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highfunctioningflailgirl · 4 months

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Damage Control: 1x02 Wendigo

Dean would never admit to it, but it’s a good thing that Sam’s driving. In truth, the Wendigo had done a number on him, and now that he no longer has to keep up his Winchester trademark bravado for the girl, the cops and the EMTs, he turns his face away from Sam and leans his forehead against the Impala’s passenger window, pretending to fall asleep.

The rain-streaked glass is blessedly cool against the bruise creeping up his cheekbone to his eye and soothes his headache. Maybe he has a concussion after all. Although he’d told the EMTs his head was fine and his pupils had done him the favor of being equal-sized when they’d shone their flashlights into Dean’s eyes, he feels queasy now, and a little dizzy.

Everything feels sore. His cheek is swollen, his neck itches under the bandage. His shoulders hurt from being strung up by his wrists for hours. His skin is chafed from the rope. His back aches from being dragged across the forest ground, over roots and rocks, to the cave. Although his sturdy canvas jacket had literally saved his skin, he still feels like he’s been road-hauled.

Without Sam, he would’ve parked the Impala somewhere off-road and curled up in the backseat to sleep off the worst of it before dragging himself back behind the wheel and onto the road. He would’ve popped a few pills and chased them with whiskey to drown out the pain. The next morning, he would’ve caffeinated at a drive-in to avoid curious looks and stayed away from mirrors for a few days.

But Sam is here, a reassuring presence beside him, driving him through the night, and the familiar squeaking of the Impala’s chassis and the sloshing rain on the windshield are comfortably lulling Dean to sleep.

xxx

“Dean. Dean!”

Sam is shaking him by the shoulder, and Dean peels his eyes open, disoriented.

“What?”

“Jesus, Dean!” Sam is shaking his shaggy head. “I thought you’d fallen into a coma or something!”

Stiffly, Dean sits up and scrubs a hand across his face. It hurts.

“Why? No. I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Sam arches dubious eyebrows. “Dude, I could barely wake you up.”

Dean waves him off. “Yeah. I’m good. I was just exhausted. Relax! I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“Then don’t look at me.”

“Hah! Funny.” Sam isn’t laughing.

Dean ignores him and tries to gather his bearings. “Where are we?”

“Motel parking lot”, Sam replies, still frowning at Dean. “You’re beat, and I could use some shut-eye, too. Something to eat. And a shower.” He sniffs at his jacket and wrinkles his nose. “We both smell like roadkill. You look like it, too.”

Dean blinks blurry surroundings into focus - a mostly empty parking lot ringed by the peeling outline of a cheap motel complex, a “vacancies” sign flashing orange in the misty dawn. Then he looks down at himself, at his dirty clothes and hands, and takes a whiff.

“You’re not wrong,” he admits. He stinks, and it’s not exactly helping with his lingering nausea.

Sam pulls the keys out of the ignition and reaches for the door handle. “I’ll get us a room. Stay here! We don’t want to scare the locals.”

When he’s out of sight, Dean angles the rearview mirror so he can look at his face. He does look terrible. His right eye has blackened, and his cheek is swollen and tender around the cut. The bandage on his neck is a rusty brown. He‘s pale, the freckles on his face competing with dried specks of mud and dirt. His hair is plastered to his temple where he’s been leaning against the window.

“Ughh…” he comments and repositions the mirror, away from his face.

It only takes a few minutes for Sam to return, motel keys jingling in his hand, but it’s about time. Dean is already drowsy again, and only his full bladder is keeping him awake.

While his brother grabs their overnight duffels from the trunk, Dean hoists himself out of the passenger seat, and, for a hopefully inconspicuous moment, hangs on to the passenger door while a dizzy spell passes.

“Dude. You’re on concussion protocol for the next twenty-four hours!”

Shit.

“I’m f-”

“Shut up.” The sudden authority in Sam’s voice surprises Dean. He almost sounds like their dad. “You’re swaying, and you look like Casper after six rounds of mud wrestling. I don’t care what lies you told the EMTs, but I am going to wake you up every hour to make sure you’re not bleeding into your stupid brain!”

The fact that Dean can’t even come up with a return has Sam nod in confirmation.

“Right. Now let’s get your ass into the shower and then into bed.”

There’s no further discussion. Sam carries their bags to their room while keeping a close eye on Dean who crosses the parking lot like his own friggin’ grandfather. As he shuffles along, Dean wonders about the sudden role reversal. He‘s the one who‘s always taken care of Sammy, and it’s odd to experience it the other way around. Odd, but not entirely unpleasant.

Inside, the garish interior of their lodgings bites into Dean’s aching eyes - tasteless combinations of orange and green that would put even the ‘70s to shame. Longingly eyeing one of the two beds, Dean staggers past it, into the bathroom. Once he lies down, he knows he won’t be able to get back up.

„Wait!“

Sam prevents him from shutting the door, then he reaches inside Dean‘s duffel bag and, rummaging around, retrieves his toiletry kit including shampoo and shower gel.

„Here, you’ll need this.“ He hands it to Dean. „And don’t lock the door!“

„Sammy, you don‘t have to take care-„

„Well, yes!“ Sam glowers at him in a mixture of worry and annoyance. „Because someone has to if you’re not taking care of yourself. I know you Dean, and some things… they don’t change.“

The brothers lock eyes and, for a moment, memories bounce between them. Memories of hunts with their father when one of them had gotten hurt and Dean in particular had quickly adopted John Winchester‘s way of unwavering stoicism. It hadn’t just been about copying the behavior of his father, whom Dean admired. Nor had it been about heroism or masculinity, as Sam had often claimed. No. Dean had simply never deemed his pain important. Saving people was important. Protecting Sammy was important. The world was full of monsters hurting innocents. They were important. Not Dean’s occasional sprained ankle, a cracked rib or a conk to the head.

His attitude had driven Sam crazy. Even Dad had torn him a new one once, for ignoring an injury that had brought him close to sepsis and forced them to abort the hunt for a shapeshifter. Dean had learned from that. A little.

“Thanks, Sammy,” he says and disappears into the bathroom.

The massaging heat of the shower trumps the stinging of his wounds, and Dean spends so much time under the hot spray that Sam gets nervous outside and knocks on the door, threatening to come in.

“I’m fine!” Dean yells, and he wonders how many times he’s said those two words in his life when, truly, he’d been anything but.

When he emerges from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, he’s weary to the bone and grateful for the fresh set of clothes Sam has already laid out for him. He nods at his brother and briefly returns to the bathroom to slip into the soft, clean jogging pants, t-shirt and hoodie, his shoulders groaning in protest at the movement.

“You want something to eat before turning in?” Sam calls from the main room. “I was thinking about ordering take out. D’you want a burger?”

Dean’s stomach does a little flip at the thought of greasy food - more proof that he’s indeed concussed - but he can’t quite shed the pretense. It’s too ingrained in him.

“Cheeseburger and fries, but only if you order something, too,” he calls back. “And do we have beer?”

He shuffles back into the main room and sits down on the nearest bed, gingerly leaning back against the headboard.

“Alcohol and a concussion don’t mix,” Sam tells him sternly, one ear pressed to his cell phone. “But you know that, and I guess you’re not going to- Yes, hi, can I place an order, please?”

Whatever burger joint is on the other end of the line, Dean’s grateful for the distraction. One good thing about hunting alone had been that no one had lectured him about his lifestyle. Not that his father had cared about Dean’s preference for junk food or his drinking. If anything, he’d set an even worse example, living on whatever food was left after his sons had eaten and regular swigs from his hip flask. But hunting had been John Winchester’s number one priority, and he would’ve taken Dean’s head off for aggravating an injury through drink and compromising his hunting skills even further.

“… you should really change those.”

“Huh?”

Dean looks at Sam, forcing his eyes to focus. Jeez, he’d really zoned out for a moment there.

Sam’s standing by the bed, his own toiletry kit and fresh clothes in his arms. His brows are knitted in annoyed concern, forming a swirly set of wrinkles on his forehead that Dean thinks is going to stay if his little brother doesn’t stop this mother-henning anytime soon.

“I said food is ordered, I’m gonna hit the shower, and you should change those bandages. They’re wet.”

Dean sighs in surrender. “Yes, ma’am!” He lifts his hand to peel the sodden bandage from his neck. “Go shower!”

“First aid kit is on the table.”

“Go shower!”

Finally, Sam leaves him alone. Reluctantly, Dean gets up again and fetches the first aid kit. It needs restocking, but he finds some gauze, and, in front of a dusty mirror by the door, tapes it over the wound on his neck. He doesn’t bother with the cut on his cheek; it’s already scabbing over. Same goes for the abrasion on his forehead.

The shower’s still running when he’s done and he sinks back down onto the bed. Sam seems to be enjoying the hot water as much as Dean, and although he managed to escape the Wendigo nearly unscathed, Dean is sure he’s feeling the long hike through the woods in his muscles, too.

Dean himself feels leaden now. His head’s still hurting, and he leans back, closing his eyes. There’s a soothing comfort in the sounds emanating from the bathroom - water running, an audible sigh from Sammy and muffled banging as his 6’5 brother navigates the too-small shower stall.

Before Sam had joined him in his search for their father, Dean had only had silence for company, filled with a looming, leering sense of danger. It’s not that he wasn’t used to being on his own. His father and Dean had been splitting up and gone on solo hunts ever since he’d turned twenty-five. In fact, Dean quite enjoyed those times. His father’s tough love approach wasn’t always easy to bear, and his presence always diminished Dean. He was more confident and a better hunter on his own. As a bonus, solo hunts meant he could pick up girls more easily.

But it had been different this time. His father was missing. John Winchester was in trouble; Dean could feel it in his bones. And suddenly the motel room he’d been staying in on his own hadn’t felt like freedom; it had felt stifling and too quiet, with evil lurking in the corners. For the first time in a long time Dean had felt alone, and scared, and he still doesn’t know what he would’ve done if Sam hadn’t come with him to go looking for Dad.

That fear isn’t entirely gone. Dean still worries that something happened to their father, that he– No. He’s not going there. He’s got Sam now - who’s apparently going through a whole bathroom routine with his fancy shampoo and expensive shower gel - not like the cheap no-name soap Dean uses - and will later sleep in the other bed the way he always does, on his belly, his long lanky body sprawled on the mattress like a starfish. If Sam isn’t haunted by nightmares about Jessica, he will sleep like a log, his deep, even breaths reassuringly filling the darkness.

And it is with that comforting thought that Dean himself drops into slumber now, concussion be damned, and he doesn’t wake up until Sam, like clockwork, raises him exactly one hour later, for a warmed-up burger and fries.

Find the whole series on AO3 here:

#spn #supernatural #fanfic #fan fiction #the damage control series #1x02 #wendigo #dean winchester #sam winchester #jensen ackles #jared padalecki #h/c #angst #blood tw #injury tw #hoodie!dean

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waywardvamp · 7 months

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So...what even is a wendigo?

Thanks in advance :)

Hello, kind stranger.

According to the lore presented in Supernatural 1x02, a Wendigo is:

"Wendigo" is a Cree Indian word. It means "evil that devours." They're hundreds of years old. Each was once a man, sometimes an Indian or other times a frontiersman or a miner or hunter.[...]During some harsh Winter, a person finds themself starving, cut off from supplies or help -- becomes a cannibal to survive, eating other members of his tribe or camp. Cultures all over the world believe that eating human flesh gives a person certain abilities -- speed, strength, immortality. If you eat enough of it, over years, you become this less-than-human thing. You're always hungry.”— Sam and Dean describe the Wendigos

But I am guessing that is not the kind of answer you are looking for when asking an anthropologist about a creature, is it? So let's dig deeper. But, beforehand, let's lay a few ground rules about the interactions in this post: everything explained here is seen through the lense of academic agnosticism. I am aware that several communities belive in the existence of wendigos and, as such, eveyone should be respectful. But respect doesn't equal an incapacity for discussion. And yes, I am fully aware that some people prefer the name of this creature to be censored on online discussion in order not to attract the creature, but I won't do so as I find word censorship to be innefectual in communication.

Now, let's lay down a term that is going to be very useful in this answer: cultural syndrome. A cultural syndrome is, as defined in the realm of medical anthropology, a psychosomatic syndrome that affects the member of an specific culture. Most cultures have this kind of syndromes. Hispanics and Mediterraneans on this audience (and many others) will be able to identify, for example, the evil eye. Or maybe the Italian tarantela. I also need to aknowledge here that I am in no way an expert in medical anthropology and my knowledge of this syndrome is nowhere near that of some of my colleges, so I want to recommend to anyone interested in the topic to do further reading and I am more than willing to give you a list of academic publications you can consult.

And now that we have this few ground rules (I am sorry, kind stranger, this is so long already), let's talk about Wendigo Psychosis.

Wendigo Psychosis is a cultural syndrome that affects the members of Algonquian cultures. But... What is it exactly? Well, in their culture the Wendigo is an spirit. One capable of possesing people (specially men), driving them to an insatiable hunger that eventually end up in cannibalistic desires. Now, and I need you to hear me out very carefully here: people affected by Wendigo Psychosis very rarely end up hurting someone. The person affected is aware of their condition and looks for the help of their culture's ritual and medical expert in order to be cured of the condition. Sometimes, this people end up commiting suicide to avoid harming others. As you can see, the fact that a disorder is cultural, doesn't make it "fake" in any way as people online tend to claim.

Wendigo psychosis often appears in periods were hunger is exacerbated.

As many cultural syndromes do, Wendigo Psychosis makes the person engage in what we call taboo behavious, which entail the breaking of cultural norms and boundaries (in the case of Wendigo psychosis, greed is one of those behaviours).

Now... What has media done with this creature and this syndrome? Well, it has turned it on its head, which many have rightfully called... Mishandling and misappropiation. Media like Supernatural and the horror game Until Dawn make cannibalism the first step instead of the last. In this media is the act of commiting cannibalism which turns the person into a monster (usually survival cannibalism. Yes, there are many forms of cannibalism and I will talk about that some other day if someone is interested). This media take the cultural syndrome and dehumanize it. But that is nothing new, as western cultures have been treating people who engage in cannibalism and both irredeemable and subhuman for centuries (while ignoring their own ritual and medical cannibalism, but that is a story for another day).

Supernatural and Until Dawn turn the victim into the monster.

And now I reiterate my apologies for any mistakes made and encourage anyone with further knowledge to, please, talk. I am eager to learn more on this topic.

I also apologise for any spelling mistakes.

#supernatural #spn #until dawn #wendigo psychosis #wendigo #d responds #long post #cultural anthropology #dean winchester #sam winchester #spn 1x02

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