& hey, I even have fic this time
Day 48:
title: the way we are when we come down
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don't own em
rating: teen
warnings: allusions to mental illness
characters: Sam, Dean, brief mentions of John & Mary
word count: 588
notes: set in the same verse as all the ground beneath you, et al. which can be found here.
Living with Dean isn't easy.
Somehow Sam convinced himself that all they needed was to be a family again - a whole one, in the same house, under the same roof - and everything would work out. He’s spent years thinking - dreaming about putting their family back together again.
It’s not nearly so simple.
Dean doesn’t go outside.
One of his first days back, their dad tries to coax him out of the door. It almost works. Dean has one foot on the porch when a crow flies up from somewhere below the steps. He doesn't stop screaming for a solid hour.
By the time they’ve calmed him down, his voice is thready and almost gone. Sam flinches of the thought of Dean’s throat, imagines it bloody and tattered. Once she'd gotten Dean settled, their mother shuts herself in her bedroom and doesn’t come out until it’s time for dinner. Sam watches his dad press a hand over his face. Sam’s never seen him look so old.
That night, Sam hears the sounds of his parents’ quiet voices, floating down through the vent. Half choked what if we’ve done the wrong thing, maybe we should find somewhere else. Sam doesn’t want to hear it, but he can’t block the voices out, even when he jams his head phones over his ears and cranks the volume up on Van Morrison’s voice singing about sailing into the mystic.
Dean has his own room.
Sam remembers their parents setting aside one as his brother’s when they moved in, years ago. He helped his mom paint it right after, even though then Dean wasn’t coming home any time soon. The walls are a soft blue, and there were safety locks on the window, special ones on the door.
Now that Dean’s home, there's a baby monitor set up by the bed, a nanny-cam type thing mounted on the opposite wall. His parents have a corresponding one in their bedroom, and receivers for the monitor in every room of the house.
Sam doesn’t say it out loud, but the room’s been ready longer than they have for everything that comes with his poor, broken brother.
Dean screams at night.
None of them can figure out why, but Sam gets used to the sounds of his mom and dad stumbling out of bed at one, two, three o’clock in the morning. Over and over and over again. He’s tried to help, but they always send him away:
Don’t worry about it, Sammy. We’ve got it. Go on back to bed now, son.
Sam doesn’t want not to worry. His parents can’t hide the toll this is taking; they wear their exhaustion out in the open. There are dark smudges under his mother’s eyes, haggard lines in his dad’s face.
He isn’t sure his idea will work, but he has to try something. Sam waits until his mom has Dean down for his nap, then goes up into the attic. He digs through boxes of stuff he hasn’t seen in years. It takes him a little while to find it, but he comes downstairs triumphant. There’s a nightlight clutched in his hand, one of those childish ones with a frog on the bulb cover; it used to be Sam’s.
He plugs it into the socket by Dean’s bed and flicks the little switch. Crosses his fingers and sends up a silent prayer to whoever’s listening. This has to work. Not just for his parents, but for Dean too.
Things are a little better after that.
- end
title: the way we are when we come down
author: acidquill
disclaimer: don't own em
rating: teen
warnings: allusions to mental illness
characters: Sam, Dean, brief mentions of John & Mary
word count: 588
notes: set in the same verse as all the ground beneath you, et al. which can be found here.
Living with Dean isn't easy.
Somehow Sam convinced himself that all they needed was to be a family again - a whole one, in the same house, under the same roof - and everything would work out. He’s spent years thinking - dreaming about putting their family back together again.
It’s not nearly so simple.
Dean doesn’t go outside.
One of his first days back, their dad tries to coax him out of the door. It almost works. Dean has one foot on the porch when a crow flies up from somewhere below the steps. He doesn't stop screaming for a solid hour.
By the time they’ve calmed him down, his voice is thready and almost gone. Sam flinches of the thought of Dean’s throat, imagines it bloody and tattered. Once she'd gotten Dean settled, their mother shuts herself in her bedroom and doesn’t come out until it’s time for dinner. Sam watches his dad press a hand over his face. Sam’s never seen him look so old.
That night, Sam hears the sounds of his parents’ quiet voices, floating down through the vent. Half choked what if we’ve done the wrong thing, maybe we should find somewhere else. Sam doesn’t want to hear it, but he can’t block the voices out, even when he jams his head phones over his ears and cranks the volume up on Van Morrison’s voice singing about sailing into the mystic.
Dean has his own room.
Sam remembers their parents setting aside one as his brother’s when they moved in, years ago. He helped his mom paint it right after, even though then Dean wasn’t coming home any time soon. The walls are a soft blue, and there were safety locks on the window, special ones on the door.
Now that Dean’s home, there's a baby monitor set up by the bed, a nanny-cam type thing mounted on the opposite wall. His parents have a corresponding one in their bedroom, and receivers for the monitor in every room of the house.
Sam doesn’t say it out loud, but the room’s been ready longer than they have for everything that comes with his poor, broken brother.
Dean screams at night.
None of them can figure out why, but Sam gets used to the sounds of his mom and dad stumbling out of bed at one, two, three o’clock in the morning. Over and over and over again. He’s tried to help, but they always send him away:
Don’t worry about it, Sammy. We’ve got it. Go on back to bed now, son.
Sam doesn’t want not to worry. His parents can’t hide the toll this is taking; they wear their exhaustion out in the open. There are dark smudges under his mother’s eyes, haggard lines in his dad’s face.
He isn’t sure his idea will work, but he has to try something. Sam waits until his mom has Dean down for his nap, then goes up into the attic. He digs through boxes of stuff he hasn’t seen in years. It takes him a little while to find it, but he comes downstairs triumphant. There’s a nightlight clutched in his hand, one of those childish ones with a frog on the bulb cover; it used to be Sam’s.
He plugs it into the socket by Dean’s bed and flicks the little switch. Crosses his fingers and sends up a silent prayer to whoever’s listening. This has to work. Not just for his parents, but for Dean too.
Things are a little better after that.
- end