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Dean kept Sam's baby teeth because of course he did. He only has nineteen of them out of the twenty you're supposed to lose, and he cried when he realized Sam must've swallowed the one he's missing in his sleep. He never meant to take them, though, honest. He just wanted to play tooth fairy for Sammy and leave him a quarter under his pillow, or a candy bar, or whatever they had on hand that Dean could afford to give.
But then, once he would get the tooth from under Sam's pillow in exchange, he could never bear to do something so crass as throw it away. He couldn't explain it, but it would've been akin to blasphemy, in his mind. And what if Sam saw it in the trash? He'd be devastated, belief in the tooth fairy dashed to pieces, and Dean couldn't have that, now, could he?
Never mind the nights Dean would spend with a baby-boy-tooth held tenderly between his fingertips and pressed to his lips, much like how the matronly ladies would hold the crucifix of their rosaries in the odd mass service Dad took them to (lots of paranormal activities happen in catholic churches, you understand).
So he kept them - in an empty tube of chapstick, at first, shoved into a zip pocket in his duffel. But then Sam started to wonder why his lips were always so dry if he had that stick lying around (curious little brothers dug through duffels, after all), so he had to change its hiding spot. Eventually, he settled on sewing them into the bottom of his duffel - he was crafty like that, okay? He had to darn and patch all their jeans and shirts from the scuffles all three of them got into, anyway, so what was one more sewing project to add to the list? Duffels don't get treated that rough, anyway, so they kept the same ones for years and years and years, and Dean’s dutifully carried his secret, wedged in alongside all of his earthly possessions.
Little pieces of Sam, and they’re all his.
Dean lost all of his baby teeth quietly, so Sam didn't have those. Nobody did, instead being washed down sink drains and tossed in gas station bathroom trashcans, lost. But he still managed to get Dean's teeth. And he didn't mean to keep them, either, but once he caught sight of them, he couldn’t imagine anything short of clutching them tight (and holding Dean’s teeth between his own, implanting them inside his own mouth, smoothing his tongue over them, swallowing them down-) and never letting them go.
He cherished the miniature bones that used to be rooted in Dean’s mouth, but he couldn’t look at them without getting a little sick to his stomach, thinking about just how he acquired them. Thinking about what had to happen for them to lie glistening and bloody on the floor of a motel room. In all honesty, he couldn’t look at them without feeling a very different feeling that made him a little sick to his stomach to even name. It was sick, the things he wanted to think about his brother’s vulnerable, pearly, bloody teeth. About the new, soft, fleshy holes in his gums where those teeth used to sit. But Sam didn’t think about that. He wouldn’t. It was sick.
Dean had extra teeth once, you see. They found out about it on one of the rare times they went to a dentist because the doctor owed John a favor and wouldn’t hand over any bottled pain medication, so into the office they went. Dean went first, laid back in the chair all tense and terrified though he’d never admit it, and the dentist caught him off guard, asking if he was feeling any pain up and around his front top teeth. He’d had his gloved finger rubbing back and forth over the weird bumps in Dean’s gums that had been there as long as Sam could remember, and Dean mumbled an answer around the guy’s hand in his mouth. Sam remembered being startled at the muffled admission of, “Yeah. It throbs. A lot.”
They’d gotten (free) x-rays, and the dentist confirmed that Dean had two extra teeth - right next to each other, above his top right incisor and canine. They looked normal, apparently, and had been steadily migrating downward just like adult teeth were supposed to when they replaced baby teeth. The dentist recommended getting surgery to get them out, but Dad had shut that down fast - they couldn’t stick around since he’d ruffled enough feathers to warrant a hasty exit. The dentist visit was keeping them there long enough as-is.
So they left, extra teeth still nestled in Dean’s gums, and had moved on. But Dean’s teeth kept hurting, and then they started hurting even more, just like the dentist had said they would, and he could hardly focus on the job anymore, so Dad came up with a plan. Having surgery to get rid of two teeth that were normal and healthy and working their way down just like they were supposed to was ridiculous, alright? But they couldn’t just leave them that clearly wasn’t working, so the teeth needed to come out.
Dean lost all of his baby teeth quietly, but when it came to his adult teeth, he was loud.
Dean was terrified. He was unbelievably drunk, and he was unbelievably high, and he was unbelievably terrified. If Dean’d thought the dentist was scary, then this was a whole ‘nother level of just absolutely fucked up.
Dad was rustling around in his toolbag - separate from the weaponry kit, of course - and each clink of metal made Dean’s nerves ratchet higher and higher. Sam was sat all small and worried in the opposite corner of the room. Dean knew the kid was picking up on his poorly disguised fear and he hated himself for it, but- god, it was just so hard to think with the pills Dad had told him to down, and he couldn’t stop the nauseating horror from leaking out of every single pore.
The clinking stopped. Dad had found what he was looking for, keeping it in one hand while he tossed some rope to the boy sitting in the corner, “Sam, go tie up your brother.”
“What!?” Dean was shaking his head, talking-back without a thought because of the drugs, “No, no, no- Dad, no, I’ll be fine, I don’t need-” A harsh swallow to keep the vomit in his chest, “I don’t need to be tied down for this, honest.”
Sam stood meekly and wouldn’t meet Dean’s eyes as he got up with the rope and walked over to where he was sitting on their only sturdy kitchen chair. Dean remembered being surprised when Dad brought it into the motel, but he had been brushed off with a mumbled, “Just found it, thought it might be useful.” But now he knew Dad hadn’t just “found it.” He’d planned this.
Dean was gonna be sick.
He cleared his throat about fifteen times to try and keep a grapple on his stomach through the dizziness of the substances and the waves of hurt-scared-betrayal rushing through him as his Dad stalked closer, pliers that he’d been searching for earlier in his hand, casual and cold-metal-menacing. Still, Dean sat there and let Sam tie him up - wrists, ankles, knees, and torso, all secured. Good boy.
Dad grabbed the bottle of whiskey (had he bought it special, just for this occasion?) and shook it at Dean, offering it as he sat down in the less-sturdy chair across from him. All Dean could do was let out a pained moan of fear, aching teeth clenched tight to keep his roiling stomach from leaping out his throat, but he tried to pass it off as a normal negation. A “no, thanks” in the face of cruel metal about to brutalize this sensitive, throbbing part of him. But Dean knew if he took another drink, he would lose it all over the floor, so he said nothing.
Sam was back across the room and cowering, though Dean thought he might be the only person who would recognize that. It was an odd mix of fury and something that smelled like grief radiating from
his
the kid. Dad heaved a sigh and caught Dean’s attention, beckoning him to open his mouth so he could shove a cloth bundle between Dean’s teeth on the left side of his jaw to keep it out of the way and hold his mouth open wide. Dean’s breath was coming in pants now, more wild-whites of his eyes showing even as he tried to suppress it. He was shaking. He hoped Sam wouldn’t notice.
Finally, finally- way too soon, way too real, and god, why did he have to do this, again?-- finally, Dad lifted his hand to grip Dean’s jaw to steady him, fitting his thumb into the crook of the inside of Dean’s mouth to pull his cheek out of the way, making embarrassing amounts of saliva pool around the digit.
Metal, cool and smooth against his tongue. Pliers on one painful, aching tooth. A steadying breath fanning across his face. A faux countdown that didn’t work on Dean anymore - it was on two, it was always on two. Screaming, screaming - was that coming from him?
He was screaming and thrashing in his bonds, and he couldn’t stop. He was sobbing, with tears pouring down his face, and it hurt so fucking bad, how could it possibly hurt this bad-
A hand in his hair, gripping it tight to keep his head still. Hard metal shoved hastily back in his mouth, slimy and warm this time, latching onto the next tooth.
“No, no, no, no more, please, Daddy, no, please!” But it was muffled through the cloth he hadn’t managed to spit out and the pliers in his mouth, and his daddy wasn’t listening.
A steadying breath, again. A determined clench of a jaw. A hand tightening in his hair to stop his head from thrashing. The sound.
The sound. The sound. The sound-
It was a sickening, wet R-I-P that echoed across the room, worse than the one before, threads of tooth root still firmly implanted being shredded apart, audible above Dean’s wailing.
He was hysteric now, sanity left behind in the face of the foggy confusion and involuntary drowsiness of the pills that rang the alarm bells long ingrained in his brain, combined with the mind-altering fear and pain of having two of his teeth ripped out by his own father. Healthy, strong teeth getting ripped out, something Dean’d only seen in TV shows about serial killers. His own father.
Dad let go of him abruptly, stepping away as Dean hacked out wet, sobbing coughs, gagging and retching until finally the little bit of food he’d managed to stomach earlier came back up, splattering onto his clothes and down onto the shitty kitchenette vinyl. It was speckled with the blood from his mouth, which had also steadily been pouring down his face, mixed with tears and spit.
The man in front of him stepped forward, reaching towards the ropes on his wrists, but Dean thrashed worse, cowering in animalistic fear and trying to get away from his
tormentor
father. His reaction startled John into stillness, but it sprang Sam into action from his corner. He sprinted towards Dean and shoved past his dad none-too-gently, all but pushing him out of the way, something that only the youngest son could get away with. John stepped away ever-so-graciously, his clenched jaw and a furrowed brow aside. He stepped away. He was gone.
So it was just Sam and Dean, then, in the mini-kitchenette corner on top of the vinyl. Sam made quick work of Dean’s wrist bindings before moving to the mini-fridge-freezer to take out the icepacks he’d made sure to nab from the school’s nurse’s office. He turned back to find Dean feebly trying to pick at the rest of his ropes, still sobbing hysterically, involuntary and jerking in a way that would haunt Sam’s nightmares for a long time.
Sam patted his hands away gently, filling them instead with the icepacks and guiding them to be held against Dean’s aching face, persisting through the flinch Dean gave at his face being touched. He un-did Dean’s ankles and knees and finally his torso, at which point Dean slumped forward into Sam’s chest and stomach, who was quick to catch Dean to keep him from sliding off and away.
Sam held him there and let him sob, not quite sure what else to do. How do you take care of someone who’s taught you everything when they’ve never shown you how?
And God forgive him, but Dean was so warm, and he was so vulnerable, and all Sam could think about was those thoughts he tried so desperately not to think about. It was sick. Sam was sick. Still, he held Dean, ignoring the tingling in his gut, and went about subtly petting Dean’s hair and rubbing his shoulder where John couldn’t see. And, oh, but Dean’s hair was so soft, and his shoulder so firm, and so strong, and-
Sam glanced around quickly, needing something, anything to keep his mind occupied. His glance happened down towards the floor, covered in blood and vomit, and there they were. Teeth, two of them. Dean’s teeth. Two of Dean’s teeth, both bloody, and one still with mouth tissue attached to it. So, so small.
Two teeth, both bloody. Dean’s.
Sam eased Dean’s torso up to rest against the back of the chair, just for a moment while he groped around the top of the mini-fridge and found the towel lying there to try and clean up a little. He gave only a perfunctory wipe down of Dean’s clothes since he was soaked with sweat and would need to change out of them anyway, and then moved down to the floor. He crouched so he could haphazardly clean and - more importantly - for an excuse to reach over and oh-so-subtly grab the teeth lying next to him and shove them into his pocket for safe keeping, blood and gums and all.
And still, after all that time, Sam kept them. Cherished them. Took them to Stanford and hid them there, too. Now, they were sequestered inside the handle of his hairbrush - the one tool of his that he knew Dean would never use - in a special compartment Sam had carved into the brush handle. There wasn’t enough room for them to move around, Sam knew that, but every morning, he swore he could hear them rattle as he ran the brush through his hair. He never cleaned the blood off.
Two teeth, both bloody.
Little pieces of Dean, and they’re all his.