I Have Two Faces; Blurry is the One I'm Not

|twelve|

After a few more dry heaves, I'm sure that my stomach is completely empty. There's nothing left to vomit, except maybe blood, and although I know that I should be alarmed if I start vomiting blood, part of me hopes that I'm secretly suffering from internal bleeding.

"Is it all up?" I nod, leaning back on my knees a little, resting my head against his leg. "Are you okay?" Although he attempts to keep his voice flat, I can't help but note the twinge of concern.

"That," I breathe, disgusted by the taste and smell of wretch that lingers in my mouth, "depends on your definition of okay, my friend." Dean slowly releases my hair, and the damp ropes of sweat and rain drenched hair slap against the leather of his jacket.

Jacket. Right. I should probably give this back to him.

I start to shrug off the jacket, but he rests his hands on my shoulders. "Hold on."

In an instant I'm scooped up from the cold white tile of the bathroom, Dean cradling me as if I'm an oversized baby.

He walks us to my bedroom and stops in the doorway. I look up to his face, my gaze met by his sharp jaw. "Can you walk?" His jaw and lips barely move as he speaks.

"I'm pretty sure." I start to fidget in his arms in an attempt to signal that I'm good to take care of myself.

He hesitantly sets me down, and although my knees shake violently, I manage to lock the door frame in a death grip and hold myself upright. He narrows his eyes and raises his eyebrows, keeping his arms open. "Holler if you need me."

Dean turns on his heel and heads back into the living room, his boots thumping loudly against the hardwood, echoing throughout my silent home. I hobble further into my bedroom, half-closing the door with my foot as I begin my trek to my dresser.

Sweatpants. I need sweatpants.

I yank my top left drawer open and paw through my sweatpants, settling on a worn grey fleece pair with burn holes all in the legs from the years I'd smoked.

I shimmy my shorts off each movement causing my abdomen to throb painfully, a sharp, involuntary gasp escaping my lips as I kick my shorts to the side. I stiffly force myself into my sweatpants, biting down on my bottom lip in pain as just the movement of putting my pants on set my torso on fire.

I have to lean on the dresser and take a few deep breaths as nausea threatens to take me over once again.

Focus, Sabs. C'mon. Finish getting dressed.

I take a few deep breaths, trying to think the nauseousness away, before gently opening my T-shirt drawer. Something loose. Something breathable. Something that if it gets stained by blood, will be easy to clean.

Black t-shirt. Simple. Easy to clean. Probably never going to wear this again. There are burn holes throughout the shirt as well, the once black fabric, formerly a deep charcoal colour, is warped and faded from years of wash. It just looks sad.

But it's comfortable.

Trying to pull my newly created crop top over my head was going to prove impossible, so I cut my losses and just tear it upwards, the sound of the fabric ripping breaking the near silence.

I toss it aside, awkwardly sidling into the boxy sleep shirt I picked out. "Dean." I call out, my voice oddly hoarse.

He's in the room in seconds, one hand supporting my elbow, the other resting on the dresser. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I say cautiously and slowly, making a mental note of his restlessness and unease, "I just wanted to tell you that your jacket is here."

He slowly lets go of my elbow, his intense gaze never leaving my face as he paws for his jacket. "You sleeping in here?"