What makes us human (Supernatural)
Title: What makes us human (Chapter 5/?: part two)
Fandom(s): Supernatural
Characters: Sam Winchester. Dean Winchester.
Pairing(s): Gen
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A teenchester story. AU. Dean is 16 and Sam 12 at the beginning.
Another town, another school. All normal for the Winchesters, until the night everything changes: the night Sam got taken. Then all hell breaks loose.
Genre: Angst. Hurt/Comfort.
Warnings: Torture. Child abuse. Self-harm. Depression.
Disclaimer: Supernatural isn't mine.
Sammy was alive. Looking at him, not saying a word. His little brother wasn't dead.
What the hell was Dean supposed to do now? He had been dreaming of this moment for so long. Now that it was real, now that Sammy was finally back with him, well, Dean didn’t know what to do. He had forgotten how to be an older brother. Consumed by his rage and need for blood and revenge, he had lost himself, or at least a part of himself. Then, something unexpected happened, his muscles seemed to remember what he was supposed to do. His mind might have forgotten what it was like to have someone to look after, but not his body. Because of all the sudden, he walked right to Sam and hugged him.
Three years. Three years was a very long time, Dean had no idea what had happened to Sam. He didn’t know how much his brother had changed- surely a lot. Nothing mattered, nothing except that Sammy was here, and Dean was hugging him. Maybe being an older brother wasn’t something that could be forgotten. Maybe he had never stopped being one. Maybe this was such a huge part of him that nothing- nothing, not even fake death- could ever take away from him. Dean was Sam’s older brother. Three years of sorrow and pain and alcohol hadn't changed that. Being an older brother was forever Dean's job.
God, he'd had Sammy back for less than a few minutes and already he was turning into a girl, hugging him and crying. He really needed to let go of him to start asking questions. There was so many things that he needed the answers to. Like what had happened to him? Why had the body they buried looked like Sam? Did Sammy know who had taken him? Where had he been all this time? Was he okay? Not that Dean thought that Sammy could be anywhere near “okay”. One could always hope. Dean almost laughed at the thought: hope, he could fucking hope again.
In order to know the answers to all his concerns, he had to let go of Sam first to untie him. Shit, he had forgotten about the rope restraining him. With trembling hands, he managed to get the rope off Sam. Sam. Sam wasn't entirely up that Dean was taking him in his arms again.
Dean just lingered into the embrace for a few more seconds, then he finally let him go. This was okay, this wasn’t an “I’m letting go of you down a hole”, no, he wasn’t abandoning Sam alone in the dark. He was just ending the hug thing for now, before he killed every last shred of manhood. One of his hand remained attached to Sam’s arm, gripping him, anchoring Sam to him. Okay, so Dean wasn’t entirely ready to let go.
“What happened, Sam?”
Please talk to me. Please let me help.
“You’re not wearing your amulet anymore.”
Obviously, the first words that Sam spoke would have to be something like that: something that went right through Dean, making him feel so damn much. What could Dean say, really? That he couldn’t wear it anymore? That he didn’t deserve it anymore? It wasn’t just some stupid, ugly piece of jewelry that Sam had given him out of hand. It was so much more. This necklace represented their relationship. It represented the trust that Sam had always had in Dean, the knowledge that no matter what, Dean was there for Sam. This gift had been an unspoken promise between the two of them- a promise that had been broken.
That was why Dean wasn’t wearing it anymore. He had lost the right to. Somewhere along the way, he had lost that privilege.
“No, I’m not wearing it.”
Nice change of subject by the way Sammy.
“Why?”
Fuck, Dean had missed Sammy’s “Whys”. Even if this one hurt like hell, at least Sammy was here to ask questions. Sam must have already known the answer to that “Why”, because he didn’t let Dean answer. Apparently, Sam had been silent all this time because he'd been waiting for Dean to realize that he was Sammy.
“You should wear it again. I want you to.”
Dean searched through his pocket and retrieved his necklace. Even if he didn’t wear it anymore, he had still kept it close to him. With shaky hands, he put it back on, where it belonged. The weight of it on his neck felt so much heavier than he remembered. Perhaps it was because to Dean, this felt like a second chance. Life was giving him a second chance to not screw up. Second chances were very rare things in their lines of work. Hell, second chances were rare, period.
“Thanks.”
What he was thanking Sam for, Dean didn’t know. This was probably a thank you for not hating me. A thank you for not being dead. A thank you for letting me be your older brother again.
He still needed to have some serious answers.
“Sam, what happened?”
“I don’t know.”
Yeah, like Dean was going to believe that. In any case, Sam didn’t give him time to question him further.
“Please Dean, please. I don't want to talk.”
Dean knew that this was a bad idea. A very bad idea. Sam was never going to be ready to tell him what had happened. Waiting was stupid. Thing was: Dean didn’t give a fuck about being stupid. The last time his brother had asked him to do something- like moving out of a motel room- he had refused, then all hell had broken loose. So, if Sam wanted to delay the heart-to-heart conversation about what exactly occurred during his absence, then Dean was going to let him. For the night.
“Okay Sammy. It’s late anyway. You should go to bed. Rest or something.”
I’ll be right next to you.
It was the first night he'd had his brother back, so there was no way in hell he was leaving him. He stayed on a chair next to the bed, listening to his little brother breathing. He just had to make sure- make sure that he was still here, that he wasn’t gonna disappear on him again. He stayed there, even when Bobby returned and watched him, watched them, standing by the door. They didn't talk. That could wait. For tonight, Dean could just enjoy the moment. He fell asleep on that chair, and when morning came, he was awake, and his hand was resting on Sam’s chest. Maybe Dean should have felt embarrassed by the contact, only he wasn’t, because he had craved for it for three years.
During the night, someone had put a blanket on Dean’s shoulder. He had probably been way too tired to notice anything. Tired to the point of being oblivious to an old friend- someone who hadn’t been simply a friend and more of a father than anything else for quite some time- making sure that he wasn’t cold while asleep.
Sammy opened his eyes.
“Hey, how did you sleep?”
Make small talks, Dean. Ignore the fucking huge elephant in the room.
Sam didn’t really answered him, he just shrugged his shoulders. No small talks, then.
“Let’s get downstairs and eat some breakfast okay?”
They could do that. Eating breakfast was easy. Dean could take care of Sammy. Feed him. Make sure he was as close to “alright” as possible. Then, they will talk.
Bobby’s kitchen didn’t have that much. Just the essentials stuff. When the brothers reached the kitchen, they found Bobby already making scramble eggs for them. Bobby was no cook, but the gesture was there. He tried his best not to stare at Sammy too long, or come too close to him. He just put a hand on Sam's shoulder and said:
“It's good to see you, kid.”
Bobby had never been a man of words. What hunter was, really? However, the emotion was clear in the man's voice.
“Eat, boys. I think you’re gonna need all the strength you can get. I’ll be in my office. Just yell if ya need anything.”
The “and talk to each other while I’m gone, idjits” was very clear, even if not spoken out loud. Dean tried to eat normally, without staring at Sam every half second, at which he failed miserably. Sam was here, eating breakfast with him. The whole thing was surreal.
“We need to talk.”
Those were the words Dean usually reserved for chicks, but since Sam wasn’t going to break the silence and make the first move, Dean was going to have to. It was his role to take the lead, be in charge.
Sammy didn’t seem to have listened to him. Dean knew better. He knew that Sam had heard the words.
“Sammy, I know you don’t want to talk. But we have to. I need to know.”
Sam carefully laid the fork next to his plate, not watching him, eyes down. For a moment, Dean remembered the ferocity that he had witnessed in his brother, back in Detroit. When the rugaru had tried to attack him, Sam had taken care of it in a way that was so unlike the Sam of three years ago. Despite that, Dean wasn’t going to be afraid, not of Sammy. Never of Sammy.
“Sam, please man, talk to me.”
“There is nothing to say.”
“Who took you?”
That question had tortured Dean long enough. He knew so little of the demon that had destroyed him. Destroyed them all. Sam tensed immediately at the question. Pure terror invaded his posture. Dean had never seen his brother so terrified at the mention of someone. As if Sam were waiting for the pain to come. Dean saw red. Sammy was only a kid when he had last seen him, but he was a tough kid, barely afraid of anything. This Sam was very different, yet there were still some things about his brother that hadn’t changed.
“Sammy, the demon that took you, is he still alive?”
If he was alive, then Dean was ready to hunt him down and torture him. He was prepared for it. Hell, he was going to enjoy the torture. With Sam to give him precious clues, this hunt was going to be a hell of a lot easier. Dean could finally have his revenge.
“Yes, he’s still alive.”
“How did you get out?”
If the demon wasn’t dead, how had Sam manage to escape?
“I didn’t.”
Huh?
“I just woke up in a motel room. And I was free. I don’t know what happened.”
Sam had yet to meet Dean’s eyes.
“You don’t know how you got out? You think this demon just let you go?”
If this was the case, then they were in deep shit. This was probably part of some demonic plan. Well fuck them, Dean was ready to fight. No one was going to take his brother away from him. Never again. Dean felt the weight of the amulet once again. There was no breaking promises this time. No more screwing up.
“No, I don’t think he let me go. Something else did it. I don’t know what. But it wasn’t Azazel.”
“Azazel? That’s the name of the demon that took you?”
“Yes.”
A name. A name was an excellent thing. Dean finally knew the name of the son of a bitch he was going to kill.
“Are you sure it wasn’t him?”
“I’m sure.”
“How?”
“I just am.”
Cryptic there, Sammy. At least he wasn’t completely unresponsive. That was something. Sam got a paper out of his pocket and put it down on the table for Dean to take. It was a note that said: “Please forgive me.”
“What is that?
“I found it in the motel room. Next to the bed. I don’t know who or what wrote it.”
Okay, so the one million dollar question was now: “Who got Sammy out and why?”
“Why… why did this demon take you?”
Dean wasn’t stupid enough to think that Sam had been treated anywhere near decent during the last years. Dean had to know the extent of his brother’s torture. It was the only way for him to help.
“I don’t know.”
Right there was a lie. Dean knew. Sam knew Dean knew. This was getting way too complicated for a morning discussion.
“I, huh… Did you… what was it like?”
Come on Dean, get your shit together.
Sam didn’t acknowledged his question this time. He just kept on his contemplation of the so fascinating plate before him. Their conversation was done for now.
“I’m gonna take a shower.”
Crap, it wasn’t like Dean could follow him there. Before Sam had completely left the kitchen’s table, he turned around, whispering so softly that Dean almost didn’t catch the words:
“Hell, it was hell.”
Yeah, Dean had figured that much.
During the next few days, Dean had expected to wake up at any moment and realize this was just a dream. But he didn’t. Having Sammy back kept being real. He was still by Dean’s side. He and Bobby had tried to call John to tell him the news, only he was unreachable. They'd left him messages, messages that were surely going to cause John to have a heart attack or something, that is IF he ever decided to check his phone. Not that Dean would never admit it, but he needed his dad here. Sammy needed their dad here. So if John Winchester could just do everyone a favor and finally listen to his voicemail that would be just peachy. The days passed, and John didn't call back. They were alone.
Dean watched over Sam like a hawk. He was surprised that his brother hadn’t kicked him and told him to back off. Not that he would have listened. The more he watched Sam, the more he could learn about his brother, see all the little and not so little changes in him. Those years unaccounted for- those years when Dean had no idea where Sam was- they had changed his brother. Nothing surprising here. Dean was trying to put the pieces back together. Sam had developed some weird habits: like touching his wrists constantly. It was driving Dean crazy. There was nothing on his brother's wrist, except Sam seemed to think that there was.
The physical changes were also there: hair longer, Sammy was taller, though still a little bit smaller than Dean. He kept his head down, never meeting anyone eyes unless asked to.
Then, there was the constant state of alert Sammy always seemed to be in. Every time Dean or Bobby came close to him unexpectedly, there was an immediate reaction: one of fear and horror. It was pretty clear that Sam was expecting pain, lots and lots of pain. Every time this happened, it made Dean clench his fists, and he could only think of one thing: torture. Sam had been tortured. Problem was, Dean couldn't see any physical evidence. He had tried to look for any kind of marks or scars but there was nothing to see. Then again, he only saw his brother with clothes on. Maybe all the scars were hidden away, underneath. It wasn't like he could just go to Sam and say: “Hey dude, could you take off your shirt? I just need to see something really quick.” That conversation wouldn't go very well.
Anyway, Dean was putting the pieces of the puzzles together, forming a picture he didn't like. There wasn't an inch of doubt that he didn't know the worst of it yet. He didn't have the ugliest pieces of the puzzle. He wasn't sure if he even wanted to.
Dean tried to learn more about what had happened by simply asking questions, but Sam’s lips were sealed. There wasn’t that much that Dean could do if his little brother didn’t decide to confide in him. Watching him suffer like that was taking a toll on him.
The nightmares were the worst. There were bad, and constant, some nights worse than others. Usually, Dean would just walk over Sammy, cross the distance between their beds, and tell him that everything was fine. Sometimes that worked. Some nights it didn’t. There were nights when Sam would scream at the top of his lungs, begging for the pain to stop. Nights when he screamed Dean’s name. On those nights, all the words in the world were useless. And Dean didn’t take it very well. There was something utterly heart stabbing about hearing Sammy scream for him like that, as if he had probably called for him a thousand times when he was away. So yeah, Dean didn’t take that very well. Those nights, he would climb into his brother’s bed, lying next to him through the night, telling him over and over again that he was there.
During the day, neither brother acknowledged the fact that they had spent the night in the same bed. Dean really didn’t care if they were too old for that. He didn’t care how close to a chick-flick that was. Sammy needed him there, plain and simple. Dean wasn’t known to refuse anything that kid needed. So what if Dean needed it too?
Usually after a particularly bad night, Bobby would make sure that their breakfast was ready and enjoyable by the next morning. He wanted to give the boys some sense of normalcy. At the same time he'd let Dean take care of things his way. Bobby was a soothing presence, here with them, never invading. While John had yet to call back, or come to them.
On one of the very bad nights, Dean woke up to find Sam’s bed empty. The horror and panic that he felt only lasted a few seconds, just enough time to notice the light coming out of the bathroom. He didn’t know what had driven him to get up to make sure that Sam was alright- gut instinct, brother’s intuition or what- he just did. He knocked on the door a few times, and when no response came, he opened the bathroom door. Screw privacy.
Sammy.
Sam was... he was cutting his arms. He was tracing cuts all over his left arm, up and down. Dean was on him in a heartbeat.
“Sam, stop. What the hell are you doing?”
“The pain, I need the pain. I need the pain, Dean. Please I need… I need it. The pain. Can’t you see it? I’m alive Dean. The pain makes me alive.”
Dean pried the razor out of his hands and threw it away in the trashcan. He cleaned the wounds, methodically, thoroughly- like this was a normal hunting injury. Like this wasn’t something Sammy inflicted on himself. Like this wasn’t something big. Like Dean hadn’t completely screwed up. That was okay though. So, what if Sam was losing it a little? What if he needed to hurt himself? What if he was traumatized? Sam was still alive. Definitively in pain and hurting. But alive. Dean would choose a traumatized Sammy over no Sammy at all any day. No contest.
“Sammy, look at me. Come on, look at me.”
Please don’t ever make me put you down a hole. I can’t do it again. I barely did it the first time.
Hazel eyes were watching him. Broken eyes. Even if it took Dean a lifetime, he was determined to erase that look of desperation from his brother’s eyes.
“Don’t you ever do that. You hear me? You don’t need it. That’s bullshit. Pain is never about life. Never. You ever feel the need to do it again, you come right to me. I mean it Sammy! I don’t care if it’s the middle of the night. You come and get me, and I’ll make it alright. I’m gonna fix this Sammy. I promise you, I’m gonna fix this. You trust me?”
What if Sam didn’t trust him anymore? Three years. He had let his little brother down for three years. What if Sammy resented him? Blamed him? How could he trust him again? After all the things that Dean had failed to do, after-
“Okay Dean, okay. I trust you.”
“Good. Good.”
Dean’s voice didn’t quiver under the emotions. Absolutely not. He was just tired. It was the middle of the night, after all.
“Now, tell me what’s wrong. You gotta let me in and tell me what’s wrong Sammy.”
Dean saw the hesitation in his brother’s eyes. He saw all the things Sam couldn’t say, and so much more. He saw the exact moment his little brother decided to try.
“Sammy’s dead. I am dead.”
“No, you’re not. You were dead. Not anymore.”
“It’s too late Dean. It’s too late for me.”
“Like hell it is! There is no such thing as “too late”. I’m bringing you back Sammy. I don’t care what it takes. I’m fucking bringing you back.”
You just watch me.
“I don’t know how to be Sam anymore. I don’t remember. I don’t remember what it felt like to be your brother Dean. I can’t remember how.”
“It’s okay Sammy. It’s okay. I’m having a little trouble remembering how to be your older brother too. We can remember together. I know this isn’t something that we can fix in a few days. I know that. But we can do it. I know it. I feel it, okay? It’s gonna be okay Sammy, I promise.”
Sam didn’t seem to believe him. Dean had all the time in the world to prove him wrong.
They went back to bed. He heard his brother trying to settle into the sheets.
“Goodnight Sammy.”
“Goodnight Dean.”
Yes, Dean truly believed that things could be okay again.
The next morning, his cell phone rang.
John. It was about fucking time. Dean went outside into the salvage yard to take the phone call.
“Dad, where the hell are you? Did you get the messages? Bobby and I have been trying to call you for days. It’s really Sammy, Dad. It’s really him. We checked. I swear it’s him. Where are you? What happened to you?”
Why didn’t you come to us?
“When can you be here? Dad?”
Silence, then finally: “Dean.”
No. No, no, no, no. Dean knew that voice. He’d heard it throughout all his childhood. This was the voice that his dad used when he was about to do something stupid. Like giving up on his children. Like not showing up when everything was so…
“When are you gonna be able to come, Dad?”
Come on Dad, come on. Don’t leave me here alone again. Please don’t do that. I’m tired of being left behind.
“I can’t come Dean. I can’t.”
“You got a hunt causing you trouble?”
It was a stupid question to ask. Dean knew that. He knew that this wasn’t a “I will come, don’t worry, I’m just being held up” thing. This was his father screwing up. Leaving them again.
“I’m not coming. I… I got something to do first. It’s about the demon that took Sammy. I can’t tell you more. But I gotta do this.”
“You can’t do that. You hear me Dad? You have to come here. Sam’s your son. Yours. You can’t just not come. I… Sammy needs you here. I… dammit Dad, I need you here. Please, don’t you do that. Whatever this is, we can do it together. Whatever you found about this demon, we take care of it as a family.”
Perhaps they haven’t been a family for a really long time. With Sammy back, that could all change. They could start again. Be a family again. They could all stop hurting so damn much.
“Dean, it’s too dangerous. I have to do this alone. It’s for the best. You can take care of Sammy. I know you can.”
“Fuck you, Dad. Fuck you. I know I can take care of him! It’s not about that. I don’t want to have to do it alone. Please don’t make me do it alone. I’m begging you, come here, and help me. Sammy is a mess. We don’t even know who let him go. He won’t tell me what happened.”
“Dean, I’m so sorry son. I have to do this.”
Dean was done pleading the guy. Done expecting things from him that he would never get. They were at a breaking point. If his dad didn’t start reaching for them now, it was all going to be over. It was time for Dean to get angry.
“I don’t want your fucking apologies. You got two days to come at Bobby’s place. Two days, you hear me? If you’re not here by then, don’t you bother coming back. Two days, and if you’re not here, this is all over. I don’t ever want to see you again, or talk to you or hear from you. Two days or you’re dead to me.”
Dean closed his cellphone. He needed to break things, a lot of things. Good thing he was surrounded by a bunch of old cars. He found a wrench in Bobby’s junkyard and started hitting. On the windows, on the hoods. Everything was fair game. Anything to just stop feeling. After all this time, Dean was still a stupid moron. Still expecting things from his father. How could he be such a fool, such an idiotic, hopeful little shit? After all this time, how could Dean still imagine that his dad was going to be here? Maybe because Dean had always believed that family came first, it apparently wasn't the case for John. Dean needed to let go of the anger. He needed to feel the cracks of the cars under his hands. Needed to destroy and damage, and hurt. He needed to let go. Each hit had a purpose, each hit took away a little bit of the desperation and the anguish and the pain.
One hit for leaving him alone after his mom died.
One hit for leaving him alone to take care of Sammy. Feed him. Bath him. Teach him how to walk and talk, and laugh, and just live.
One hit for making Dean feel useless and not enough. Why, why couldn’t Dean ever be enough?
And finally, one hit for leaving him alone after burying Sammy.
Yes, Dean needed to break and hit things. What he really needed though, was a dad to hold onto, to stop him from all this hurting, to reassure him that he was here now, to tell him that everything was going to be okay. That was a dad he was never going to get. That was a dad he had lost on a November night when he was four years old.
Two days later…
Bobby walked outside and saw an old truck parked near his junkyard.
John.
Bobby walked towards him, not knowing exactly if he was going to shoot the guy, punch him, strangle him, or hug him for finally coming. It was probably going to be a little bit of all that.
“You planning on coming inside the house?”
John Winchester looked miserable. It was kinda obvious to anyone who didn’t have their head too far up their ass. There was something else in the hunter’s eyes. Something that Bobby hadn’t seen in a long time. Something that looked a lot like hope.
“How’s Sam?”
“Why don’t you come inside and see for yourself, John?”
It was time to cut the bullshit and man up- or rather in John's case, father up.
“I… I don’t know what to tell them. I don’t know how to fix Sam, Bobby. I don’t know how. And Dean, Dean is going to kill me.”
He’d have a good reason to.
“You could start by just being there for them. Being their father again. But I gotta warn you. Once you get inside that house, you’re in for the long ride. There is no changing thoughts, or any leaving to “protect them”. None of that crap. If you’re in, you’re in. So, what do you say?”
“I’m in.”
“Good. Let’s get inside and try to help those boys of yours.”
Dean walked down the stairs. He needed coffee, and he needed it now. He was about to walk into Bobby’s kitchen when he caught sight of something standing in the doorway. The “something” was actually a “someone”. Someone he thought he would never see again: John.
Suddenly, his dad entered the room. Not John, the ex-marine, the hard core hunter. No, this was his Dad, and he was hugging Dean before any words could be spoken. His dad had never hugged him or Sam. Sure, he had sometimes put a hand on their shoulders when things had gotten out of control, or if one of them had been badly hurt. But a hug? John Winchesters didn’t do hugs.
For a second, Dean had to resist the urge to punch him to make him bleed a little, just on principle. For all the anger that he felt, it was gone the moment he had his father’s arms around him. Last time he had been hugged like that was probably about fifteen years ago. It was a hug that screamed of home. It was something between holding on and letting go.
Before Dean could think of his actions, or remember that he was supposed to be mad, he was hugging him back. He was returning the embrace with a force he didn’t know he still had, crushing his dad’s arms, so desperate. It was Dean’s own way to say: Please don’t let me go.
It didn’t mean that all was forgiven, or that Dean had suddenly forgotten about all the times John had let them down. This was far from perfect, and they were far from okay. But it was something. It was a start. John was here.
TBC...