Comfortably Numb
“Dean-” Cas’ voice was cut off with a choking noise. Dean whipped around, and was met with the sight of Cas standing up from the couch, reaching out to him and turning into dust. Jack looked at him with tears in his eyes. He tried to speak, but he didn’t get the chance. Floating all around him, sinking slowly to the ground where Cas had stood to reach for him and into the seats where Sam and Jack had sat, was nothing but… dust.
At first, he was afraid it would happen to him next. But a minute went by, and then two. Then five. Somewhere along the way, Dean stopped seeing. He stopped feeling. He fell to his knees, and just stopped.
Somewhere between dissociating from reality and contemplating demon deal versus witches spells, Dean fell asleep. He woke up, sore from sleeping on the concrete floor that he had apparently laid down on. He hated himself for it, but for one small, glimmering moment, he let himself believe that it had been a dream. He knew it wasn’t genuine hope. He was a Winchester, after all. Sam may be an optimist at heart, but Dean knew that shit like this wasn’t just dreams. His little moment was pure delusion, but for a split second before he acknowledged that, he almost felt better. Almost.
His mind still felt blank. He almost felt high, like back at that resort where he got roofied. Only this was worse. Of the three times he had been roofied, each time he could feel his mind working to make sense of things, trying to understand and work its way out of the problem at hand. This was like… being on pain meds at the hospital, or something. He had no desire to pull himself out of this haze, to think or to feel anything but the sensation of floating.
Dean had no perception of the time he spent lying there on the floor, only feet from the… ashes? Dust? Whatever it was that his family had turned into. The bunker didn’t have a lot of natural light away from the main room, so he didn’t know what time of day it was. He actually thinks he might have pissed himself at some point, he has been lying there for so long. He doesn’t care, though.
When his head begins to hurt, he relishes in it. But eventually the dull throb turns to a migraine and he knows he is dangerously dehydrated. The stomach pains had begun at some point, and he still cramped occasionally, but it was dulling. The thirst was less ignore-able. In fact, it was pulling him back into awareness more than he would like to be. Morbid as it may be, in one of his more aware periods he does briefly consider just laying there forever. He thinks he could do it. And it’s not like he hasn’t thought about… this before. Generally in less painful ways, and only in the most desperate of times. And it isn’t even the worst thing he’s ever considered doing. Surely, dying of depressive dissociation-induced dehydration would be better than spending eternity in the Ma’lak box.
Alas, that wasn’t going to be an option, it seemed. He heard someone enter the bunker. This was the moment of decision. Get up, assess, potentially fight if it was an intruder. But his decision was made when he focused again on the dust. He would lie here until some external force moved him. He didn’t care.
Light footsteps approached him. He didn’t turn. He heard a quiet scoff, then the footsteps retreated. There was some clanging, the sound of water running, and the steps returned. Dean didn’t even lift his head. He actually closed his eyes, as if he were willing reality away the more that it forced him to be a part of it. With his eyes shut, he didn’t see the small figure struggle over him, holding a large pot. He also didn’t see the water from the pot being dumped right on his head.
“GAH, fuhh-gblu-ah, gah-” Dean spluttered, gasping for breath and blinking away water when he was unwillingly yanked from his willful vegetative state into an upright position by a surprisingly small arm.
“Get up, and go shower. You smell like a urinal.”
Dean blinked more, slowly focusing on the head in front of him. Blond hair, angry face…
“Claire?” he rasped. His voice was strained from the dryness in his throat and mouth, along with lack of use.
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” Claire deadpanned. There was no trace of humor in her face, no snark or teasing. She looked as defeated as he felt.
“What-” Dean stopped to cough, clear his throat. Claire handed him a glass of water. He stared at it for a moment, not sure whether he would actually make the move to truly end the self-destruction by dehydration that he had been indulging in up until now.
“It’s water, dumbass. I got it when I got the pot to dump on you. Drink it.”
At that point, he registered the moisture on his lips from the water she had dumped on him and he felt his thirst in all its intensity. He grabbed the glass, noticing how weird it felt to use his muscles again, and chugged at the glass. After only three gulps, Claire yanked the cup away. He felt like a chump, almost letting out a whine. He settled for a glare.
“You’ll thank me when you don’t puke it all up in five minutes,” she said, still with the monotone she had before. “ Sip .”
He didn’t know why he said it, and he had no way of knowing that it was such a low blow. He didn’t know how he knew that this was the magic phrase, all he knew was that something in him wanted her to not be here. He didn’t want Claire to see him like this. He didn’t want her to try and take care of him. He didn’t want Claire to save him. So he said it, and even though he truly didn’t know how painful it would be, he knew it would strike a nerve.
“‘S’that something Jodie taught you?” He coughed again. “Maybe your nurse sis?”
There was a beat of silence, then a blinding pain exploding behind his eyes. It took him a moment to realize that the pain was actually originating at his nose, which Claire had kicked. Kicked . And now, she was up and walking away, shouting at him as she left.
“Fuck off, Dean. Go drive off a cliff or eat a bullet or some other shitty thing. It will be quicker than starving yourself to death on the bunker floor where no one but me will ever find you. You know, I may have done some stupid shit when bad things happened in the past, but I’m barely past being a kid.” Her voice got farther away as she approached the steps. “You’re acting like a damn baby, pissing yourself and waiting for someone to come give you a fucking bottle, even though you’re one of the only people in the world I know of who can do jack shit about what’s going on. So go fuck yourself, Dean. I’ll do it my damn self.” She yanked the door open and stormed out, slamming it shut behind her.
What… Claire… how, what? Dean felt fuzzy again. The dissociation was coming back, and boy was it tempting. But he looked around, a new perspective now that he was sitting up for the first time in, well, days. His entire face throbbed, and he felt blood dripping down his face. She had probably broken his nose. He looked at the place where Cas had been, and felt like he was physically cracking open from the chest. He noticed something that he hadn’t registered earlier. The angel blade. Cas’ angel blade had fallen, and rolled almost under the couch. Dean reached out and grabbed it. Something in him hardened in that moment. He stared at it for a moment, and let that resolve wash over him. He didn’t think about Cas, Sam, or Jack. But he knew what he was going to do now. And it wasn’t to let himself die on the floor. Instead, he got up and followed Claire.