Fic: With Armored Hearts
“I shouldn’ta left.” It’s Sam, his whisper so close Dean can feel the puff of breath on his cheek. It’s good to know Sam’s there, pretty sure he hasn’t been for a while now. Pretty sure, but it’s hard to think past the sharp pain darting across his stomach, past the hot, muddy bog his head seems lost in.
He’s waking up from what feels like a deep nightmare, the kind that takes four cups of coffee and a long hot shower to shake off. The kind that you feel but can’t remember. Christ. He can’t remember.
Sam’s sitting on the edge of the bed with a hand on Dean’s knee. Light streams in from the hallway, turning his looming torso into a golden-edged shadow.
Dean reaches around his belly where it hurts, skids over the bandages there.
“Wha was’t?” He gets a disappointed sigh for having to ask.
“Some kind of Spring Heeled Jack outside of Tulsa. Clawed you up pretty good before you got a decent shot in,” Sam tells him. A rumpled picture starts to flatten out, bits of it still smeared and indecipherable. Still, it’s better than nothing, and he can run with it.
“Mmm. Bixby Arboretum.”
Sam pats his leg, convinced that Dean’s back on track. “Yeah. Looks like Ellen stitched you shut,” he says, and Dean knows he’s right. He remembers her thin fingers lacing through his sweaty hair, dancing along the edge of the wound.
“She’s an old pro,” says Dean, not really sure if he’s recalling this wound, or dozens of them all at once.
“It’s good to see you, Dean. Even if… you know…”
“Yeah. How long you got?”
“I head back Sunday. So, four days.”
Well isn’t he a hell of a welcoming committee? “Shit. Bad timing. Sorry,” Dean rasps, but when his eyes meet Sam’s, there’s no remorse to be found, only fatigue and a bitter understanding that this is how things always are here.
_+_+_+_+_
All he knows is that he’s hot. That there’s not enough air in the room and not enough space in his head. The bed sheets stick to his skin like June bugs on a windshield, and he kicks at them with less strength than he’d ever admit to.
“Alright. Settle down, Bronco.” Her hands push his legs down, gentle and firm, and her voice, soft and worn like horse hide, soothes his nerves. Ellen.
“’S hot…”
“That’s the fever talkin’. Lie still or you’ll pull those stitches I put so damn much TLC into,” she says, still holding him steady.
“Okay,” he breathes, takes it back in through his nose, smells the whiskey on her breath, smells sweat and ginger soap like winter.
“Okay.”
“Where’s Sam?”
“Sleepin’ off the jet-lag,” she says, settling down next to him now. She lays a folded old facecloth across his forehead, and it’s cold and damp and lifts a pressure from his thoughts. “He’s doin’ real good down there. Aced his mid-terms.”
“Want him back.” The confession stings like only childish fever-truths tend to, and Dean closes his eyes against it, wishing the words away.
“We did a good thing, Dean. Pushed him to do somethin’ more with his life than us lousy pack-hounds,” she tells him. But truths don’t tend to fit together like jigsaw puzzle pieces, and these ones don’t even look like they’re from the same box.
Where Sam should be and where Dean needs him are two different places. Dean’s known that for a long time now.
_+_+_+_+_
There’s a wood thrush that lives in the tree outside his window. Though it’s still dark out, he knows her song, knows she can see a glint of sunlight that he can’t. Somehow though, he can’t imagine anything beyond it; a yard, a street, a town. Just his room, and a bird and a ray of sunlight.
Jo is holding his hand.
“You look like shit,” she says. She’s wearing a plaid shirt that’s twice her size, and it hangs loose off a moonlit shoulder and she looks so young.
Suddenly he feels like he shouldn’t be here. He really shouldn’t.
“Jo… can you call my dad? Call dad…” he begs her, because Dad will set it straight. He’ll sweep away all the cobwebs, and put things in their rightful places. Because everyone’s mixed up here, playing the wrong parts.
“Jesus, Dean. I’m sorry…” Jo whispers, pressing a hand to his temple. “I can’t. You know I can’t.”
She kisses his forehead and he watches a tear slip down her cheek and looses his breath. He knows she can’t. Knows it like he knows that wood thrush.
_+_+_+_+_
“He’d be real proud of you, kid.” Bill tells him. “You were unstoppable back there.”
“Jo told you I asked for him,” Dean says, tries to sound embarrassed, not heartbroken.
Bill nods, holds out a glass of water that Dean takes in both hands, drinks as if from some holy chalice. Bill waits. Takes the glass from him when he’s done.
“Don’t know what I was thinkin’,” Dean admits, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He stares at the old journal on his nightstand, can conjure every page in his mind. “It’s been 8 years now.”
“He’s your father. You won’t ever feel it any less,” Bill says, a hand on his shoulder. And Dean knows he’s right because he still feels an ache in his chest from that hand there, just as it was when he told him Dad was dead. “Don’t think it changes nothin’. You’re part of this family. You and Sam. You got that?”
“Got it.”
Bill pats him on the arm and Dean watches him disappear down the hallway. He can see the house beyond it now: Jo’s room, right next to his. Yellow wallpaper, a record player and an old Journey poster Dean bought her on the wall. He can picture the little kitchen behind the bar, where Ellen makes her famous apple turn-overs and Bill cooks Spaghetti and meatballs whenever he’s home on a Sunday night. He can see the master bedroom Dean and Sam helped Bill build the summer Dad was killed, the summer Dean spent hating the Harvelle’s because it was easier than hating Dad for leaving them alone.
He’s not sure when they started to feel like family, but they do. He’s let himself feel loved and safe even though it’s all paper. It’s stuffed animals and blankets and lies that the President tells you about the economy and the airlines tell you about plane crashes.
He wasn’t ever safe. Not with Mom in Lawrence, not with Dad on the road, and not now. But he knows how to have a rug pulled out from under him. Knows what it feels like to fall, and knows how to get back up. He’s ready.
_+_+_+_+_
He’s waking up from what feels like a deep nightmare, the kind that takes four cups of coffee and a long hot shower to shake off. The kind that you feel but can’t remember. Christ. He can’t remember.
Sam’s sitting on the edge of the bed with a hand on Dean’s knee. Light streams in from the hallway, turning his looming torso into a golden-edged shadow.
Dean reaches around his belly where it hurts, skids over the bandages there.
“Wha was’t?” He gets a disappointed sigh for having to ask.
“Some kind of Spring Heeled Jack outside of Tulsa. Clawed you up pretty good before you got a decent shot in,” Sam tells him. A rumpled picture starts to flatten out, bits of it still smeared and indecipherable. Still, it’s better than nothing, and he can run with it.
“Mmm. Bixby Arboretum.”
Sam pats his leg, convinced that Dean’s back on track. “Yeah. Looks like Ellen stitched you shut,” he says, and Dean knows he’s right. He remembers her thin fingers lacing through his sweaty hair, dancing along the edge of the wound.
“She’s an old pro,” says Dean, not really sure if he’s recalling this wound, or dozens of them all at once.
“It’s good to see you, Dean. Even if… you know…”
“Yeah. How long you got?”
“I head back Sunday. So, four days.”
Well isn’t he a hell of a welcoming committee? “Shit. Bad timing. Sorry,” Dean rasps, but when his eyes meet Sam’s, there’s no remorse to be found, only fatigue and a bitter understanding that this is how things always are here.
_+_+_+_+_
All he knows is that he’s hot. That there’s not enough air in the room and not enough space in his head. The bed sheets stick to his skin like June bugs on a windshield, and he kicks at them with less strength than he’d ever admit to.
“Alright. Settle down, Bronco.” Her hands push his legs down, gentle and firm, and her voice, soft and worn like horse hide, soothes his nerves. Ellen.
“’S hot…”
“That’s the fever talkin’. Lie still or you’ll pull those stitches I put so damn much TLC into,” she says, still holding him steady.
“Okay,” he breathes, takes it back in through his nose, smells the whiskey on her breath, smells sweat and ginger soap like winter.
“Okay.”
“Where’s Sam?”
“Sleepin’ off the jet-lag,” she says, settling down next to him now. She lays a folded old facecloth across his forehead, and it’s cold and damp and lifts a pressure from his thoughts. “He’s doin’ real good down there. Aced his mid-terms.”
“Want him back.” The confession stings like only childish fever-truths tend to, and Dean closes his eyes against it, wishing the words away.
“We did a good thing, Dean. Pushed him to do somethin’ more with his life than us lousy pack-hounds,” she tells him. But truths don’t tend to fit together like jigsaw puzzle pieces, and these ones don’t even look like they’re from the same box.
Where Sam should be and where Dean needs him are two different places. Dean’s known that for a long time now.
_+_+_+_+_
There’s a wood thrush that lives in the tree outside his window. Though it’s still dark out, he knows her song, knows she can see a glint of sunlight that he can’t. Somehow though, he can’t imagine anything beyond it; a yard, a street, a town. Just his room, and a bird and a ray of sunlight.
Jo is holding his hand.
“You look like shit,” she says. She’s wearing a plaid shirt that’s twice her size, and it hangs loose off a moonlit shoulder and she looks so young.
Suddenly he feels like he shouldn’t be here. He really shouldn’t.
“Jo… can you call my dad? Call dad…” he begs her, because Dad will set it straight. He’ll sweep away all the cobwebs, and put things in their rightful places. Because everyone’s mixed up here, playing the wrong parts.
“Jesus, Dean. I’m sorry…” Jo whispers, pressing a hand to his temple. “I can’t. You know I can’t.”
She kisses his forehead and he watches a tear slip down her cheek and looses his breath. He knows she can’t. Knows it like he knows that wood thrush.
_+_+_+_+_
“He’d be real proud of you, kid.” Bill tells him. “You were unstoppable back there.”
“Jo told you I asked for him,” Dean says, tries to sound embarrassed, not heartbroken.
Bill nods, holds out a glass of water that Dean takes in both hands, drinks as if from some holy chalice. Bill waits. Takes the glass from him when he’s done.
“Don’t know what I was thinkin’,” Dean admits, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He stares at the old journal on his nightstand, can conjure every page in his mind. “It’s been 8 years now.”
“He’s your father. You won’t ever feel it any less,” Bill says, a hand on his shoulder. And Dean knows he’s right because he still feels an ache in his chest from that hand there, just as it was when he told him Dad was dead. “Don’t think it changes nothin’. You’re part of this family. You and Sam. You got that?”
“Got it.”
Bill pats him on the arm and Dean watches him disappear down the hallway. He can see the house beyond it now: Jo’s room, right next to his. Yellow wallpaper, a record player and an old Journey poster Dean bought her on the wall. He can picture the little kitchen behind the bar, where Ellen makes her famous apple turn-overs and Bill cooks Spaghetti and meatballs whenever he’s home on a Sunday night. He can see the master bedroom Dean and Sam helped Bill build the summer Dad was killed, the summer Dean spent hating the Harvelle’s because it was easier than hating Dad for leaving them alone.
He’s not sure when they started to feel like family, but they do. He’s let himself feel loved and safe even though it’s all paper. It’s stuffed animals and blankets and lies that the President tells you about the economy and the airlines tell you about plane crashes.
He wasn’t ever safe. Not with Mom in Lawrence, not with Dad on the road, and not now. But he knows how to have a rug pulled out from under him. Knows what it feels like to fall, and knows how to get back up. He’s ready.
_+_+_+_+_