Road Trip 1/5
Summary: At long last, the events of the pilot episode seen through the lens of Dean's Asperger's.
May 1, 2004
Dean closed the phone and pocketed it as Sam came to join him.
"Who were you calling?" Sam asked, putting his tray down and mock-glaring as Dean filched a fry.
"Dad," Dean said around the mouthful of fry, poking at his burger before he picked it up and took a bite.
Sam lifted an eyebrow. "You got ahold of Dad?"
"No, his answering machine." Dean sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. "I don't understand why he won't answer my calls."
"Hey." Sam's fingers closed over his wrist and stayed there until Dean's eyes met his. "Dad's not answering anybody's calls. Try not to take it personally, okay?"
"Okay," Dean said with a small smile. Then his eyes skittered off Sam's as if holding eye contact was too much effort, and he turned his intense green gaze to his burger.
Sam looked around the nearly empty Stanford cafeteria, automatically looking for dangers to his older-but-somehow-younger brother. He didn't take the lack of eye contact personally. He was quite used to it by now.
He'd been dealing with Dean's Asperger's since his seventh birthday.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
May 2, 1990
Sammy's seventh birthday was spent like most weekdays since the start of the year had been -- in a doctor's office while 11-year-old Dean underwent tests, tests, and more tests.
Today, though, the doctor came in to where Dad was sitting watching Dean and Sammy build a small town with blocks. Dad looked up. "Doctor Byrne?"
"Mister Winchester. I wish I had better news -- but the tests are quite conclusive."
Dad shook his head. "Just tell me, Doc. What's wrong with my son?"
Doctor Byrne sighed. "I'm afraid Dean has Asperger's Syndrome."
Sammy looked up at the new words. Asperger's Syndrome? What was that?
As if hearing the boy's thoughts, the doctor told Dad, "It's a developmental disorder. There is some speculation that it's either a type of or very closely related to autism."
"How do we fix him?" Dad asked bluntly.
"Mister Winchester, you don't understand. There is no way to 'fix' Dean. This is how he is. Now, I have some literature..."
They left the doctor's office with Dad behind the wheel, Dean gazing raptly out of the passenger window, and Sammy reading the literature from the doctor's office.
It was something new to read, and he soaked it up like a little sponge.
Everything he read sounded nearly exactly like his brother.
Two weeks after that final day in the doctor's office, Dad had to go out of town. He brought both boys into the kitchen and showed them both where the money was. The contact numbers. The ammunition.
Sammy was confused. Why was he suddenly included in the preparations? Why was Dad taking all this time to make certain that he understood? Dean usually took care of all of this.
Come to think of it, why had Dad spent the last week teaching Sammy how to shoot the gun he always left?
Dad gave Dean a hug and a kiss to his temple. Then, he took Sammy by the shoulder and led the seven-year-old to the door. A hug and a kiss to Sammy's temple, then Dad turned unusually serious eyes to him. "Sammy?"
"Yes, sir?"
Dad's hand tightened on his shoulder. "Sammy.... take care of your brother."
Stunned, Sammy managed a nod. Dad returned the nod -- and was gone.
Sammy gaped at Dean, who was staring at the door, his jaw lowered in shock.
That was the first time Sammy realised that "Aspergers" meant "different" -- even though Dean hadn't changed at all.
And it was the first time he saw that look of baffled agony in Dean's expressive wide eyes
On to the next part
May 1, 2004
Dean closed the phone and pocketed it as Sam came to join him.
"Who were you calling?" Sam asked, putting his tray down and mock-glaring as Dean filched a fry.
"Dad," Dean said around the mouthful of fry, poking at his burger before he picked it up and took a bite.
Sam lifted an eyebrow. "You got ahold of Dad?"
"No, his answering machine." Dean sighed, his shoulders sagging slightly. "I don't understand why he won't answer my calls."
"Hey." Sam's fingers closed over his wrist and stayed there until Dean's eyes met his. "Dad's not answering anybody's calls. Try not to take it personally, okay?"
"Okay," Dean said with a small smile. Then his eyes skittered off Sam's as if holding eye contact was too much effort, and he turned his intense green gaze to his burger.
Sam looked around the nearly empty Stanford cafeteria, automatically looking for dangers to his older-but-somehow-younger brother. He didn't take the lack of eye contact personally. He was quite used to it by now.
He'd been dealing with Dean's Asperger's since his seventh birthday.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
May 2, 1990
Sammy's seventh birthday was spent like most weekdays since the start of the year had been -- in a doctor's office while 11-year-old Dean underwent tests, tests, and more tests.
Today, though, the doctor came in to where Dad was sitting watching Dean and Sammy build a small town with blocks. Dad looked up. "Doctor Byrne?"
"Mister Winchester. I wish I had better news -- but the tests are quite conclusive."
Dad shook his head. "Just tell me, Doc. What's wrong with my son?"
Doctor Byrne sighed. "I'm afraid Dean has Asperger's Syndrome."
Sammy looked up at the new words. Asperger's Syndrome? What was that?
As if hearing the boy's thoughts, the doctor told Dad, "It's a developmental disorder. There is some speculation that it's either a type of or very closely related to autism."
"How do we fix him?" Dad asked bluntly.
"Mister Winchester, you don't understand. There is no way to 'fix' Dean. This is how he is. Now, I have some literature..."
They left the doctor's office with Dad behind the wheel, Dean gazing raptly out of the passenger window, and Sammy reading the literature from the doctor's office.
It was something new to read, and he soaked it up like a little sponge.
Everything he read sounded nearly exactly like his brother.
Two weeks after that final day in the doctor's office, Dad had to go out of town. He brought both boys into the kitchen and showed them both where the money was. The contact numbers. The ammunition.
Sammy was confused. Why was he suddenly included in the preparations? Why was Dad taking all this time to make certain that he understood? Dean usually took care of all of this.
Come to think of it, why had Dad spent the last week teaching Sammy how to shoot the gun he always left?
Dad gave Dean a hug and a kiss to his temple. Then, he took Sammy by the shoulder and led the seven-year-old to the door. A hug and a kiss to Sammy's temple, then Dad turned unusually serious eyes to him. "Sammy?"
"Yes, sir?"
Dad's hand tightened on his shoulder. "Sammy.... take care of your brother."
Stunned, Sammy managed a nod. Dad returned the nod -- and was gone.
Sammy gaped at Dean, who was staring at the door, his jaw lowered in shock.
That was the first time Sammy realised that "Aspergers" meant "different" -- even though Dean hadn't changed at all.
And it was the first time he saw that look of baffled agony in Dean's expressive wide eyes
On to the next part