GenFic: What's Left (Companion Piece to my "There's Only the Here and Now.")
Title: What’s Left
Author: Emrys
Warning/Spoilers: Minor spoilers for “Dead in the Water,” and “Faith.” MAJOR spoilers for “In My Time of Dying,” and “Everybody Loves a Clown.” Also, and as usual, there’s a language warning attached to this fic.
Rating: Older teens can safely read this, if they’re okay with the language.
Genre: Genfic; big ole helping of Dean angst.
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to the CW and to Eric Kripke.
Summary: Companion piece to my other fic, “There’s Only the Here and Now,” but you don’t have to read that to know what’s going on here.
If you want to read "There's Only the Here and Now," you can find it here:
There's Only the Here and Now .
Here's the lj-cut to "What's Left":
Title: What’s Left
Author: Emrys
Warning/Spoilers: Minor spoilers for “Dead in the Water,” and “Faith.” MAJOR spoilers for “In My Time of Dying,” and “Everybody Loves a Clown.” Also, and as usual, there’s a language warning attached to this fic.
Rating: Older teens can safely read this, if they’re okay with the language.
Genre: Genfic; big ole helping of Dean angst.
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to the CW and to Eric Kripke.
Summary: Companion piece to my other fic, “There’s Only the Here and Now,” but you don’t have to read that to know what’s going on here.
What’s Left
At first, Sam is so wrapped up in his own grief, that he doesn’t notice something is seriously wrong with Dean. And it isn’t as if Dean isn’t talking. He is. He talks when Sam needs him, when Sam’s grief is so rending that Dean apparently feels the need to intercede and does so by whispering quiet words of comfort.
But as the moments between devastating bouts of sorrow become longer, as Sam grows accustomed to the idea that his father no longer inhabits the Earth, it becomes more and more apparent that Dean has stopped talking.
Sam remembers the time when they were in Wisconsin and Dean told little Lucas Barr how, so long ago, he had stopped talking when their mother had been killed. As he stuffs away his own mournful thoughts about how their father had still been alive when the two of them had been in Lake Manitoc, Sam also wonders if this not talking of Dean’s is the same thing he had experienced as a motherless four-year old.
He hopes that Dean’s okay but knows he isn’t when every query into his brother’s mental state is met with a growled, “I’m fine, Sam. Leave me alone.” And Sam knows his brother well enough to realize that this cavalier response and attitude is total crap. If Dean would just acknowledge any sort of reaction to their father’s death, Sam wouldn’t worry. Even an “I’ll be fine, Sam,” would do; would be the least means of insinuating that he isn’t fine right now. But for Dean to continue the claim that he is immune to their father’s death, well, that’s just damn dangerous.
So, hoping to break through walls, Sam finds a job for them, and together they discover a roadhouse, two women, a genius named Ash, and a killer clown that they send packing with his big, creepy clown shoes in hand. And Dean talks, and seems a little more animated throughout the entire hunt, but still refuses-abjectly-to speak about anything important. To top it all off, after they both have shared something real for the first time in days, Dean returns to the Impala and spends too much time working on her and ignoring the bigger, snarling problems that need unraveling. Works and avoids and stops talking just as he had before Sam sent them hunting.
Dean’s more distracted lately, as well. On more than one occasion, Sam finds his brother moving aimlessly from room to room in Bobby’s house with no apparent task in mind, just a strange look on his face that Sam has never seen there before. It takes Sam too long to interpret the expression, and when he does, the first real stab of fear cuts through him. Because the look on his brother’s face is one of careful listening. And what he’s listening to, well, Sam’s frightened that it’s some injurious inner dialogue, some mean, voiceless voice. Given the cause of their current circumstances, the possibility that Dean is harboring damaging thoughts scares Sam almost as much as Dean’s jutting bones and unreasonable exhaustion does.
And so, in a fit of desperation, Sam confronts Dean outside where the Impala is their only witness. And that seems fitting to Sam. Seems fitting because she’s part of the family, and he has a family discussion in mind.
And they do talk. Well, Sam talks. And Dean’s expression is flat when Sam confronts him and tells him that he knows Dean is not okay. Can’t be okay and really shouldn’t be okay.
And then, after saying what he says, Sam runs. Runs long and far away from the place where Dean stood quietly and listened to the truth with a dead look in his eyes.
It’s near dark when Sam goes looking for his brother again. He starts where he left Dean, standing near the Impala. When Sam sees the car, sees the damage that has been done to her, he’s shocked. He doesn’t miss the significance that it is the trunk of the car that is newly wrecked; the trunk that stores most of their secrets and hunters’ weapons.
And Sam knows that only Dean could have caused such damage, and this knowledge is distressing on a level that is new to him. Distressing because Dean loves this car, and he’s been bleeding his soul to get her fixed. She’s an extension of Dean, and yet he has lifted his hand to her and damaged her anew.
Sam stares at the tell-tale signs of his brother’s dissembling and bites viciously at the nail beds of his right hand until they are close to bleeding.
He needs to ask Dean about whatever emotion precipitated such an outburst, but he’s almost afraid to do it. He doesn’t want to know-really know-that his strong-willed brother is falling apart, even though he does know. Does know and has known for quite some time now.
Dean’s clunking around beneath the engine, and he doesn’t respond when Sam calls him the first time. Sam gently kicks at his brother’s feet to grab his attention, and Dean slowly, sluggishly eases himself out from under the car.
The first thing Sam notices is that Dean’s expression is back to far away and slightly dazed.
“Dean? You okay?” Sam asks cautiously. He’s not entirely sure his brother is going to talk to him after their last lop-sided conversation. And the evidence of Dean’s mood, scratched and dented into the Impala’s trunk, isn’t helping any in boosting Sam’s belief that he’s about to have a healthy, two-sided conversation now.
“Fine, Sammy,” Dean says as he wipes his grimy, oily hands on a rag that is equally grimy and oily.
Dean’s voice is rough and husky from disuse, and the bones of his face have become more pronounced over the course of the past couple of weeks. The obvious, pinched signs of exhaustion combined with the sallow, waxy complexion of his skin make Dean look like he belongs back in the hospital.
“What’s the matter with you, Sammy?” Dean asks sharply, and Sam realizes he’s been staring dumbly at his brother for longer than what might reasonably be considered as polite.
“Uh, nu-nothing, Dean,” Sam stammers and awkwardly looks away from the source of his dismay.
A quick glance shows him that Dean is willing to forgive Sam his eccentricities.
“Where the hell have you been? I was expecting you three hours ago for your hourly check into my health and mental state,” Dean queries with more than a little sarcasm coloring his voice.
Sam chooses to ignore the tone and steels himself as he launches a furtive glance towards the damage on the Impala’s trunk.
“What happened to the trunk, Dean?” Sam asks, and the question tastes bland in his dry mouth.
“Nothing I can’t fix,” Dean instantly responds, and there’s a deadly warning in his eyes.
“Dean-"
“Sam, I’m not talking to you about this,” Dean says. He’s raised his voice now, and his stance shows he’s prepared for a fight. But there’s still a slightly dazed, uncertain look in his eyes.
With a shock, Sam realizes Dean may be near to so far gone that he may not actually remember how the car came to be in its current condition. Because, although Sam has no doubts about how the Impala became so recently wrecked, the confused look his brother is sporting despite the bravado of his posture tells Sam that Dean’s got plenty of doubts.
“Dean, are you okay?” Sam asks again, and he’s almost really frightened now.
“I said I’m fine, Sammy. What the hell is the matter with you?”
“Dean, it’s just-the car, Dean.”
“Sam, I’m not having this discussion with you. You said your piece earlier. Now leave me alone.”
And suddenly, Sam’s angry, and they’re fighting again.
“Discussion! Now why would you think that I’d expect a discussion from you? You never talk to me anymore! And now you’ve messed up the car-"
“Why do you immediately assume I’m the one that did all that?” Dean asks angrily, but at the same time brokenly, and Sam worries that his brother has finally cracked under all the pressure he’s put on himself.
“Dean, who else-"
“Never mind. I’m tired, and I don’t want to talk. Lemme go wash up,” Dean says brusquely, and brushes Sam’s arm with his shoulder as he tries to pass by.
“Dean-" Sam says and simultaneously makes a desperate grab for his brother’s arm. He snags Dean’s shirtsleeve, and Dean becomes so tense and his pupils are so entirely dilated that Sam knows-just knows-the other man will resort to throwing blows if it will allow him escape.
Unwilling to torture his brother any further-because that’s what this busted up conversation and these blatant accusations obviously are to the older of the two Winchesters-Sam abruptly lets go of Dean’s shirt. Dean looks panicked in the instant before Sam allows him to break free, and he tries to cover his distress with a quick and easy grin that is completely absent from his eyes.
“Thanks, Sammy,” the older Winchester whispers. The words are spoken so softly that Sam would have missed them if he was breathing any harder.
“You okay, Dean?” Sam asks for the third time in as many minutes.
“Fine, Sam,” Dean predictably says, turning his back to his brother. “Let’s go. I’ll fix us some dinner.”
And a little later, while Sam eats a meal that has the consistency of grief, and while Dean pushes the food from one end of his plate to another, Sam is so overcome that he excuses himself from the table to seek answers in the nighttime sky that he knows he’ll never find.
888
The next morning, Dean’s still sleeping when Sam wakes up, and Sam lets him be. Dean’s exhausted and sleeping way too much lately, but Sam figures he’s under too much repressed stress and probably needs the rest. So he leaves his brother drowsing in the cramped room they have always shared while staying at Bobby’s, and he pads downstairs to find their host drinking coffee in the kitchen.
“Your brother did some number on that car,” Bobby comments as he leans against a cluttered counter and takes a long pull on the strong coffee that Sam’s body is suddenly aching for.
Sam grunts noncommittally and reaches for a coffee cup. As much as he wants to talk to Dean about this entire mess is as little as he wants to talk to Bobby about it right now. He’s tired, confused and still subject to bouts of his own guilt-ridden grief; talking to anyone but Dean just seems too difficult this morning.
“Listen, I know that what your daddy did has both of you tied up in all sorts of knots, but he wouldn’t want the two of you to be pinin’ for him so,” Bobby says into the silence that descends as Sam pours coffee into his cup.
“Dad always did ask for the impossible,” Sam mutters right before he takes a sip. The coffee tastes dark and earthy, and Sam can’t help but think of that last cup of ‘caffeine’ his father asked him for.
“What was that?” Bobby asks, distracting Sam from the unexpected blow of sorrow the coffee’s taste has wrought upon him.
Sam takes a moment to gauge Bobby’s mood, and realizes there was no fire in the other man’s tone when he asked his question. Bobby simply hadn’t heard Sam’s comment. Sam’s relieved, because he really doesn’t want to fight about Dad and knows he can politely change the course of the conversation.
“Why do you think Dad did it, Bobby?” he asks, easily deflecting Bobby’s question.
Bobby doesn’t ask Sam what he means by ‘it,’ just pauses for a moment and mulls the question over. Then, with a reassuring nod and a pointed look in the younger man’s direction, he responds.
“I ‘spect it wasn’t anything he didn’t want to do.”
And Sam’s not happy with the answer-not at all-but he’s smart enough to realize it’s the best one anyone is ever going to give him.
“Well, we can’t tell Dean. Not yet, at least. He’s too weak,” Sam says wearily, wondering how he’s been drawn into this conversation. Hadn’t he wanted to avoid this whole discussion?
“You don’t think he deserves to know this?”
Bobby’s question startles Sam, and it’s a little while before he’s able to find his voice again. Because of course Dean deserves to know what their father did for him. Deserves to know, because Sam remembers how close to happy Dean had been when Dad-who hadn’t been Dad but that damned demon-had told him he was proud of his oldest son. His big brother deserves to know just how much his father actually did love him, but Sam’s pretty sure the information will kill Dean. Actually, he’s pretty sure Dean suspects what his father sacrificed, and that even his suspicions are coming close to killing him.
“You don’t know, Bobby. You just don’t know,” Sam says, and when his breath hitches, he’s forced to go quiet again. It takes him almost a minute to regain his composure, and when he does, he’s blurting out someone else’s secrets before he can stop himself.
“A few months ago, Dean’s heart was damaged in a fight with a raw-head. I took him to a faith healer who fixed his heart, but the guy unknowingly used a reaper to do it. Dean survived only because the reaper put the damage on someone else. Someone else who died, Bobby. Dean took it hard. Real hard. And that was a complete stranger. He won’t be able to stand it knowing what Dad sacrificed for him. Hell, I can barely stand it, and he didn’t even do it for me.”
“And you don’t think that Dean knows what your daddy did for him? The kid’s not as dumb as he looks.”
Sam thinks back yet again to the Impala’s ruined trunk and knows Bobby has asked a legitimate question; a question that the grizzled hunter knows the answer to, but that he’s forcing Sam to say out loud. Sam hesitates for a moment, because this will be the first time he actually voices his beliefs about what is going through his brother’s head, and he doesn’t really want to do it. But Bobby is looking at him with a meaningful glint in his eye, and Sam finally succumbs to the other man’s wishes.
“Yeah, I think that on some level he knows. But to say it out loud to him, to put it in his face, I don’t know, Bobby. I think it might-“
Might what? Sam thinks as his voice breaks. Break him? Drive him insane? Kill him?
“Okay, son. Okay. Don’t fret. I won’t say anything. You know your brother best,” Bobby hastily assures Sam who is feeling more upset by the second. He’s lost so much already, and this threat of losing Dean to his own mind is becoming too much to bear.
Bobby awkwardly pats his shoulder with his large, clumsy hand, and Sam composes himself by taking in a deep, shaky breath.
“It’s okay, boy. You’ll be okay. You’ll both be okay.”
And because Sam has no other option but to believe in these words, he nods vigorously as he rubs burning tears from his eyes.
888
Sam’s not entirely happy when they decide to hit the road again. But, after taking on that maniac clown, they’ve both proven to each other that they’re able to hunt again, so it seems appropriate to move on. Besides, it will be nice to be on their own again in a space where they don’t have to worry about outsiders, no matter how close said outsiders are to what’s left of their family.
When they reach the East coast after two days of Dean driving practically non-stop, it’s raining. But the scent of the salt water on the air is so soothing to Sam that he immediately feels safer than he has in weeks. They pick up some credit cards and other supplies before finding an over-priced hotel room on the seashore.
Sam can’t help but clutch the new laptop to himself like it’s some sort of talisman, and maybe for him it is. The computer has become a gateway to research and distraction and the rational approach to solving problems, and he needs all of these things now so much more than he ever has before. Needs them because Dean is talking in his sleep now, and what he’s saying isn’t good. Needs them because Dean’s hands shake, and the only time they stop is when they’re driving somewhere or when they’re killing some evil thing.
So he clutches the laptop like the life-line it is and finds jobs for them; jobs that require Dean to get out of bed and go on. Sam’s past the point where he only wants Dean to talk to him about how he’s feeling about the death of their dad. No, now, he’s at the point where he just wants Dean to keep it together for just a little while longer. Dean’s just got to stay sane long enough for Sam to figure out how to fix him.
And the hunt seems to ease some ache that is flowing deep inside of Dean, so it’s what they do for now. But Dean’s hands still shake, and the moments of aimless bewilderment are becoming more frequent. And Sam’s now sure Dean’s listening to some inner voice, and he’s just as sure these interior chats are taking a huge toll on the older Winchester’s reserves.
Sam scrabbles to find the way to make things all better for Dean, but so far he’s been unsuccessful. So, he finds another hunt for them and hopes that when he wakes up, the safe and right things to say and do will have found him.
888
The evening after a simple salt and burn, Dean collapses in his ragged, motel bed and doesn’t move from it for an entire night and day. Sam doesn’t understand the bizarre behavior and thinks maybe Dean doesn’t either. The salt and burn was an easy job, not taxing in any way. Just a body turned to ashes after a spirit started wandering farmland and scaring the bejeesus out of the locals. And the spirit hadn’t even turned to malevolence yet, so the task was only a matter of putting a sad soul to rest.
But Dean’s apparent reaction to what should be a simple matter has Sam wondering if this latest incident is tied in any way to the reaper his brother supposedly fought against in the hospital. On a certain level, associating the reaper with this hopeless spirit could make sense. Neither remaining Winchester knows much about reapers, but what little their father’s journal says indicates they’re not entirely bad. In fact, despite the whole harbinger of death thing, they are mostly creatures meant to guide lost souls, which isn’t exactly an evil gig.
Sam’s been re-reading his father’s notes on reapers, all the while trying hard not to think too much about how his dad will never write another word again, when Dean suddenly stirs. Sam’s read just enough to understand it wouldn’t be too far-fetched for Dean to have associated their latest salt and burn adventure with the reaper he claims not to remember, so when Dean’s eyes crack open, he can’t help but ask, yet again, if his brother’s okay.
Dean slowly turns on his stomach, presses his face hard into the flat hotel pillow, and mutters his typical, “I’m fine,” crap. Sam doesn’t believe him for a second. Can’t even fool himself into believing him no matter how much he wants to, because Dean’s voice is coated with despair, and he’s been in bed all fucking day. Sam’s about to point this all out to Dean when his brother’s breathing eases and evens, and it’s obvious that the disturbed hunter has drifted off to sleep again.
Sam resumes reading, but his attention wavers later, when it’s deep night and Dean begins muttering quiet, half-words. Dean talking in his sleep about recent horrors is now nothing new for Sam, but there is something in the tone of the words currently escaping from between his brother’s lips that catches his awareness.
And then suddenly, the words are clearer than they’ve ever been. Sam leans forward in his chair as he tries to make sense of what he’s hearing. And when the words become sentences that illustrate events Dean was never meant to remember, Sam leaves the chair and kneels beside the bed and his tormented brother.
"What the hell do you want to talk about?"
"Not my time. It’s not."
"You gotta make an exception. You gotta cut me a break."
"My brother, h-he could die without me."
"Not going with you. I don’t care what you do."
"Dad. Daddy, no-"
"Why are you saying this stuff?"
"You’re scaring me."
And suddenly, Sam’s got tears in his eyes, and his hand is reaching out to stroke away Dean’s memories and fears. Making damn sure he doesn’t wake his brother, he gently brushes his fingers through sweat-slicked hair and whispers soothing words. Tears that have not been expressed in the waking hours pour from Dean’s eyes and stain the pillow beneath his head. Sam’s crying now too, because it’s at this point that he realizes he has no choice but to accept that there really was a reaper after Dean; has no choice but to accept that their father honestly sacrificed himself for his dying son, and also that on some terrible level of consciousness, Dean knows all of this too and harbors secret hurts.
He cries, too, for Dean who isn’t allowed to express his grief except for when he’s unaware of doing so. Weeps for his brother who needs to be so strong, but who is breaking in the process of maintaining that need.
He weeps and questions whether the reaper gave Dean a choice. Weeps as he realizes that as close to death as his brother was, a choice was undoubtedly given. Weeps and can’t help but wonder what choice Dean had made when presented with such an ultimate decision.
Sam’s fingers tighten just a little too roughly in Dean’s hair as he tries to hold on to some part of his brother; tries to grasp hard and strong onto the only family he has left. His heart rockets when Dean’s eyes flutter and his breath quickens. Sam bounds across the room and flicks the light off with one, skillful sweep of his long hand. Then, as Dean is kicking his legs and shifting to his back, Sam practically leaps into his own bed and draws the covers tightly over his shoulders. His eyes are closed when he hears Dean sit up, but getting his breathing under control is a real bitch.
He’s only sure he’s managed to fool Dean into thinking he’s asleep when he hears his brother pound on his pillow and then stumble to the bathroom door. It’s only when he hears the door click shut that Sam allows himself a truly full breath, and that’s when his breathing finally evens out. He listens to Dean turn on the shower and relaxes subtly. It’s both too early and too late for Dean to be washing up, but Sam supposes he’s in no position to judge.
Nevertheless, he listens carefully to the goings on in the bathroom, and when the shower stops and many minutes pass with no sign of Dean exiting, Sam’s breathing quickens again.
Minutes turn to fractions of hours, and the anxiety builds to an intolerable level within him.
And so, he finds Dean in the bathroom, half-naked and curled up in a corner. It takes too much time for Dean to notice him, and when he finally does, he laughs in a way that turns Sam’s stomach.
“Dad would’ve had our hides if he had found out about the Ouija board, Sam,” Dean says, and laughs that awful laugh again. The stricken look on his brother’s face both terrifies and saddens Sam.
And Sam doesn’t know what this means, that his brother remembers the Ouija board incident, but Dean’s absolutely right. Dad would have skinned them both alive if he had found out they were messing around with such ancient and sacred rites.
But none of this is important right now. Only Dean is.
“I know, Dean,” Sam says, hoping to open the door to an actual, honest-to-goddamn-goodness real, fucking conversation for once.
And yet, he can’t say he’s too surprised when Dean unflinchingly cuts though anything Sam might have said next.
“No chick flick moments, Sammy-boy,” the older Winchester says, and Sam can’t ignore the pain that chokes his brother’s voice.
“Dean-"
“No, Sam. No,” Dean says in that terrible, broken way. “I won’t.”
And then, to prove his resolve and the extent of his stubbornness, Dean stands up and shuffles his way past Sam and any chance for absolution that might have been offered.
Sam doesn’t know what to do in response to such self-flagellation, so instead of following his brother out of the bathroom, he hunkers down on the cold, tiled floor and finishes shedding what little tears he has left.
888
After the display that took place in a grungy hotel bathroom, Dean seems to have reached some sort of delicate balance. It’s as if he has decided that enough is enough, and he’s not going to show any emotion now. To Sam, it’s as if his brother has chosen to pull the splintered and torn ends of himself together, even though the edges no longer fit plum with one another. But somehow, Dean pulled those sharp edges together and, although there’s never going to be a perfect fit, Sam knows his brother thinks that the fucked up repair job is just going to have to be damn well good enough.
And yet to Sam’s trained eye, there’s no doubt Dean is still in substantial pain. He remains entirely too quiet and is so ruthless in the hunt that Sam continues to experience fear that his brother will come to harm or even do himself harm. It’s an almost untenable situation for the younger Winchester who is all too aware that they’re all each other has left.
But there are improvements that give Sam fragile hope. Dean’s hands no longer shake, and the sick inner dialogue has been shut down just as surely as the bouts of aimless wandering have ended. It’s as if Dean is completely focused on protecting Sam from the emotion he just barely held in check within the confines of that tight and tiled bathroom.
So the shaking and the wandering and the heavy thinking have ended, and Sam knows now that he’s never going to have that all important conversation he’s been seeking out for weeks. He’s almost okay with that, except he still worries that one day he’ll find Dean out of his mind or dead from the pressure of keeping ill-kept secrets unvoiced. But if Dean’s willing to try living with splintered edges, then Sam figures he owes his brother the opportunity.
And every once in a while, Sam allows himself a little more than fragile hope; allows himself true and honest hopes. It’s a difficult thing, this hoping when the landscape of his future seems dark and bleak. But on occasion he manages to hope that he and Dean will be brothers again. Brothers who laugh and converse and take each other’s presence for granted just as they once did. Brothers who save the lives of innocent people and who memorialize their father-their sacrificing father-by continuing the work he found so important.
And, on the most, rare occasion, Sam hopes a secret, quiet hope; a hope he keeps small and pressed close to his beating heart. It’s the simplest hope, yet it’s also his heart’s desire. He won’t ever speak of it for fear of negating its possibility. But the hope that soon, sometime soon both he and Dean will be able to stand still and rest for a while keeps him moving down the long road of the hunt.
Keeps him moving and hoping and loving the only family he has left.
Author: Emrys
Warning/Spoilers: Minor spoilers for “Dead in the Water,” and “Faith.” MAJOR spoilers for “In My Time of Dying,” and “Everybody Loves a Clown.” Also, and as usual, there’s a language warning attached to this fic.
Rating: Older teens can safely read this, if they’re okay with the language.
Genre: Genfic; big ole helping of Dean angst.
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to the CW and to Eric Kripke.
Summary: Companion piece to my other fic, “There’s Only the Here and Now,” but you don’t have to read that to know what’s going on here.
If you want to read "There's Only the Here and Now," you can find it here:
There's Only the Here and Now .
Here's the lj-cut to "What's Left":
Title: What’s Left
Author: Emrys
Warning/Spoilers: Minor spoilers for “Dead in the Water,” and “Faith.” MAJOR spoilers for “In My Time of Dying,” and “Everybody Loves a Clown.” Also, and as usual, there’s a language warning attached to this fic.
Rating: Older teens can safely read this, if they’re okay with the language.
Genre: Genfic; big ole helping of Dean angst.
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to the CW and to Eric Kripke.
Summary: Companion piece to my other fic, “There’s Only the Here and Now,” but you don’t have to read that to know what’s going on here.
What’s Left
At first, Sam is so wrapped up in his own grief, that he doesn’t notice something is seriously wrong with Dean. And it isn’t as if Dean isn’t talking. He is. He talks when Sam needs him, when Sam’s grief is so rending that Dean apparently feels the need to intercede and does so by whispering quiet words of comfort.
But as the moments between devastating bouts of sorrow become longer, as Sam grows accustomed to the idea that his father no longer inhabits the Earth, it becomes more and more apparent that Dean has stopped talking.
Sam remembers the time when they were in Wisconsin and Dean told little Lucas Barr how, so long ago, he had stopped talking when their mother had been killed. As he stuffs away his own mournful thoughts about how their father had still been alive when the two of them had been in Lake Manitoc, Sam also wonders if this not talking of Dean’s is the same thing he had experienced as a motherless four-year old.
He hopes that Dean’s okay but knows he isn’t when every query into his brother’s mental state is met with a growled, “I’m fine, Sam. Leave me alone.” And Sam knows his brother well enough to realize that this cavalier response and attitude is total crap. If Dean would just acknowledge any sort of reaction to their father’s death, Sam wouldn’t worry. Even an “I’ll be fine, Sam,” would do; would be the least means of insinuating that he isn’t fine right now. But for Dean to continue the claim that he is immune to their father’s death, well, that’s just damn dangerous.
So, hoping to break through walls, Sam finds a job for them, and together they discover a roadhouse, two women, a genius named Ash, and a killer clown that they send packing with his big, creepy clown shoes in hand. And Dean talks, and seems a little more animated throughout the entire hunt, but still refuses-abjectly-to speak about anything important. To top it all off, after they both have shared something real for the first time in days, Dean returns to the Impala and spends too much time working on her and ignoring the bigger, snarling problems that need unraveling. Works and avoids and stops talking just as he had before Sam sent them hunting.
Dean’s more distracted lately, as well. On more than one occasion, Sam finds his brother moving aimlessly from room to room in Bobby’s house with no apparent task in mind, just a strange look on his face that Sam has never seen there before. It takes Sam too long to interpret the expression, and when he does, the first real stab of fear cuts through him. Because the look on his brother’s face is one of careful listening. And what he’s listening to, well, Sam’s frightened that it’s some injurious inner dialogue, some mean, voiceless voice. Given the cause of their current circumstances, the possibility that Dean is harboring damaging thoughts scares Sam almost as much as Dean’s jutting bones and unreasonable exhaustion does.
And so, in a fit of desperation, Sam confronts Dean outside where the Impala is their only witness. And that seems fitting to Sam. Seems fitting because she’s part of the family, and he has a family discussion in mind.
And they do talk. Well, Sam talks. And Dean’s expression is flat when Sam confronts him and tells him that he knows Dean is not okay. Can’t be okay and really shouldn’t be okay.
And then, after saying what he says, Sam runs. Runs long and far away from the place where Dean stood quietly and listened to the truth with a dead look in his eyes.
It’s near dark when Sam goes looking for his brother again. He starts where he left Dean, standing near the Impala. When Sam sees the car, sees the damage that has been done to her, he’s shocked. He doesn’t miss the significance that it is the trunk of the car that is newly wrecked; the trunk that stores most of their secrets and hunters’ weapons.
And Sam knows that only Dean could have caused such damage, and this knowledge is distressing on a level that is new to him. Distressing because Dean loves this car, and he’s been bleeding his soul to get her fixed. She’s an extension of Dean, and yet he has lifted his hand to her and damaged her anew.
Sam stares at the tell-tale signs of his brother’s dissembling and bites viciously at the nail beds of his right hand until they are close to bleeding.
He needs to ask Dean about whatever emotion precipitated such an outburst, but he’s almost afraid to do it. He doesn’t want to know-really know-that his strong-willed brother is falling apart, even though he does know. Does know and has known for quite some time now.
Dean’s clunking around beneath the engine, and he doesn’t respond when Sam calls him the first time. Sam gently kicks at his brother’s feet to grab his attention, and Dean slowly, sluggishly eases himself out from under the car.
The first thing Sam notices is that Dean’s expression is back to far away and slightly dazed.
“Dean? You okay?” Sam asks cautiously. He’s not entirely sure his brother is going to talk to him after their last lop-sided conversation. And the evidence of Dean’s mood, scratched and dented into the Impala’s trunk, isn’t helping any in boosting Sam’s belief that he’s about to have a healthy, two-sided conversation now.
“Fine, Sammy,” Dean says as he wipes his grimy, oily hands on a rag that is equally grimy and oily.
Dean’s voice is rough and husky from disuse, and the bones of his face have become more pronounced over the course of the past couple of weeks. The obvious, pinched signs of exhaustion combined with the sallow, waxy complexion of his skin make Dean look like he belongs back in the hospital.
“What’s the matter with you, Sammy?” Dean asks sharply, and Sam realizes he’s been staring dumbly at his brother for longer than what might reasonably be considered as polite.
“Uh, nu-nothing, Dean,” Sam stammers and awkwardly looks away from the source of his dismay.
A quick glance shows him that Dean is willing to forgive Sam his eccentricities.
“Where the hell have you been? I was expecting you three hours ago for your hourly check into my health and mental state,” Dean queries with more than a little sarcasm coloring his voice.
Sam chooses to ignore the tone and steels himself as he launches a furtive glance towards the damage on the Impala’s trunk.
“What happened to the trunk, Dean?” Sam asks, and the question tastes bland in his dry mouth.
“Nothing I can’t fix,” Dean instantly responds, and there’s a deadly warning in his eyes.
“Dean-"
“Sam, I’m not talking to you about this,” Dean says. He’s raised his voice now, and his stance shows he’s prepared for a fight. But there’s still a slightly dazed, uncertain look in his eyes.
With a shock, Sam realizes Dean may be near to so far gone that he may not actually remember how the car came to be in its current condition. Because, although Sam has no doubts about how the Impala became so recently wrecked, the confused look his brother is sporting despite the bravado of his posture tells Sam that Dean’s got plenty of doubts.
“Dean, are you okay?” Sam asks again, and he’s almost really frightened now.
“I said I’m fine, Sammy. What the hell is the matter with you?”
“Dean, it’s just-the car, Dean.”
“Sam, I’m not having this discussion with you. You said your piece earlier. Now leave me alone.”
And suddenly, Sam’s angry, and they’re fighting again.
“Discussion! Now why would you think that I’d expect a discussion from you? You never talk to me anymore! And now you’ve messed up the car-"
“Why do you immediately assume I’m the one that did all that?” Dean asks angrily, but at the same time brokenly, and Sam worries that his brother has finally cracked under all the pressure he’s put on himself.
“Dean, who else-"
“Never mind. I’m tired, and I don’t want to talk. Lemme go wash up,” Dean says brusquely, and brushes Sam’s arm with his shoulder as he tries to pass by.
“Dean-" Sam says and simultaneously makes a desperate grab for his brother’s arm. He snags Dean’s shirtsleeve, and Dean becomes so tense and his pupils are so entirely dilated that Sam knows-just knows-the other man will resort to throwing blows if it will allow him escape.
Unwilling to torture his brother any further-because that’s what this busted up conversation and these blatant accusations obviously are to the older of the two Winchesters-Sam abruptly lets go of Dean’s shirt. Dean looks panicked in the instant before Sam allows him to break free, and he tries to cover his distress with a quick and easy grin that is completely absent from his eyes.
“Thanks, Sammy,” the older Winchester whispers. The words are spoken so softly that Sam would have missed them if he was breathing any harder.
“You okay, Dean?” Sam asks for the third time in as many minutes.
“Fine, Sam,” Dean predictably says, turning his back to his brother. “Let’s go. I’ll fix us some dinner.”
And a little later, while Sam eats a meal that has the consistency of grief, and while Dean pushes the food from one end of his plate to another, Sam is so overcome that he excuses himself from the table to seek answers in the nighttime sky that he knows he’ll never find.
888
The next morning, Dean’s still sleeping when Sam wakes up, and Sam lets him be. Dean’s exhausted and sleeping way too much lately, but Sam figures he’s under too much repressed stress and probably needs the rest. So he leaves his brother drowsing in the cramped room they have always shared while staying at Bobby’s, and he pads downstairs to find their host drinking coffee in the kitchen.
“Your brother did some number on that car,” Bobby comments as he leans against a cluttered counter and takes a long pull on the strong coffee that Sam’s body is suddenly aching for.
Sam grunts noncommittally and reaches for a coffee cup. As much as he wants to talk to Dean about this entire mess is as little as he wants to talk to Bobby about it right now. He’s tired, confused and still subject to bouts of his own guilt-ridden grief; talking to anyone but Dean just seems too difficult this morning.
“Listen, I know that what your daddy did has both of you tied up in all sorts of knots, but he wouldn’t want the two of you to be pinin’ for him so,” Bobby says into the silence that descends as Sam pours coffee into his cup.
“Dad always did ask for the impossible,” Sam mutters right before he takes a sip. The coffee tastes dark and earthy, and Sam can’t help but think of that last cup of ‘caffeine’ his father asked him for.
“What was that?” Bobby asks, distracting Sam from the unexpected blow of sorrow the coffee’s taste has wrought upon him.
Sam takes a moment to gauge Bobby’s mood, and realizes there was no fire in the other man’s tone when he asked his question. Bobby simply hadn’t heard Sam’s comment. Sam’s relieved, because he really doesn’t want to fight about Dad and knows he can politely change the course of the conversation.
“Why do you think Dad did it, Bobby?” he asks, easily deflecting Bobby’s question.
Bobby doesn’t ask Sam what he means by ‘it,’ just pauses for a moment and mulls the question over. Then, with a reassuring nod and a pointed look in the younger man’s direction, he responds.
“I ‘spect it wasn’t anything he didn’t want to do.”
And Sam’s not happy with the answer-not at all-but he’s smart enough to realize it’s the best one anyone is ever going to give him.
“Well, we can’t tell Dean. Not yet, at least. He’s too weak,” Sam says wearily, wondering how he’s been drawn into this conversation. Hadn’t he wanted to avoid this whole discussion?
“You don’t think he deserves to know this?”
Bobby’s question startles Sam, and it’s a little while before he’s able to find his voice again. Because of course Dean deserves to know what their father did for him. Deserves to know, because Sam remembers how close to happy Dean had been when Dad-who hadn’t been Dad but that damned demon-had told him he was proud of his oldest son. His big brother deserves to know just how much his father actually did love him, but Sam’s pretty sure the information will kill Dean. Actually, he’s pretty sure Dean suspects what his father sacrificed, and that even his suspicions are coming close to killing him.
“You don’t know, Bobby. You just don’t know,” Sam says, and when his breath hitches, he’s forced to go quiet again. It takes him almost a minute to regain his composure, and when he does, he’s blurting out someone else’s secrets before he can stop himself.
“A few months ago, Dean’s heart was damaged in a fight with a raw-head. I took him to a faith healer who fixed his heart, but the guy unknowingly used a reaper to do it. Dean survived only because the reaper put the damage on someone else. Someone else who died, Bobby. Dean took it hard. Real hard. And that was a complete stranger. He won’t be able to stand it knowing what Dad sacrificed for him. Hell, I can barely stand it, and he didn’t even do it for me.”
“And you don’t think that Dean knows what your daddy did for him? The kid’s not as dumb as he looks.”
Sam thinks back yet again to the Impala’s ruined trunk and knows Bobby has asked a legitimate question; a question that the grizzled hunter knows the answer to, but that he’s forcing Sam to say out loud. Sam hesitates for a moment, because this will be the first time he actually voices his beliefs about what is going through his brother’s head, and he doesn’t really want to do it. But Bobby is looking at him with a meaningful glint in his eye, and Sam finally succumbs to the other man’s wishes.
“Yeah, I think that on some level he knows. But to say it out loud to him, to put it in his face, I don’t know, Bobby. I think it might-“
Might what? Sam thinks as his voice breaks. Break him? Drive him insane? Kill him?
“Okay, son. Okay. Don’t fret. I won’t say anything. You know your brother best,” Bobby hastily assures Sam who is feeling more upset by the second. He’s lost so much already, and this threat of losing Dean to his own mind is becoming too much to bear.
Bobby awkwardly pats his shoulder with his large, clumsy hand, and Sam composes himself by taking in a deep, shaky breath.
“It’s okay, boy. You’ll be okay. You’ll both be okay.”
And because Sam has no other option but to believe in these words, he nods vigorously as he rubs burning tears from his eyes.
888
Sam’s not entirely happy when they decide to hit the road again. But, after taking on that maniac clown, they’ve both proven to each other that they’re able to hunt again, so it seems appropriate to move on. Besides, it will be nice to be on their own again in a space where they don’t have to worry about outsiders, no matter how close said outsiders are to what’s left of their family.
When they reach the East coast after two days of Dean driving practically non-stop, it’s raining. But the scent of the salt water on the air is so soothing to Sam that he immediately feels safer than he has in weeks. They pick up some credit cards and other supplies before finding an over-priced hotel room on the seashore.
Sam can’t help but clutch the new laptop to himself like it’s some sort of talisman, and maybe for him it is. The computer has become a gateway to research and distraction and the rational approach to solving problems, and he needs all of these things now so much more than he ever has before. Needs them because Dean is talking in his sleep now, and what he’s saying isn’t good. Needs them because Dean’s hands shake, and the only time they stop is when they’re driving somewhere or when they’re killing some evil thing.
So he clutches the laptop like the life-line it is and finds jobs for them; jobs that require Dean to get out of bed and go on. Sam’s past the point where he only wants Dean to talk to him about how he’s feeling about the death of their dad. No, now, he’s at the point where he just wants Dean to keep it together for just a little while longer. Dean’s just got to stay sane long enough for Sam to figure out how to fix him.
And the hunt seems to ease some ache that is flowing deep inside of Dean, so it’s what they do for now. But Dean’s hands still shake, and the moments of aimless bewilderment are becoming more frequent. And Sam’s now sure Dean’s listening to some inner voice, and he’s just as sure these interior chats are taking a huge toll on the older Winchester’s reserves.
Sam scrabbles to find the way to make things all better for Dean, but so far he’s been unsuccessful. So, he finds another hunt for them and hopes that when he wakes up, the safe and right things to say and do will have found him.
888
The evening after a simple salt and burn, Dean collapses in his ragged, motel bed and doesn’t move from it for an entire night and day. Sam doesn’t understand the bizarre behavior and thinks maybe Dean doesn’t either. The salt and burn was an easy job, not taxing in any way. Just a body turned to ashes after a spirit started wandering farmland and scaring the bejeesus out of the locals. And the spirit hadn’t even turned to malevolence yet, so the task was only a matter of putting a sad soul to rest.
But Dean’s apparent reaction to what should be a simple matter has Sam wondering if this latest incident is tied in any way to the reaper his brother supposedly fought against in the hospital. On a certain level, associating the reaper with this hopeless spirit could make sense. Neither remaining Winchester knows much about reapers, but what little their father’s journal says indicates they’re not entirely bad. In fact, despite the whole harbinger of death thing, they are mostly creatures meant to guide lost souls, which isn’t exactly an evil gig.
Sam’s been re-reading his father’s notes on reapers, all the while trying hard not to think too much about how his dad will never write another word again, when Dean suddenly stirs. Sam’s read just enough to understand it wouldn’t be too far-fetched for Dean to have associated their latest salt and burn adventure with the reaper he claims not to remember, so when Dean’s eyes crack open, he can’t help but ask, yet again, if his brother’s okay.
Dean slowly turns on his stomach, presses his face hard into the flat hotel pillow, and mutters his typical, “I’m fine,” crap. Sam doesn’t believe him for a second. Can’t even fool himself into believing him no matter how much he wants to, because Dean’s voice is coated with despair, and he’s been in bed all fucking day. Sam’s about to point this all out to Dean when his brother’s breathing eases and evens, and it’s obvious that the disturbed hunter has drifted off to sleep again.
Sam resumes reading, but his attention wavers later, when it’s deep night and Dean begins muttering quiet, half-words. Dean talking in his sleep about recent horrors is now nothing new for Sam, but there is something in the tone of the words currently escaping from between his brother’s lips that catches his awareness.
And then suddenly, the words are clearer than they’ve ever been. Sam leans forward in his chair as he tries to make sense of what he’s hearing. And when the words become sentences that illustrate events Dean was never meant to remember, Sam leaves the chair and kneels beside the bed and his tormented brother.
"What the hell do you want to talk about?"
"Not my time. It’s not."
"You gotta make an exception. You gotta cut me a break."
"My brother, h-he could die without me."
"Not going with you. I don’t care what you do."
"Dad. Daddy, no-"
"Why are you saying this stuff?"
"You’re scaring me."
And suddenly, Sam’s got tears in his eyes, and his hand is reaching out to stroke away Dean’s memories and fears. Making damn sure he doesn’t wake his brother, he gently brushes his fingers through sweat-slicked hair and whispers soothing words. Tears that have not been expressed in the waking hours pour from Dean’s eyes and stain the pillow beneath his head. Sam’s crying now too, because it’s at this point that he realizes he has no choice but to accept that there really was a reaper after Dean; has no choice but to accept that their father honestly sacrificed himself for his dying son, and also that on some terrible level of consciousness, Dean knows all of this too and harbors secret hurts.
He cries, too, for Dean who isn’t allowed to express his grief except for when he’s unaware of doing so. Weeps for his brother who needs to be so strong, but who is breaking in the process of maintaining that need.
He weeps and questions whether the reaper gave Dean a choice. Weeps as he realizes that as close to death as his brother was, a choice was undoubtedly given. Weeps and can’t help but wonder what choice Dean had made when presented with such an ultimate decision.
Sam’s fingers tighten just a little too roughly in Dean’s hair as he tries to hold on to some part of his brother; tries to grasp hard and strong onto the only family he has left. His heart rockets when Dean’s eyes flutter and his breath quickens. Sam bounds across the room and flicks the light off with one, skillful sweep of his long hand. Then, as Dean is kicking his legs and shifting to his back, Sam practically leaps into his own bed and draws the covers tightly over his shoulders. His eyes are closed when he hears Dean sit up, but getting his breathing under control is a real bitch.
He’s only sure he’s managed to fool Dean into thinking he’s asleep when he hears his brother pound on his pillow and then stumble to the bathroom door. It’s only when he hears the door click shut that Sam allows himself a truly full breath, and that’s when his breathing finally evens out. He listens to Dean turn on the shower and relaxes subtly. It’s both too early and too late for Dean to be washing up, but Sam supposes he’s in no position to judge.
Nevertheless, he listens carefully to the goings on in the bathroom, and when the shower stops and many minutes pass with no sign of Dean exiting, Sam’s breathing quickens again.
Minutes turn to fractions of hours, and the anxiety builds to an intolerable level within him.
And so, he finds Dean in the bathroom, half-naked and curled up in a corner. It takes too much time for Dean to notice him, and when he finally does, he laughs in a way that turns Sam’s stomach.
“Dad would’ve had our hides if he had found out about the Ouija board, Sam,” Dean says, and laughs that awful laugh again. The stricken look on his brother’s face both terrifies and saddens Sam.
And Sam doesn’t know what this means, that his brother remembers the Ouija board incident, but Dean’s absolutely right. Dad would have skinned them both alive if he had found out they were messing around with such ancient and sacred rites.
But none of this is important right now. Only Dean is.
“I know, Dean,” Sam says, hoping to open the door to an actual, honest-to-goddamn-goodness real, fucking conversation for once.
And yet, he can’t say he’s too surprised when Dean unflinchingly cuts though anything Sam might have said next.
“No chick flick moments, Sammy-boy,” the older Winchester says, and Sam can’t ignore the pain that chokes his brother’s voice.
“Dean-"
“No, Sam. No,” Dean says in that terrible, broken way. “I won’t.”
And then, to prove his resolve and the extent of his stubbornness, Dean stands up and shuffles his way past Sam and any chance for absolution that might have been offered.
Sam doesn’t know what to do in response to such self-flagellation, so instead of following his brother out of the bathroom, he hunkers down on the cold, tiled floor and finishes shedding what little tears he has left.
888
After the display that took place in a grungy hotel bathroom, Dean seems to have reached some sort of delicate balance. It’s as if he has decided that enough is enough, and he’s not going to show any emotion now. To Sam, it’s as if his brother has chosen to pull the splintered and torn ends of himself together, even though the edges no longer fit plum with one another. But somehow, Dean pulled those sharp edges together and, although there’s never going to be a perfect fit, Sam knows his brother thinks that the fucked up repair job is just going to have to be damn well good enough.
And yet to Sam’s trained eye, there’s no doubt Dean is still in substantial pain. He remains entirely too quiet and is so ruthless in the hunt that Sam continues to experience fear that his brother will come to harm or even do himself harm. It’s an almost untenable situation for the younger Winchester who is all too aware that they’re all each other has left.
But there are improvements that give Sam fragile hope. Dean’s hands no longer shake, and the sick inner dialogue has been shut down just as surely as the bouts of aimless wandering have ended. It’s as if Dean is completely focused on protecting Sam from the emotion he just barely held in check within the confines of that tight and tiled bathroom.
So the shaking and the wandering and the heavy thinking have ended, and Sam knows now that he’s never going to have that all important conversation he’s been seeking out for weeks. He’s almost okay with that, except he still worries that one day he’ll find Dean out of his mind or dead from the pressure of keeping ill-kept secrets unvoiced. But if Dean’s willing to try living with splintered edges, then Sam figures he owes his brother the opportunity.
And every once in a while, Sam allows himself a little more than fragile hope; allows himself true and honest hopes. It’s a difficult thing, this hoping when the landscape of his future seems dark and bleak. But on occasion he manages to hope that he and Dean will be brothers again. Brothers who laugh and converse and take each other’s presence for granted just as they once did. Brothers who save the lives of innocent people and who memorialize their father-their sacrificing father-by continuing the work he found so important.
And, on the most, rare occasion, Sam hopes a secret, quiet hope; a hope he keeps small and pressed close to his beating heart. It’s the simplest hope, yet it’s also his heart’s desire. He won’t ever speak of it for fear of negating its possibility. But the hope that soon, sometime soon both he and Dean will be able to stand still and rest for a while keeps him moving down the long road of the hunt.
Keeps him moving and hoping and loving the only family he has left.