Everything
Summary: What was Dean thinking? You know what, just pretend that this isn't here. Because that's what Dean wants you to do. Really. Just. Take care of Sam for him, okay? Because he thinks he gets long-winded when he's confused, so he just stands there and wills you to get it. Cuz he doesn't think in real time. It's kinda like super speed. Like Batman.
Category: Generic character story. Oneshot.
Timeline: Coda for Fresh Blood (3.07)
Characters: Dean
Wordcount: ~825
Rating: PG
Written: Dec. 12th, 2007
Prompt: A companion to Socket, Valve, Heart
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Dean took another swig and leaned back on the cooler to dig his boots into the loose roadtop.
Damn. It was getting cold out here. The wind was cold. Would he ever be cold again? Could he soak up enough cold to...
Huh.
There was a difference between understanding and awareness. And this was it. This must be. This was the long goodbye. The final cut. The last roll of toilet paper. Whatever.
So what if he called it "going away". That's what it was. If he thought about it, it wouldn't be much different from where he was now. Not really. Except for that there, down there, wherever it was, there would be no Sam. That made it what it was. And that was all. Hopefully.
And he won't "just stop". Never going to just suddenly wish he'd never done it. He may wish he could change it. Wish he didn't have to go, to leave. Leave Sam alone, or be without him, couldn't tell which was worse. It was enough to make every muscle and bone in his body hurt just trying not to think about it. Watching Sam not think about it was worse. Yeah, that was definitely worse.
But he got a year. It was more than Dad got. But it was a year. It was a year too long. If it hadn't been a year, if it had been then, right then, like Dad, Dad knew Sam needed him more than... then he wouldn't be spending a year not watching Sam not think about it. A year was too long. Totally. He was glad it wasn't ten.
A year was never going to be long enough. Dean swirled the last of the beer, watched the suds roll around in the bottom of the bottle. Something metal clanged on the side of the car and he heard Sam swear under his breath.
Just done. Nah. Sure, it was hard. It was hard to wait and watch Sam wait. And it was damn impossible to make him understand. Freak. He had meant everything he said that night. He was sorry. He was sorry, but it was the only damn way he could think of, and now he has to put him through this. The same thing he couldn't bring himself to do. But he really was, Sam, he was stronger than him. He would be okay. He wouldn't have been okay. Not at all. Sam's stronger. He is. And if he'd just shut and up and listen, he could tell him that. And it would sound like an encouragement and like a real honest to God apology. But he'd been wrong. Sam, who always loved to talk about it. Sam didn't want an apology. Good. Cause he didn't mean it anyway. He wasn't sorry. He didn't regret it. What did Sam think "facing it" meant, anyway?
Dean puckered his lips and blew into the bottle, letting the echo billow out in front of him like a ship's horn.
Heh. All aboard. Funny. In a really effed up sorta way.
There was only one way to face this. But not face it like Sam meant, not fight it. Hell, he "faced" it every day. Every time he woke up and saw Sam's feet sticking out because he pulled the sheets completely out and over his head, like he started to do when he was eighteen. Or seventeen... Every time Sam brushed his teeth and came out to say something he just thought of and he couldn't understand a damn word he said and would he stop standing in front of the TV like that in his underwear already. Every time there were two coffees sitting on the table. Every time Sam did that hiccup burp thing from drinking his Mountain Dew too fast. God, that stuff was nasty. Every time Sam fell down in a fight and his heart stopped for the split second before he got up again. He could decide to stay, panic and begin to think that Sam needed him, start believing Dad was right, try to think of a way out. And Sam could fall down and never get up. Ever again.
The wind picked up even harder and made the dust on the road fly into his eyes, made him cover his face with his sleeve. When he turned his head, the shop towels were floating away. And Sam. Sam wasn't chasing them. He was just standing there. Holding onto the car.
Every time he looked at him. No. Sam would not die. Every time he looked at him, he wouldn't die.
Dean's heels scraped at the ground. Scuffed the gravel into two lines. Stood up. Walked forward silently.
He could fight. He could give everything he had. Not to. Not to go away. But he wouldn't. This was his best friend. His equal. His better. His little brother. His Sam. His everything. To give everything for everything? That was easy.
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Category: Generic character story. Oneshot.
Timeline: Coda for Fresh Blood (3.07)
Characters: Dean
Wordcount: ~825
Rating: PG
Written: Dec. 12th, 2007
Prompt: A companion to Socket, Valve, Heart
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dean took another swig and leaned back on the cooler to dig his boots into the loose roadtop.
Damn. It was getting cold out here. The wind was cold. Would he ever be cold again? Could he soak up enough cold to...
Huh.
There was a difference between understanding and awareness. And this was it. This must be. This was the long goodbye. The final cut. The last roll of toilet paper. Whatever.
So what if he called it "going away". That's what it was. If he thought about it, it wouldn't be much different from where he was now. Not really. Except for that there, down there, wherever it was, there would be no Sam. That made it what it was. And that was all. Hopefully.
And he won't "just stop". Never going to just suddenly wish he'd never done it. He may wish he could change it. Wish he didn't have to go, to leave. Leave Sam alone, or be without him, couldn't tell which was worse. It was enough to make every muscle and bone in his body hurt just trying not to think about it. Watching Sam not think about it was worse. Yeah, that was definitely worse.
But he got a year. It was more than Dad got. But it was a year. It was a year too long. If it hadn't been a year, if it had been then, right then, like Dad, Dad knew Sam needed him more than... then he wouldn't be spending a year not watching Sam not think about it. A year was too long. Totally. He was glad it wasn't ten.
A year was never going to be long enough. Dean swirled the last of the beer, watched the suds roll around in the bottom of the bottle. Something metal clanged on the side of the car and he heard Sam swear under his breath.
Just done. Nah. Sure, it was hard. It was hard to wait and watch Sam wait. And it was damn impossible to make him understand. Freak. He had meant everything he said that night. He was sorry. He was sorry, but it was the only damn way he could think of, and now he has to put him through this. The same thing he couldn't bring himself to do. But he really was, Sam, he was stronger than him. He would be okay. He wouldn't have been okay. Not at all. Sam's stronger. He is. And if he'd just shut and up and listen, he could tell him that. And it would sound like an encouragement and like a real honest to God apology. But he'd been wrong. Sam, who always loved to talk about it. Sam didn't want an apology. Good. Cause he didn't mean it anyway. He wasn't sorry. He didn't regret it. What did Sam think "facing it" meant, anyway?
Dean puckered his lips and blew into the bottle, letting the echo billow out in front of him like a ship's horn.
Heh. All aboard. Funny. In a really effed up sorta way.
There was only one way to face this. But not face it like Sam meant, not fight it. Hell, he "faced" it every day. Every time he woke up and saw Sam's feet sticking out because he pulled the sheets completely out and over his head, like he started to do when he was eighteen. Or seventeen... Every time Sam brushed his teeth and came out to say something he just thought of and he couldn't understand a damn word he said and would he stop standing in front of the TV like that in his underwear already. Every time there were two coffees sitting on the table. Every time Sam did that hiccup burp thing from drinking his Mountain Dew too fast. God, that stuff was nasty. Every time Sam fell down in a fight and his heart stopped for the split second before he got up again. He could decide to stay, panic and begin to think that Sam needed him, start believing Dad was right, try to think of a way out. And Sam could fall down and never get up. Ever again.
The wind picked up even harder and made the dust on the road fly into his eyes, made him cover his face with his sleeve. When he turned his head, the shop towels were floating away. And Sam. Sam wasn't chasing them. He was just standing there. Holding onto the car.
Every time he looked at him. No. Sam would not die. Every time he looked at him, he wouldn't die.
Dean's heels scraped at the ground. Scuffed the gravel into two lines. Stood up. Walked forward silently.
He could fight. He could give everything he had. Not to. Not to go away. But he wouldn't. This was his best friend. His equal. His better. His little brother. His Sam. His everything. To give everything for everything? That was easy.
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