Dean Winchester & hug dynamic analysis
I was thinking about how whenever Dean hugs someone he's almost always the one hugging the other and how this links to his psychological trauma of always being the caretaker of people, making himself bigger to protect them.
Because that's how Dean sees himself, as a shield for others, and then I thought about how Cas actually is the shield, and he's HIS SHIELD, specifically, the only one who's really there to protect HIM, which is why it hits so much when we see this:
The way Cas wraps his arms around him, trying to protect him with his whole body--that he'd use as a shield and give up in a second if he could spare him from any pain and save him.
(for context: Dean was about to go use the soul bomb on Amara there, it was a suicide mission)
Bobby is another one that hits, he hugs him as the big hugger because he's his father, he loves him and he's actually here to protect him (and Dean LETS him -barely, but he lets him *and Cas* - in a way that he doesn't let Sam)
I watched a compilation of Sam & Dean hugs to check if i was right about it, but it's almost always Dean the big hugger with Sam, except when he's about to die or Sam sees him alive again after losing him.
Even then, Dean mostly tries to hug Sam as the big hugger anyway, with at least one arm, like a way to comfort him, making him feel protected, like his body language is saying "I'm here, I'm okay, I'm still strong, i can still protect you" (because their real father failed and Dean thinks it's his job).
He rarely lets himself be the little one hugged with Sam, unless he's barely conscious. Which is why it kills me so much more now that in this moment (s14, when Dean was going to lock himself in the Ma'lak box cause he was possessed by Michael) and Sam has a desperate breakdown and punches him (to stop him) he forcefully hugs him as the little hugger, the way Dean always kept him, like a way of saying "I still need you to protect me, please don't do this to yourself".
In the scene below he gives Sam his blessing to do a dangerous (possibly suicidal) mission, and one of his arms is down, but the other one tries to stay up--he's forcing himself to do it and he struggles because he still wants to protect him, but (as the seasons progress) he slowly becomes more prone to let go.
So in this view the hug dynamic becomes an indicator of how Dean sees Sam (and himself) and his protector role, how adult and self sufficient he considers Sam, and how much he lets people around him take care of him, lowering his walls and letting himself be hugged.
This is also why i think hugs from characters like Garth or Charlie are so special, because they're just like us: they see Dean and they just know that he needs to be hugged a lot, and that he's not used to it, so they just go for it-- and it's so normal and kind and spontaneous that Dean's just not used to it-- he doesn't know how to respond (especially with Garth, at the beginning, but as the seasons progress, he learns to, and he even initiates the hug eventually).
I love the hugs where they're 50/50 (one arm up, one arm down both), feels like they're equals, both taking care of each other. I feel like with Sam and Dean, this indicates a healthier dynamic, because Dean lets go a little of the role that was imposed to him and manages to see Sam as the strong individual that he is. But the same applies to 50/50 hugs with other characters, like with Cas, where I feel like it testifies how equals they feel in terms of being fighters, there's a show of respect of each other's strength that transpires by the gesture (which is even more astounding considering that Cas is literally a powerful angel).
And just to end on a destiel note, I'd like to note the possessiveness and protectiveness of Dean (rightfully so) whenever he finds Cas after he thought he had lost him, and how that translates into his body/hug language:
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prompt is hmmm least normal conversation between your hawke and varric?
alternatively, putting hawke in their least favorite situations, parties or murder, whichever dreads them more?
TYY you read my mind with this, my hawke had SUCH a messed up relationship with varric. and to combine the prompts, skyhold is basically a saw trap for him. so here's varric and hawke having a terrible conversation about hawke and anders' relationship at herald's rest.
The swill they sold at Herald's Rest, Skyhold's only tavern, was unlike anything Hawke had ever tasted before. In his youth he might have been able to bear it - long nights at The Hanged Man emptying barrels upon barrels of the worst drink Kirkwall had to offer had once been his only hobby. But the past few years had softened him. He wanted warm mead, cheap wine, someone to bring him elfroot tea as he put his feet up.
Varric didn't seem to care. He took a large swig from his tankard as if it was nothing, smacking his lips loudly.
"Maker, that hit the spot." He groaned.
Hawke didn't know what to say in response. He stared around the tavern, observing the other people drinking. They seemed on edge, nervous. It reminded him of that last night at Ostagar, everyone more than aware of the fact that they could die tomorrow. Perhaps that was why he was the only one who wasn't drinking like a fish.
"Hawke?" Varric was saying, "you listening?"
Hawke turned his gaze to Varric, "I'm listening," he grunted, pushing his drink away from him.
"Come on. I know you didn't hear a damn word I said."
Varric was suddenly serious. He sat back in his chair, tilting his chin up and meeting Hawke's eye. In this light, he suddenly looked far older than the man Hawke knew; it was hard to believe it had been a decade since they'd first met. Those first few uncomplicated months before the Deep Roads expedition, before a thousand tiny invisible barriers had begun to worm their way between them, felt simultaneously like a lifetime ago and yesterday afternoon.
"Do we have a problem, Hawke?" Varric asked.
Hawke laughed sharply. "No."
It was unconvincing, Hawke knew that. He watched as Varric picked up his drink and took another steady gulp, eyeing him suspiciously over the rim of his tankard.
Then his eyes drifted down, fixing on Hawke's hand before widening. He swallowed, coughed, reddened, looking for all the world like an Orlesian nobleman who'd just been caught doing something exceptionally unfashionable.
Hawke looked down at his hand. It was the same as ever, scarred and rough, nails bitten short in a habit Anders had always found disgusting.
And, against his worn skin, a single sunbeam in a stormy sky: his ring, once worn by his father and now worn by him. It was one half of a pair. The other half, his mother's, was somewhere far away, on the finger of someone he missed very much.
Varric couldn't stop staring at it. He was no longer red. His face was white, his knuckles even whiter.
"Hawke," he said slowly, "tell me that isn't what I think it is."
If he was honest with himself, Hawke had been anticipating this conversation ever since he'd arrived in Skyhold. If anything, he was surprised it had taken so long for Varric to notice. His gaze had a habit of lingering on him for a moment too long, taking in details nobody else saw.
He twisted the ring around his finger, "it's nothing," he lied.
"Doesn't look like nothing."
Hawke took the ring off and placed it on the table. It wasn't anything fancy, a cheap metal band coated with a thin layer of gold. His mother's ring had a small red gem inlaid in it, so bright it could have been red lyrium, but his father had been spared the frivolity.
"Does this make me your wife?" Anders had joked as Hawke had slipped the ring on his thin finger.
Varric reached out and picked it up, rolling the band around in his palm with a sour expression.
"When was the wedding?" He asked.
"A few years ago."
"Right." Varric said, gritting his teeth, "sure."
Hawke said nothing in response. He held his hand out, waiting for him to give the ring back.
Either Varric didn't notice him, or he pretended not to. He continued to fiddle with it, warming the cool metal in his hands, "were you planning on telling me? Or did my invite get lost somewhere?"
His voice was hard as stone but Hawke was harder. "Nobody was invited," he said, "it was just us."
And Bethany. And The Hero of Ferelden. And a few friends. But Varric didn't need to know that.
"Still," Varric continued to toy with the ring, "you could've written. I would've sent a gift."
Hawke snorted, "a gift for a wedding you don't approve of? The Orlesians are rubbing off on you, Varric."
It was hard for Hawke to keep the irritation from his voice. His patience was wearing thin. He reached out and snatched the ring from Varric's hand, slipping it back on his finger where it belonged.
Neither of them spoke for a long time after that. Hawke let his mind wander, thinking about how he'd tell this story when he got home. Would it make Anders smile? Would Bethany chide him for being too cruel? Or would the three of them sit in silence afterwards, navigating the personal mazes they were more and more often finding themselves lost in.
Varric coughed lightly, "I don't disapprove." He said, so quiet that Hawke barely heard him.
"Pardon?"
"I said, I don't disapprove." He repeated, "of you and Blondie, that is."
He was lying. Hawke felt a fire begin to ignite in his chest, "I read your book," he said sharply, "everyone did. All of Thedas knows exactly what you think."
"It was a dramatised version of events. I've said it a thousand times, Hawke, I'm not a historian-"
"-I'm a storyteller," Hawke finished, mimicking Varric's rough voice, "right."
Another silence. Varric had finished his drink by now but continued to fiddle with the tankard, peering into it every now and then as if hoping more alcohol would materialise if he wanted it badly enough.
Hawke had been maybe a hundred pages into The Tale of the Champion when he'd realised Varric was in love with him. The realisation had come over him like a heart attack, finally hitting after years of creeping up on him. Part of him thought maybe he should have realised sooner. It had, in hindsight, been sickeningly obvious.
When he'd asked Anders for his opinion, he'd had the nerve to laugh. (This had been, of course, when he still knew how to laugh. If Hawke had known how few of Anders' laughs he'd have left, he might not have been so angry. But that's always the way.)
"I was wondering when you were going to figure it out," he'd said, doubling over, "Maker, Isabela and I even had a bet, once."
Did Varric himself even know? Hawke looked at him. He was still staring morosely at his empty drink, a few strands of hair falling in his eyes where they'd come loose from his ponytail. Surely if he knew he would have said something by now. He was never usually quiet about his feelings.
"Varric." Hawke said.
"What?"
"Do you..."
Potential hung in the air, a dagger at the end of his tongue. Hawke could ask his question if he wanted. He could do anything if he wanted; he could ruin everything, he could run all the way home and cower beneath his bed, he could tear his sword from his hilt and see how many Templars he could slaughter before someone cut him down.
But he did nothing. Just as he had done nothing every night since arriving as Skyhold. He continued to sit on the uncomfortable chair at the dirty table, continued to ignore his drink. Varric stared at him with his tired, worn expression. There was a look in his eyes that reminded Hawke shockingly of Anders on the day he'd blown up the Chantry. An acknowledgement of an unavoidable fact and an acceptance of it, the mutual knowledge that Hawke could do anything in that moment and he wouldn't resist.
Just as before, Hawke couldn't go through with it. He dropped the dagger.
"Do you want another drink?" He asked.
Varric avoided his gaze and shrugged. "I think I'm done for the night."
"Sure."
"I'm going to turn in."
He slipped out from the table and into the fray of the crowded tavern, dodging stray elbows and swinging knees. Hawke watched him leave, finished his drink, then took the same path out into the cool night.
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