Sam’s eyes drift close and his Sasquatch body relaxes into the seat. Dean pulls over to rearrange his brother’s head to a more comfortable position against the side window so he doesn’t wake up with a kink in his neck. Sam doesn’t react at all, out for the count and breathing deeply. The bandage on his arm has remained pristine.

Good.

Dean nods to himself, a small smile tugging on his lips. In spite of his long, lanky body, Sam looks like a little boy in his sleep. His messy bangs are sticking up against the window, his mouth is forming a slight pout, and he looks entirely boneless. With his arm in that sling, Dean feels reminded of that time long ago, when Sam was five and had jumped off a shed pretending to be Batman, ending up with a broken arm.

Of course, Dean had taken the heat for that. His father had been furious, taking nine-year-old Dean’s head off for letting his little brother get hurt on his watch. (Dean himself had jumped off that shed first, in a Superman costume, and hidden his own scraped knee and sprained wrist well.) He remembers his father’s wrath, his own feelings of guilt and his fear for Sam. But he also remembers how brave Sammy had been when Dean had ridden him to the hospital on the handlebars of his bike, and he remembers Sam’s pride when walking out of the ER with a shiny new cast on his arm, allowing Dean to be the first to sign it.

Looking at his baby brother now, knocked out in the passenger seat, Dean wishes it would be that simple again - slap a bandage on and everything would be alright again. But things had changed. As they’d grown up, the world had only become scarier, the monsters more dangerous, and he couldn’t protect Sammy from harm far more serious than a broken bone. All he could do was try and be there when it hurt.

Dean shrugs out of his jacket and spreads it over Sam’s sleeping form. Then he gently eases the Impala back onto the highway and, music turned down to a soft background murmur, he fixes his eyes back on the road.

Read the whole series on AO3 here:

#spn #supernatural #fan fiction #fanfic #the damage control series #1x07 #hookman #dean winchester #sam winchester #hurt/comfort #brotherhood #winchester woes #blood cw #hurt sam #mild injury

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