There were times that it helped being taller and a bit bigger than Dean. This.. was not one of them. Sam struggled to get Dean's arm up and around his shoulders to try and help him back to the house. He shook his head at the insistent visions dancing around his peripheral vision. Not now. Dean needed him.
It also didn't help that Dean wouldn't let go of the trenchcoat. But Sam wouldn't dream of taking it from him.
He hadn't mourned. Not once. Not for their Dad, for Jo or Ellen or any of the other friends and allies they lost along the way. But the fact that he wouldn't mourn his best friend, wouldn't even speak his name, worried the holy hell out of Sam.
Sam got him inside, easing him onto the couch nearest the fireplace. He moved faster now, banking the fire and wrapping a blanket around his brother. It was cold outside and he was soaked to the damn skin.
"Dean? Dean, talk to me." The silence was even more terrifying. He hadn't objected to the slightest fuss over him, things that would normally have him squawking and calling him 'Samantha' and a big girl.
He made himself let go of the coat, putting it over the back of the chair. He wasn't feeling the cold; in fact, he just felt numb. He must have been cold, he was shivering, but... he just couldn't feel it. He'd been feeling that nothing since he came back from hell, but it had never seemed this empty.
Empty. Like the coat. Like the impala had after Dad had first gone. Like their lives were a little more after they lost another damned friend or family member. The trouble with finally allowing himself to mourn? It opened the doors to his grief for the others which he had tried to keep firmly shut to keep himself going. or at least try to keep themselves going.
He opened his mouth to say he was fine. To get Sam the hell away from this train-wreck Dean currently had going on, but instead what came out was: "It seems so still." and his eyes flicked in the direction of the coat before dropping back down to his hands.
Well, Shit. that wasn't what he intended to say at all.
Sam felt his chest tighten in alarm. He had to stay calm. It was the only way he was going to get Dean through this. After all the times that Dean held them together, Sam could do this for his brother. He had to.
He wrapped the blanket around Dean's shoulders, setting another log on the fire. As it crackled, he turned back at his brother's comment, settling himself on the footstool directly in front of him.
"I know. It was always moving, even when he's stand there like a statue."
Yes, and now he's fish food. You two have the worst track record with friends.
....You STFU Hallucifer. (hehe >3<)100deaths_a_dayOctober 9 2011, 02:34:31 UTC
Dean shifted off the couch, the blankets dropping as he did, moving under his own steam for the first time since he had slipped down the car. And moved... straight for the nearest stash of whiskey. It probably said something that he knew where the more private of Bobby's stashes were - the better stuff - and normally he respected that they were hidden for a reason. But right now, he needed this and doubted he could make it into the kitchen without breaking into a million frigging pieces right now. Maybe it would shut some of the damned emotions buzzing in his head up.
He sat back down, and returned to his still state after opening the bottle. He was wrong, he couldn't do this. He tried to emotionally recoil from the topic, and when he couldn't do it, he drank a generous measure straight from the bottle. "it's empty. I couldn't stop them, and now it's empty." That's the coat and the leviathans. He still hadn't spoken about Cas directly since that day .
Hallucifer : "neener neener neener!"hunter_returnsOctober 9 2011, 02:50:16 UTC
Sam watched him move. He had never felt so goddamn useless. If Dean would just talk to him.
But he won't, will he? All this time and Dean still doesn't trust you.
He rubbed at the scar on his palm, forcing his mind to what was real. Dean was right. He could tell the difference if he tried. And right now, Dean needed him. Sam took the bottle, taking a small pull from it.
"We tried, Dean. He was coming back." Sam knew that somehow, Cas was still inside, which is what drove him to the yard outside Bobby's before dawn to call for him. Cas was family. He always had faith in family.
No, no, no no no. He can't talk about that yet. That fact that he'd been so damned close was what had made this harder. The fact he'd been there at the end.
He took back the bottle in his hands and took another long pull as an excuse not to answer, and just simply "I can't, Sam." Hopefully Sam'd know what he meant. That he wouldn't push, but he knew better than that.
Getting Dean to talk about something when he wasn't ready was an exercise in futility. Or it wound up with him getting punched.
Sam, despite everything, still had some vague sense of hope. That Castiel was still alive, that they could get him back somehow. It was probably a vain hope, but it was one he had to hang on to in order to keep going.
He picked up the discarded blanket and draped it around Dean again before shaking off his own wet jacket and taking up his seat again.
"You have to. You have to, Dean or you're gonna implode. So, c'mon." Sam's hands dropped to his knees, fully prepared to get punched. "Let me have it then. Do something."
The room started getting that claustrophobic feeling again. He needed to get out. Move. Do something, anything, to stop his mind thinking over this. This time when he stood, the coat shifted slightly, and slid off of the back of the sofa. "You want me to do something? I'm going for a drive."
Dean made no move to catch it. He felt like there was a damned lump in his throat, which he swallowed against. It seemed to take forever to fall, even if it couldn't have taken more than a few moments.
It felt.... so wrong, the familiar trench coat being on the floor. Like a discarded, empty wrapper. In the impala, at least, he hadn't had to see it. He blinked a few times, as if not really sure what he was seeing, and moved again. This time, he was deliberately holding himself steady and slow. It was just a coat; didn't matter if it was on the floor. It was just a coat; it didn't need to be snatched up like the ground was on fire.
....................who was he trying to kid; it wasn't just a coat. It had been a part of Cas; an essential part. As he thought about it, he chewed on his lip. He thought he could taste blood, but accidentally scraping his teeth over his bottom lip did't bring the sharp pain it should have.
What was that you were saying about an implosion, Sam?
Sam had picked up the coat an instant after it slipped to the floor and folded it on the table with more reverence than a discarded piece of clothing probably deserved. But it was all they had left of Cas. Something heavy fell out, bouncing off his foot. A leather wallet.
He picked it up and was about to open it when he glanced at his brother and saw the ribbon of blood down the front of his chin. His eyes wide, Sam shoved the wallet into his own pocket and was at his brother's side in a moment. "Jesus, Dean!"
Fire and blood and pain, they all danced in his periperhal vision, Hell trying to break through into his world again. Not now. Not now. Dean. Focus.
It could have been a minute, it could have been ten, it was hard for him to tell sometimes.
Dean was all too pleased to have the focus taken off of him, to have something to focus on other than his own feelings. He took Sam's hand in his, ready to dig his thumb in if he needed to.
"Sam?" Pause. "Sam?!"
What the hell was he doing? Was he really selfish enough to do this every time Sam sunk in that little too far? Answer? Yes. He wanted Sam for as long as it took for the other shoe to drop. what the hell kind of person did that make him?
Every time Sam spaced out, Dean felt himself sink a little further into a darker place inside himself. Knew he was one step closer to losing Sam.
The thing is, Dean has a very pessimistic view, 99.9% of the time. He knew it; it wasn't exactly surprising with his life, either. But if you didn't raise yourself up on unfounded hopes, then the fall was shorter, and it didn't hurt so much. But... Cas had been a big part of the little hope Dean had. That he could help Sam during that thing with Ruby, that he could find Sam after he left, find God, carry on after having that hope crushed, that he could live after Sam jumped, that they could find the phoenix and gank Eve, and even after tearing Sam's wall down - which Dean had mostly forgiven him for, even if Cas regretting it made neither of them feel better about it, and even at the end that they would get the angel back.
His little piece of hope - his salvation - walked into the water, and didn't walk back out again.
Damn, he hated getting self-examination time; especially in these tense moments that he didn't know if Sam was going to snap back.
It also didn't help that Dean wouldn't let go of the trenchcoat. But Sam wouldn't dream of taking it from him.
He hadn't mourned. Not once. Not for their Dad, for Jo or Ellen or any of the other friends and allies they lost along the way. But the fact that he wouldn't mourn his best friend, wouldn't even speak his name, worried the holy hell out of Sam.
Sam got him inside, easing him onto the couch nearest the fireplace. He moved faster now, banking the fire and wrapping a blanket around his brother. It was cold outside and he was soaked to the damn skin.
"Dean? Dean, talk to me." The silence was even more terrifying. He hadn't objected to the slightest fuss over him, things that would normally have him squawking and calling him 'Samantha' and a big girl.
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Empty. Like the coat. Like the impala had after Dad had first gone. Like their lives were a little more after they lost another damned friend or family member. The trouble with finally allowing himself to mourn? It opened the doors to his grief for the others which he had tried to keep firmly shut to keep himself going. or at least try to keep themselves going.
He opened his mouth to say he was fine. To get Sam the hell away from this train-wreck Dean currently had going on, but instead what came out was: "It seems so still." and his eyes flicked in the direction of the coat before dropping back down to his hands.
Well, Shit. that wasn't what he intended to say at all.
Reply
He wrapped the blanket around Dean's shoulders, setting another log on the fire. As it crackled, he turned back at his brother's comment, settling himself on the footstool directly in front of him.
"I know. It was always moving, even when he's stand there like a statue."
Yes, and now he's fish food. You two have the worst track record with friends.
Reply
He sat back down, and returned to his still state after opening the bottle. He was wrong, he couldn't do this. He tried to emotionally recoil from the topic, and when he couldn't do it, he drank a generous measure straight from the bottle. "it's empty. I couldn't stop them, and now it's empty." That's the coat and the leviathans. He still hadn't spoken about Cas directly since that day .
Reply
But he won't, will he? All this time and Dean still doesn't trust you.
He rubbed at the scar on his palm, forcing his mind to what was real. Dean was right. He could tell the difference if he tried. And right now, Dean needed him. Sam took the bottle, taking a small pull from it.
"We tried, Dean. He was coming back." Sam knew that somehow, Cas was still inside, which is what drove him to the yard outside Bobby's before dawn to call for him. Cas was family. He always had faith in family.
Reply
He took back the bottle in his hands and took another long pull as an excuse not to answer, and just simply "I can't, Sam." Hopefully Sam'd know what he meant. That he wouldn't push, but he knew better than that.
Reply
Sam, despite everything, still had some vague sense of hope. That Castiel was still alive, that they could get him back somehow. It was probably a vain hope, but it was one he had to hang on to in order to keep going.
He picked up the discarded blanket and draped it around Dean again before shaking off his own wet jacket and taking up his seat again.
"You have to. You have to, Dean or you're gonna implode. So, c'mon." Sam's hands dropped to his knees, fully prepared to get punched. "Let me have it then. Do something."
Reply
Dean made no move to catch it. He felt like there was a damned lump in his throat, which he swallowed against. It seemed to take forever to fall, even if it couldn't have taken more than a few moments.
It felt.... so wrong, the familiar trench coat being on the floor. Like a discarded, empty wrapper. In the impala, at least, he hadn't had to see it. He blinked a few times, as if not really sure what he was seeing, and moved again. This time, he was deliberately holding himself steady and slow. It was just a coat; didn't matter if it was on the floor. It was just a coat; it didn't need to be snatched up like the ground was on fire.
....................who was he trying to kid; it wasn't just a coat. It had been a part of Cas; an essential part. As he thought about it, he chewed on his lip. He thought he could taste blood, but accidentally scraping his teeth over his bottom lip did't bring the sharp pain it should have.
What was that you were saying about an implosion, Sam?
Reply
He picked it up and was about to open it when he glanced at his brother and saw the ribbon of blood down the front of his chin. His eyes wide, Sam shoved the wallet into his own pocket and was at his brother's side in a moment. "Jesus, Dean!"
Fire and blood and pain, they all danced in his periperhal vision, Hell trying to break through into his world again. Not now. Not now. Dean. Focus.
It could have been a minute, it could have been ten, it was hard for him to tell sometimes.
Reply
"Sam?" Pause. "Sam?!"
What the hell was he doing? Was he really selfish enough to do this every time Sam sunk in that little too far? Answer? Yes. He wanted Sam for as long as it took for the other shoe to drop. what the hell kind of person did that make him?
Every time Sam spaced out, Dean felt himself sink a little further into a darker place inside himself. Knew he was one step closer to losing Sam.
The thing is, Dean has a very pessimistic view, 99.9% of the time. He knew it; it wasn't exactly surprising with his life, either. But if you didn't raise yourself up on unfounded hopes, then the fall was shorter, and it didn't hurt so much. But... Cas had been a big part of the little hope Dean had. That he could help Sam during that thing with Ruby, that he could find Sam after he left, find God, carry on after having that hope crushed, that he could live after Sam jumped, that they could find the phoenix and gank Eve, and even after tearing Sam's wall down - which Dean had mostly forgiven him for, even if Cas regretting it made neither of them feel better about it, and even at the end that they would get the angel back.
His little piece of hope - his salvation - walked into the water, and didn't walk back out again.
Damn, he hated getting self-examination time; especially in these tense moments that he didn't know if Sam was going to snap back.
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