normaltothemax

Nightwing & Red Hood doodle

---dean wasn't surprised that jason hadn't made a peep throughout the whole ordeal. it was probably a point of pride and mix of some sort of training. they were both soldiers in their own way and knew when they shouldn't ask questions but sometimes dean wondered how a kid his age (no matter how much jason insisted he was an adult) ended up like this. dean knew when he was 18 he was several different shades of fucked up already, but he wasn't sure he was the 'quietly sit while my throat is sewed up' brand. it would be impressive if it wasn't so damn worrying to the hunter. of course he knew that jason wasn't normal by any means, they met over a shifter with a gunshot wound to the head after all, but he was starting to see a lot more beyond the mask. even without it on.

the young vigilante reminded dean a lot of himself. the kind of person that held a lot in. not because he was afraid to let it out, but because he was afraid to let others in. dean wondered how many times he'd been let down. how many times he felt like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. how many times it felt like it was just him alone with no clear path through? sure dean had always had sam, but even with his brother at his side there was plenty of times dean had felt lost and alone. it was hard not to feel that way when you were facing so many things that were just so much bigger than you. how could you not feel crushed by all that weight?

dean had been a little lost in his thoughts for a moment as he got the bandaging ready but that damaged sounding 'fuck' caught his attention and the hunter suddenly dropped what he was doing. jason was shaking and that strong façade the vigilante so desperately tried to keep up seemed to be crumbling around him.

"woah, hey kid. hey." his voice came out a little gruffer, the shock of seeing jason start to break down was showing. dean touched his cheek first, just to get his attention. those bright green eyes were on him intensely and he could practically feel the panic coming off of jason in waves. he told himself he would be here to weather whatever storm but even dean had to admit he didn't expect this. he didn't know what else to do but pull him in and wrap his arms around him in a solid hug. he was careful of his neck but he held him tight as the world fell out from around jason.

"c'mon, just breathe okay? i know it's not alright but i gotcha kid. i gotcha jason. just breathe."

His eyes flew open at the touch, Jason only just managing to suppress a flinch. That was probably the only reason he didn’t panic even more, or try and fight, when he was pulled in close; he saw it coming. As it was, he still stiffened, breath catching. It took far too long for him to recognize the action for what it was, to understand that pain wasn’t coming, that it wasn’t mean to restrain. Dean was trying to comfort him. It should’ve felt confining, restrictive, so why did it feel closer to safety?

Fuck gentle touches, when was the last time someone had hugged him?

He choked on a sound that might’ve been a sob in another life, hands coming up to grip tightly at the back of Dean’s shirt as he hid his face against the man’s shoulder. Breathing wasn’t coming easily, but he recognized vaguely that it was just in his head. Dean hadn’t sewn his airway shut, he wasn’t choking on smoke or grave dirt or the Lazarus Pit waters—he was having a panic attack and he needed to slow his breathing. That knowledge didn’t make him feel any less like he was dying again.

He could feel Dean’s breaths, calm and steady (that was the only reason he hadn’t immediately pulled away; he needed something he could copy, that was all), and tried to match that—he didn’t have much success at first. And Jason would remember to be embarrassed about his little meltdown later, when he could actually breathe again. When the reality of the situation wasn’t coming crashing down on top of him.

Bruce had slit his throat.

Batman had saved the Joker.

His dad chose his murderer over him.

Everything had gone wrong and now here he was, freaking the fuck out, shaking apart in Dean’s arms. Tears prickled at his eyes—whether they were caused by embarrassment or his desperation for oxygen or by the reality of the situation really hitting him, he wasn’t sure—and he just squeezed them even tighter shut, desperate not to let them fall. He’d shown far too much weakness already.

Talia would be disgusted.

It was several minutes, hours, days before he managed to pull away. His breathing wasn’t quite back to normal yet, but he wasn’t about to hyperventilate anymore. Closer to being out of breath after a long run. Jason wiped at his face, feeling it heat up as he looked anywhere but at Dean. “Sorry,” he croaked. “I—” He moved to shake his head, aborting the movement at the last moment, remembering his stitches. “Sorry.”

&. 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

( dialogue prompts taken from the second season of hulu's the bear, created by christopher storer. feel free to edit and change as you seem fit. )

Nightmares & Sleeping Meme

Words

Actions

(Feel free to change which muse does what by adding names, etc!)

---there was a lot going through dean's mind as he snipped away at jason's stitches. he was still surprised to be in this position. it wasn't that he was put off or didn't want to be, he just expected there to be someone else in jason's life that would come before him. surely there had to be someone else out there that cared for this young man as much as he did? or more, right? dean knew a bit of his history; some of the darker things that they shared in common (how often did you meet someone else that had come back to life?) but he was starting to realize that they might share more in common than dean wished for him.

the ratio of darkness to light; it made him ache. he knew what it was like to have so few people in the world to count on. he knew what it was like when you couldn't even count on those you considered family. and that thought made him wonder. he wanted to ask how this had happened, who had done this to him, but deep down dean had a feeling he wasn't going to like the answer to that question. instead he did his best to be the light tonight, even if he wasn't the greatest at it.

he didn't question jason's no to his offer of pain relief. the kid was hard as nails already. normally there would have been a tease, an 'okay superman calm down' but not tonight. the hunter just nodded and finished off clipping through the last of jason's understandly shoddy work before he moved on to removing his stitches and replacing them.

when it came to things like this, dean was a pro. in another life he might have made a good doctor or a good nurse. his fingers might have been rough in texture from all the salt he handled and just the life he led in general, but his touch was soft and he knew how to stem the bleeding before it even really started. he had a fresh needle threaded and just as the first stitch went in he started talking again. his voice was a little softer than normal, just to give jason something to focus on.

"yeah when i was in my 20s," he started with a little laugh. this was okay. jason was going to be okay. "there was dick who called himself loki. he was this really powerful dickhead, let's just say that." he didn't need to go into the whole angels and demons thing right now. "anyway to fuck with us he put us in this time loop and he got creative figuring out ways to kill me. one of the ways was by feeding me a bad burrito and i mean a really bad burrito." his eyes flicked up again only to assess only to check but he carried on. "he also killed me by having me mauled to death by a golden retriever. had me hit by a car going like 70..." the hunter rattled on, each stich placed with careful and neat precision. he didn't even remember the events of the story he was telling jason but he knew it was amusing and long enough to finish the job. by the time he was on the last stitch dean was finishing up his story. "and that's why sam will never let me play 'heat of the moment' ever again."

the hunter leaned back to inspect his work once he was finished and seeming satisfied he swabbed a disinfectant over the top. "you wanna see or you want to just bandage it up?" dean knew what it was like to get injured like this and to feel powerless. he wanted as much of this to be on jason's terms as possible.

Maybe later, Jason would have a list of questions about Dean’s story as long as his arm. Maybe he’d find some of the insane ways Dean had died funny. Maybe he’d question whether or not the story was even true (theoretically, with speedsters, he was pretty sure time travel was possible, but time loops?). Maybe he’d freak out over the fact that Dean came back so many times (would that happen to Jason? Could he just not die now? Or was it just because of the really powerful dickhead as Dean had so eloquently put it?).

Right now, he didn’t do any of that. He just let Dean’s voice wash over him and breathed steadily through the pain of the needle pushing through his skin. The only sign of discomfort he showed was the slight tightening of his fists in his lap. The League had trained all other reactions out of him. He didn’t flinch or wince, didn’t whine about it, certainly didn’t cry. He sat there and he took it.

Pain was what he deserved anyways, wasn’t it? His plan had gone to shit, all that planning and hard work down the toilet. He’d failed spectacularly, and failure should be punished. Deep down he knew that wasn’t true, and a part of him ached, reverting back to that godawful fucking mindset.

He blinked slowly, felt like he had to drag his mind out of a fog, before he could answer. “Bandage’s fine.” There was a trust there. Jason wasn’t sure when, but at some point he’d placed his trust in Dean. It was the reason he’d come here in the first place. The reason he hadn’t bothered with a domino. The reason he’d let Dean take a needle to his throat. The I trust you was implied, not spoken aloud; he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to say those words to anyone ever again. Not after Bruce had—

Bruce—

He raised a hand to card it through his hair, but stopped when he caught sight of it. It was shaking. No, scratch that, all of him was shaking, he realized belatedly. Jason was trembling like he was cold, only he wasn’t cold, and it was getting harder to breathe, like there was a metal band around his chest, constricting. He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to slow his breathing, to even it out, but that band around his chest kept getting tighter and tighter, his breaths shallower and shallower. “Fuck,” he choked out.

Fuck, Dean must have sewn his airway shut by accident because he couldn’t fucking breathe.

---he didn't figure the humor would be met with anything but indifference; that being said, it was still surprisingly hard for dean to see him like this. he didn't know when, but at some point this young vigilante had wormed his way into the small list of people dean cared about. dean just returned his shrug with a half smile, he didn't want to give him a look of pity because he knew that wasn't what he would want and it wasn't what he needed. no, dean just legitimately cared for him and instead he'd just show him that.

practiced hands laid out the few tools he'd need to re-stitch the wound. "you want anything to kill the pain?" he figured he was probably used to it at this point but it didn't hurt to ask. sometimes it was nice to feel nothing when pain was all you felt.

dean could see how tense he was and even if he lifted his chin, exposing his throat to the hunter, he knew this had to be hard. people like this did not trust easy and this was an extremely vulnerable position to be in. but dean was as gentle as could be. hands that had taken countless lives touched tentatively against tender and angry flesh. he snipped the first stitch open knowing this would at least not hurt. it was only when he put the fresh set in that it would really burn but he wanted to show that this wasn't going to be what he was used to. dean wasn't going to baby him, but he was going to take care of him.

"sure, kid. whatever you feel like." he was focused on the task at hand. even if the stitches were shitty at least it was holding things together. he wasn't bleeding and he wouldn't until dean pulled the stitches back out. for now he just clipped the crooked work with surgical scissors but he paused and flicked his eyes up for a moment with the vigilante's sudden admittance.

"alright, jason." huh. he could say he didn't expect that. but maybe this was good. it was something done on his terms. "did i ever tell you about the time i died eating a burrito?" he smiled a little and then cast his eyes back to the task at hand. he didn't want to make it a big deal. he just wanted jason to know that at least tonight here with him he was safe and cared for.

“No.” The answer was automatic, hardwired into him since childhood. Watching your mom slowly kill herself with a needle before finally overdosing did that to a guy. Unless it was absolutely necessary, Jason would outright refuse anything stronger than a Tylenol. His time with the League had only drilled that mindset in deeper—you didn’t react to pain, didn’t request anything to numb it, you just sat stoically through it and kept your mouth shut about it.

So the gentleness with which Dean handled him threw him off, sent his mind skidding to a halt. It wasn’t that he’d expected the man to necessarily be rough with him, to hurt him, but those oh so careful touches had certainly not been on his Bingo card.

When was the last time anyone had touched him with any sort of tenderness? Any kind of care? When was the last time someone touched him gently with the intention to help instead of hurt? Not since he’d died, he was sure. And sure, he’d started getting used to casual touches from Dean—hair ruffles, hands on the shoulder, and the like—but this was something entirely different. He was treating Jason like he was someone actually worthy of that sort of care, and Jason…Jason didn’t really know what to do with that.

It didn’t even feel condescending, or whatever. Like Dean thought Jason would break if he wasn’t careful. (Even if it was, Jason wasn’t sure he’d have the energy to bite the man’s head off for it, this time.) It was just…kindness.

His eyes darted away as he tried, and failed, to swallow down the sudden lump in his throat.

It took a second for him to speak, wanting to be sure his voice wouldn’t crack or waver or do something else completely mortifying. “A burrito?” He should probably stop talking, now that Dean was clipping his stitches; he didn’t want to start bleeding all over the place. And he knew what Dean was doing with that question, knew he was being set up for a distraction. Maybe that should have rankled—he was the Red Hood, he could handle a bit of pain—but he couldn’t really bring himself to care.

I love them

“i give my oc trauma because it helps me cope with my own past!!” that’s cool. i do it because i want hot people to suffer

okay!! crying!!!

---it was obvious whatever had happened had deeply effected the young man sitting before dean. he knew that he'd already been through his fair share of life altering and mind shattering experiences so this was clearly not good. but dean was okay with being the one to help him weather this storm. if anyone understood, it was dean. he knew what it was like to have almost no place to go and if he could do better for this next generation well, then maybe he wasn't the irredeemable monster he always imagined himself to be.

the hunter stepped out of the kitchen for only a moment; long enough to grab his first aid kit, long enough for jason to remove his hoodie. it was still weird for dean to see him out of body armor, let alone in just a tee-shirt now. but it seemed like the whole night was going to be weird so he might as well get used to it. "yeah, alright point. glad you opted to not bleed out. but see, i told ya a car is better." the tease was soft and those bright green eyes showed a familiar humor behind them. he trying to be consistent in a very inconsistent time for jason, only hoping that it might help even the barest of bits.

he sat across from him not saying much as the bandage was removed. yeah, it was bad but at least the cut was clean. dean tutted and opened the kit up. "shit work for a shit angel, kid." he paused and reconsidered his actions for a moment. "do you want me to redo this for you? those look rough. they might hold. but i can do a much better job. and you'll probably be more comfortable if it's done right." but he wasn't going to make that choice for him. by the sounds of it too much was taken out of his hands tonight as it was and dean wasn't about to continue that trend. "it's up to you, kid. if you just wanna watch a shitty b movie and eat some pizza or something we can do that too."

If it were any other night, Jason might’ve made a joke about how having a car in Crime Alley was just asking for trouble. Commented on how it’d be stripped for parts by morning. Regaled Dean with the story of how Jason first met Batman while stealing the tires off of the Batmobile. As it was, Jason was feeling all too much and nothing at all, and joking around was sort of the last thing he felt like doing. The thought of Batman, though, sent a sharp pang through him. Made him want to curl in on himself, make himself as small as possible, and just fucking hide from the world. Cry and scream and rage over the unfairness and injustice of it all. Instead of any of that, Jason merely shrugged again.

He considered the offer, tried to ignore the pain he felt when he swallowed. It was probably going to scar no matter what. So, the question became, how gnarly-looking did he want it to be? “Yeah, sure,” he decided. Dean could restitch it. A bit of unease settled in his stomach automatically, knowing he would be literally baring his throat to the other man and leaving himself open to an attack, especially when he was already so vulnerable, but he sincerely doubted the hunter was going to undo all of Jason’s hard work just to let him bleed out at his kitchen table. Dean wasn’t going to hurt him. Of that, he was certain.

Then again, how certain had he been that Bruce would never hurt him?

No. He couldn’t think about that. With a shaky breath, he balled his hands into fists in his lap and lifted his chin just enough to give Dean access to the wound without tugging on it. “Maybe pizza and a movie after?” Jason wasn’t sure how present he would be for a movie, and the thought of food made his stomach churn, but he’d pull himself together enough to manage a bit of normalcy. He could pretend. Probably. For a long few moments, he was quiet, clearly struggling with whether or not he wanted to say something. “Jason,” he eventually spoke, eyes determined. “My name’s Jason.”

---the relationship they had wasn't exactly the most traditional. mostly that of a begrudging respect and dean's fondness for the younger man. he did his best to bring a lightness into what was clearly a darker world for the red hood because dean couldn't help but be reminded of his own youth. but he never expected that jason would show up at his door like this.

dean listened closely as he explained what happened. he couldn't help but hear all the gaps in the story. blown up and getting his throat cut? jesus. if it had been as simple as getting his ass handed to him in a fight dean was sure he wouldn't have shown up here, let alone shown his actual face. no, there was something much deeper going on. something that made jason seek the hunter out in his time of trouble. but dean just nodded along. he didn't push or pry. it wasn't really his place, was it?

but then a question was posed. jason could have asked it with all the casual nonchalance in the world but dean would have seen right through it anyway. he was scared and alone and he needed somewhere to feel safe. dean had no idea what really happened and he wasn't going to force jason to open up and tell him but he could do this for him. if no one else in this world could be a safe place for this broken and brutalized kid, he could.

"yeah, kid. 'course you can stay. but...c'mere." he nodded to the kitchen table and kicked out a chair. it wasn't an invitation. "lemme see," he insisted evenly. there was gentleness to his tone even if he wasn't going to take no for an answer. he might not be able to take care of everything that was going on in jason's head but he could at least look after this for him. one thing at a time. "you should'a just come straight here."

Letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, a bit of the tension seeped out of his shoulders. Jason hadn’t really had a plan for if Dean turned him away. Wasn’t sure what he would’ve done. If he could’ve even handled another rejection tonight. But he didn’t have to think about that, now. Dean was letting him stay, no one had followed him here, and the Bats didn’t know about Dean anyways—for tonight, at least, he would be safe.

Probably worryingly, Jason didn’t even put up a token protest. Didn’t bristle at the insinuation that he couldn’t take care of it himself, didn’t argue that it was fine. He just walked over and sat down in the chair Dean kicked out. Carefully, he pulled off the hoodie so that Dean would have better access to the cut on his throat. (Also, he really liked this hoodie and didn’t want to get blood on it.)

Setting the hoodie aside, he tugged the faded Gotham Blades t-shirt back down from where it’d ridden up. “Needed to wash the harbor off.” His hair was still damp from the shower. God only knew what was in that water—he’d be lucky if he didn’t wind up with an infection of some kind. “Plus, it would’ve been kinda hard riding my bike while trying to stop the bleeding.” It’d been bad enough taking the rooftops and grappling.

Carefully, he pulled off the bandage. It was a clean cut; deep, but not too deep, and thankfully hadn’t nicked any arteries. (Of course it hadn’t, Batman was too good for that, the cynical part of his mind whispered. Bad enough to incapacitate, but not to kill. Never to kill.) Jason’s stitches weren’t the nicest—crooked and uneven, compared to his work in the past—but he’d done his best while his hands had been shaking. “S’not my best work, but like I said, angle’s shit.”

---for once dean was home at night. he was nursing his own wounds after a job well done. it was nothing major but he couldn't help but think he wasn't as young as he once was as he readjusted the ice pack on his shoulder.

what was it with ghosts always throwing him through walls anyway?

the knock on the door was unexpected. not a lot of people knew where he lived. you just didn't give your home address out as a hunter if you wanted to survive past 40. so dean eased himself out of his chair and turned to pick up the sidearm he had sitting on the coffee table before he approached the door.

what he opened it to was even more unexpected than the knock.

the hunter took a small step back. the look he sported was incredulous. he knew who this was, of course. after all the banter, jokes and time spent together he'd have to be blind not to see it even without his mask on. for once dean was just a little shocked. he'd never seen his face before.

"hey kid..." he greeted gently. he could tell something was wrong. jason's mannerisms were very off even without dean noting the bandage on his neck or how rough his voice sounded. not to mention him showing up in street clothes.

the hunter stepped aside to allow jason inside and only shut the door once he was past the threshold. "what's goin' on? you get hurt?"

He hesitated when Dean stepped back to let him in. This was it. No turning back now. Dean had seen his face, had recognized him, judging by the sound of his voice. Even if he still didn’t know Jason’s name, he’d be able to pick him out of a line up. That should worry him. Jason found he just didn’t care.

So he crossed the threshold and stepped inside, hands still in his pockets, eyes still cast downwards. Withdrawn. Subdued. Nothing like his usual lively, snarky, prickly self. He shrugged. “Blown up a little.” Something he was currently trying very hard not to think about so as to not send him spiralling into a fucking panic attack. He could already feel his hands shaking.

He tugged at the collar of his sweater to show off the bandage a little better. “Throat slit. Not too bad; stitched it up, but the angle’s shit.” He probably shouldn’t be talking this much—he wasn’t sure how close that batarang had come to his vocal cords, wasn’t sure what sort of damage it might’ve done, what further damage he was causing by exacerbating it—but giving a sitrep after a fight was pretty ingrained into him. He didn’t feel up to pretending he was fine anyways.

Risking a quick look up at Dean, he shrugged again, looked away. Tried to appear unbothered by whatever answer Dean would give to his next question, but the mask was slipping. “Can I stay here?” He wasn’t sure how long he was asking for, but he really…he didn’t want to be alone in his cold, shitty safehouse, right now.

also, while I try and tackle some drafts, if any mutuals want to hit me up on disco, feel free to add me! just lmk who you are!

Honestly? My main piece of advice for writing well-rounded characters is to make them a little bit lame. No real living person is 100% cool and suave 100% of the time. Everyone's a little awkward sometimes, or gets too excited about something goofy, or has a silly fear, or laughs about stupid things. Being a bit of a loser is an incurable part of the human condition. Utilize that in your writing.

---honestly dean didn't expect it to go even that easy. he thought there would be a little more bluster and bravado like there always was with these caped and masked weirdos. at the very least he expected some sort of warning shot that left his ear ringing. huh. maybe he was getting better at this whole grown authority thing. who knew?

but that singular demand from jason had him huffing out a soft laugh and looking down at his feet to hide just how amused he was. why did it feel like he was talking to a younger version of himself? jesus. "alright, alright. cool your jets. i'm dean. and lemme guess," he paused and took a look up and down jason. he squinted as if trying to figure something out. "you're the crimson helmet?"

oh he absolutely knew that wasn't jason's alias but he really felt like this kid could be taken down a few notches. not that dean wasn't overly prideful himself, of course.

"in regards to him," he pointed to dead shifter, "you might believe me easier if i do a little show n' tell. rather than just tell. but uh, does require you to follow me down that storm drain." he lifted his chin and gestured with his head towards a grate, close to where the shifter had died. he was clearly trying to make his escape when jason had come across him.

"don't worry," he soothed. he could already feel the protest before jason could speak it. "i'll go first and you can keep your gun out. no tricks. promise."

Jason resisted the urge to sigh and look up at the ceiling, as if asking for help from on high, but only just. It was a close thing, especially when the guy—Dean—”guessed” his alias. (Jason didn’t believe it was an actual guess for a second. The man was only trying to get under his skin and Jason wouldn’t let him. He refused.)

It was fine. Jason was fine. He was calm, cool, and collected and definitely didn’t have the very strong urge to bite Dean. “Red Hood,” he corrected, biting back a sigh (he had a strong feeling his correction would go ignored). “You got a last name, Dean?” It was doubtful the man would actually give one, and if he did, even more doubtful it would be his actual name, rather than an alias, but it was still worth asking. And even an alias could be useful. The more information Jason had, the more he could look into later.

He eyed the grate dubiously. Jason’s initial urge was pure Crime Alley street kid: to snap that I ain’t followin’ ya to no secondary location, followed by a swift kick in the balls and running away. But Jason wasn’t a scared twelve year old, anymore. He had Batman training, League training. He was taking over the seedy underbelly of Crime Alley and ruling it with an iron fist.

“Going into the sewers is a great way of getting eaten by Killer Croc.” It was said conversationally, as if Jason wasn’t at all concerned by the prospect. Which, to be fair, he wasn’t, really. He’d fought Waylon back when he’d been a scrawny twerp wearing scaley panties—with the heat he was packing now, the additional skills he’d since picked up, he really didn’t see much of a reason to be concerned.

This guy was potentially a civilian, though (in the sense that he wasn’t a self-proclaimed Cape). An outsider, at that. It was only fair to warn him of what could be waiting down there for them.