SPN Fic: Madness Is The Emergency Exit [Part One]
So when you find yourself locked onto an unpleasant train of thought,
Heading for the places in your past where the screaming is unbearable,
Remember there’s always madness.
Madness is the emergency exit...
- The Killing Joke, Alan Moore
They used to be sweet little boys
But something went horribly askew
Now killing is their only source of joy
- Shankill Butchers, The Decemberists
One bright day in the dead of night
Two dead brothers got up to fight
Back to back they faced each other
Drew their swords and shot each other
Part One
When Sam’s five and Dean is nine, Mary burns to death in Sam's room. Little flakes of his mother float down and land around Sam like rose petals on a lover's bed. Her screams echo around his head for days, and months, and years so that when he closes his eyes and listens, she’s still screaming.
John places Sam in Dean's arms and tells him to run, so Dean does what he is told and never let’s go. He carries his brother out of the house as the fire swallows it, mind still lost in the flames with the agonised screams of his mother and the sickly sweet smell of burning flesh.
When John comes back with nothing but smoke and flakes of ash on his clothes, the three of them sit on the Impala and watch the yellow striped men trying to battle the flames. Sometimes Sam wonders if that was his first fire. Sometimes he wonders if his mother roasted alive in his room because he set it alight. Then Dean bites a line along his jaw and tells him that Sam would never hurt Mary because she understood.
John never understood. Mary tried to open his eyes but he didn't want to see beyond the white picket fence and the American dream. John wanted Mary and normal or nothing at all. He wanted Mary and two good sons but instead he got ash and matches.
And Sam and Dean, they wanted a father who understood so John fell into a bottle and drowned under the surface. It wasn't his fault that alcohol has a siren's touch or that Mary was gone and his world was empty. It wasn't John's fault that he threw his sons into a life where all they had was each other..
When Dean wakes Sam and there are multi-coloured bruises like flowers on his brother's soft skin, they douse the world in gasoline. When John tries to break them apart 'for their own good’ ‘getting to close’ ‘not normal', they light a match and drop it. Sam’s nine and Dean’s thirteen and they sit on the hood of the Impala to watch their father burn. In his mind, Mary’s screaming but Sam thinks that she will be quieter once she has John again.
Bathed in orange and yellow, Dean's hand sneaks around Sam's wrist. His fingers press into the jumpy pulse and listens to his little brother's excitement. There's blood raining from the sky and he can see his mother burning a few feet away, even if no one else can. Somewhere in Dean there's something wired wrong, a plug forced into a mismatched socket. Instead of checking out a pretty girl he wonders how red she bleeds. Instead of shouting at his father to stay away from Sammy, he rips the world apart.
Something’s wrong and fuzzy, the camera can't quite focus on the Winchester brothers because it doesn't really know if there's something to focus on. It can see them both but they've got parts missing, guns without safeties, and blades without handles. Both of them know they're broken but it doesn't matter, not really. There's a snap-crackle-pop from the fire keeping them warm. Sam throws his head back against Dean's chest and laughs at the sky.
There's a fire in Sam that burns so bright, brighter than anything else in his world. It crackles and laughs. Sometimes it gets too hot and Sam can't control the fire. They all burn, his mother, his father, his world. Only Dean doesn't burn.
And Dean, he’s always thought he would need to be a fireman so he can calm the blaze in Sam, so he can control the restlessness under his brother's skin. The thing is, Dean doesn't want to be a fireman because firemen stop the blaze, stamp it out so the only colours are black and blue. That was never an option for Dean because he would have to blow out Sam and then Dean's world would go dark. It's okay though because he's part of Sam, and Sam doesn't burn so neither does Dean.
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By the time they hear the sirens screaming through the peace around the bonfire, smoke has stretched overhead and hidden the sky. Sam turns to his brother and asks him to bring the stars back. They slide into the Impala and drive until the orange glow has faded and all that’s left is the smoky smell threaded into their clothes.
"It's okay now, Sammy," Dean says as they stop in a red-lit motel car park and he runs a hand through the ash in Sam's hair. "He'll never split us up."
"I know," Sam purrs, pushing his head against Dean's palm. "Mom's keeping him now."
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When they open the trunk of the Impala next morning and find an armoury, there’s a fight in the parking lot over who gets what. It ends with Morse Code splatters of red on the grey concrete and rules for who gets the silver-skinned Glock, the elegantly curved corvo or the scoped rifle. At first they are going to divide the boot into Sam's half and Dean's half but they don't like being separated. Their arms end up in a pile like pick-up-sticks and you can't move one without moving another.
It's only after they have inspected each weapon, red-painted images running through their minds, that Sam turns to Dean and asks him why there’s a weapons cache in John’s car. Absentmindedly running his fingers along the engravings on his new Glock, Dean shakes his head with a frown.
"I don't know, Sammy."
For a moment they’re lost in that tiny car park, standing in the middle of the world which has never been bigger. There are a thousand things to do and so many places to go. Everything’s spread out before Dean and in front of it all stands Mary, her skin peeling in black strips. He doesn’t know what to do and the world won’t stop to let him think. For a moment he longs for John and the orders that told him what to do and where to go.
It’s Sam who puts everything right. Dean's baby brother, who he knows will be bigger than him one day, standing there with big puppy eyes that burn like fire. Sam’s hand is resting on Dean's and simultaneously stroking the metal of the gun between his brother's fingers, gaze so charged Dean feels an itch like fingernails ghosting over skin. The world is still spinning, drawing closer with blue and red lights but it's okay because Dean has got Sam and he's never letting go. He’ll bury himself inside his brother, cut him open and climb into his skin, before he leaves Sam.
Bobby calls them then, when the brothers are frozen in indecision. Down the phone his voice is as rough as Dean remembers from hazy, sun-dappled memories of car frames stacked in dusty heat. There's something different though, rust flake in words of condolence and sorrow for broken things. Bobby tells them to make their way to his scrap-yard and asks if Dean can drive.
"Yes sir."
"Don't 'sir' me, boy. That was John, not me."
"Okay, Bobby."
"Drive safely, son."
"I will."
The world streaks past them in a blur of colours melding into one and no one can catch them if they don't slow down. The wind is shrieking though the window but it's drowning out the sound of Mary in Sam's head. Then Led Zeppelin fills the gaps and spreads a smile on Dean's face. They hit 60, 70, 80 and touch the needle to red. Town after town drips from the windscreen and falls back into dark looks and disapproving whispers of those demons that race the law. They're running from the world or perhaps the world’s running from them.
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When they reach Bobby's, Dean slows down so the gravel won't be spat at the Impala's soft underbelly. He draws careful circles around the metal graveyard until he finds an empty garage where he can park their black beast. By then Bobby has heard the Impala's growl and is waiting for them, hands in pockets and eyes on the ground.
Bobby’s like Sam remembers from the half-formed Technicolor memories that are too old to be completely reliable. Worn out cap sitting on his head - Sam wonders if he has ever seen the top of Bobby's head, maybe he doesn't even have one - scruffy beard and a grimy rag hanging from his pocket. There are differences though, longer lines on his forehead and deeper shadows in his eyes. Time’s eroding hope like the ocean conquering Venetian streets.
"Hello boys."
"Hey, Bobby." Dean talks as Sam stares at the destruction around them. The yard’s decorated with the bones of cars that drove until their limbs fell off and their insides dragged along the ground. It’s the mechanics' heaven and to Sam it’s corpses piled to the sky, rotting and dripping black on the oil-soaked ground. It’s a kingdom of twisted bodies that scatter in a million screeching head-lights.
"Come on Sammy." Dean's voice calls to him and now there are only cars around them, lifeless, inanimate objects in Bobby Singer's Scrap-yard. Mary’s screaming in Sam's head but Dean’s waiting for him just before the shady gray of the inside and she’s never as loud when Sam has his brother.
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John was a hunter. That's what Bobby tells them when they ask about the weapons in Dean's new baby. There are things out there that go bump in the night and they might come from humans but they're nothing except blackness now. They’re the blood clots clogging the system and spewing filth across the land.
Dean looks out the window and sees their mother's twisted body, black and shivering as it flakes apart, lying in the cradle of a car that once drove on roads of black tar. There’s something beautiful about the ash drifting from her corpse but he doesn't like the curls of golden hair that still fall from her blackened head so he turns to look at Sam. His brother’s looking back at him and for a moment Dean thinks he can hear Mary screaming.
Bobby tells them about the monsters that humans become when they lose everything they had. Monsters that draw blood snail-trails across the world. Monsters and demons and ghosts and creatures born in Hellfire that live damned lives. Dean looks at Sam and wonders if they're one of these monsters, wonders if their eyes will turn black in the right light.
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The Winchester brothers stay at Bobby's house for a long time, days turning into weeks, turning into months, turn into a year, creeping along the rows of cars waiting for salvation or sacrifice. Bobby thought they would become bored, antsy caught in one place when they suddenly had the world at their feet. He loved Mary and John, knew they were good people but John changed after his wife died.
Of course he changed, anyone will when something comes along and pulls the world out from under their feet, but John changed. He changed until he wasn't there anymore.
He can remember moments in the sweet green summers, when John left his sons with Bobby while he painted the grass with monster's insides; moments when Bobby saw the fingerprint bruises on Sam's wrists or noticed the way Dean would move in front of his younger brother as soon as their father came into the room. It was in those moments that Bobby tried to convince himself to tell John to leave the boys at the scrap-yard, drive away and never look back.
But he didn't. Bobby likes to think he never got a chance, likes to believe that one day he would have looked at John and seen a drunkard, an abusive father, instead of a war-torn soldier, an old friend. Then there was another fire and Bobby never got the chance to look beyond memories of post-hunt afternoons dripping with cold-beer condensation.
Now he spends the days looking at the result of his hesitance. The Winchester brothers had always been close but now they were inseparable. Bobby gives them each a job, hanging washing or cleaning car parts. They do one job and then the next, never leaving their other half alone. They move around each other like they only have one brain, compensating for movements that the other hasn’t yet made.
He thought that they would get bored and antsy, stuck in a salvage yard in a small town, tied down with a temporary life, but they never complained. When Bobby doesn’t give them jobs to do, Dean works on the cars he deems worthy of salvation. Sam sits with him, counts the hours on the clock and watches Dean become the saviour.
When the heat of the day starts to fade, the brothers tell Bobby they’ll be back for dinner and then disappear. They never say where they’re going and Bobby never asks but every time they come back with fresh bruises and the occasional drop of blood on their grass stained clothes.
He was going to ask, then one day he’s walking on the edge of the property when the sound of skin on skin and breathless curses reach him. The Winchesters are in the field adjoining the salvage yard, various glinting weapons in the grass, surrounding them like stadium spectators. There are ammunition boxes settled in ordered rows and grass caskets filled with empty bullet casings like piles of shells on a beach.
As Bobby glances over the fence, Sam's fist connects with Dean's face and the elder Winchester's head snaps to the side with the impact. Before Bobby can open his mouth, Dean has recovered, returning with a powerful kick. Sam blocks the blow easily, barely stumbling at the force on his forearms. They fall into a blur of punches and kicks, ducking and blocking and occasionally taking a hit but recovering almost instantly.
Chilled fingers dig into Bobby's brain as he watches them. There’s something so wrong about this scene, the orphan brothers beating each other with blood-skinned fists. Sam’s ten and almost as tall as Dean already. He ducks and twists with almost superhuman grace, avoiding hits that Bobby could swear are going to meet flesh. Dean’s fourteen and older in his mind. He matches Sam in grace but his blows are heavier, muscles already built up over years of something Bobby won't think about.
He watches them for a minute more, shivers running over his skin like mice’s feet. There’s something so wrong about these broken brothers. The lines of their bodies are tight and thin, merging together for a heartbeat before pulling apart. Sometimes Bobby can't see where one ends and the other begins but then their eyes are flashing deadly and so different. Shivers run over Bobby's skin like rats’ claws and the urge to run’s overpowering.
As soon as he’s back in the house, he pulls a knife from his modest armoury and slips it into his waistband. It's something he can't explain because he would never hurt Sam and Dean, would never hurt the brothers who’re already so damaged.
But the shivers still haven't gone away. Out of sight but never out of mind.
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They stop when Dean finally manages to block a kick from his brother then floor Sam with a punch to a jaw. The younger falls back into the grass, exhausted, sporting a split-lip and seeing the world in flutters of bright colours as his head spins. A moment later, Dean drops down beside him, gun in hand, streaks of red smeared over his skin and dripping sluggishly from his nose.
"I'm getting better," Sam says, trying not to let the words sound too much like a question, too much like a despite plea for approval. "I could kill a ghost now."
"Yeah, Sammy." Dean's voice is soft and he draws a line along the side of Sam's face with the gun, a red line like a temporary scar. He wants to make it permanent. "You're a good shot."
Sam's lip stands out in the closest he will come to a pout. "Just good?" His brown, not black, eyes go big and round, a puppy with soft skin lying in the grass with Dean, leaning into the barrel pressed against his cheek. "I wasn't better than just good?"
"Yeah, Sammy," Dean murmurs again, digging the gun into the stream of red dripping from his brother's fat lip. Sam practically purrs as a red line is drawn down his face and the pain blankets him in a buzz of electricity under his skin. Maybe one day it will be permanent.
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They spend Christmas with Bobby, hanging red intestine-like tinsel over the wooden rafter bones of the house. Sam goes around after his brother and repositions all the tinsel when Dean isn’t looking. Mary isn’t as loud at Christmas, strangely muffled as if placated by mindless holiday spirit. Sam doesn’t understand thinks that his mother’s lost in fake memories. He’s not going to argue of course, it’s nice to have the volume turned down. It’s nice to not feel insane all the time.
One morning when Dean’s distracted by car limbs, Sam tells Bobby he doesn’t know what to get his brother for Christmas. There’s nothing left, nothing that Sam has that isn’t Dean’s too. He says maybe he needs to go into town, explore the shops until he finds something that Dean doesn’t have yet. Bobby shakes his head and shows him a cupboard in the back of one of his garages.
“Take anything you want from here, kid.”
There’s another world inside the cupboard, a hundred thousand things from a hundred thousand places all crammed together. Some glint silver and catch the light whilst others hide in the shadows and wait for the opportune moment. There are things made of bone that fitted into bodies once. There are bullets that Sam doesn’t think could ever fit into any gun he knows.
He finds the amulet on the bottom shelf, tucked away in the corner of a cardboard box full of animal pelts. It’s a strange gold face with horns like a demon. Sam thinks of all the monsters out there, all the creatures that have black eyes in the right light. He thinks Dean could kill them all. With a smile he tucks the amulet into his pocket and closes the doors on the knick-knack world.
When Dean opens his present the little horned face glows in the firelight. It seems smaller in Dean’s hands but there’s a smile on his face and Sam knows he chose well. Dean’s fingers run over the horns, press on them until his skin goes white from the pressure. Carefully he slips it over his head, letting the amulet fall against his chest. He grins at Sam, teeth white like bone.
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Sam’s ten and Dean’s fourteen when they leave Bobby with the throaty roar of the Impala and a cloud of dust. He knows it wasn’t going to last forever, knows that saving cars wasn’t going to keep them interested for long. He just hopes it was long enough. The brothers will always be fine, will always survive so long as they have each other.
No, Bobby not worried about the Winchesters. It‘s the rest of the world he prays for.
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For the first few months they slide across the middle of the US, from small-town America to smaller-town America. They stay anywhere that has a vacancy sign and never for more than two weeks.
Dean convinces Sam to go to school in the day, tells him Mary would’ve wanted it. Sam doesn't really argue. There's an idea in his mind, a pretty bright image of the American dream. It's a lawyer and his wife and they're smiling and laughing. Sam’s running his own law firm, a Stanford graduate, unofficially voted most successful. It's just an idea, the picture-book of social expectation but it's hooked into Sam's head. He thinks it’s what Mary would’ve wanted it.
It's wrong of course, it's so very wrong, because Dean isn't in the picture. Sam's spent hours trying to find his brother's place, trying fit him in like the last piece of a jigsaw but it’s bent, twisted, out of line. Mary would want it, would want a lawyer in the family, would want Sam to have a perfect life, but even she’d forget; Sam’s nothing without his brother.
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Although he’d never admit it, when Sam’s at school, Dean plays housewife. He cleans, does laundry, cooks and, whenever they're available, he takes odd jobs mowing some old man's lawn or fixing a rattling Ute. It's not a lot of money but it's enough.
When he has spare time, which is more often than not really, he drives his baby down to the school and slips into the crowd, attends a few classes as 'the new kid' or 'just trying it out'. That way he can make sure that Sammy's safe. That way he can see his brother in the halls, sit with him on the bleachers and watch the 'normies'. He can be close enough to protect Sam from anything that might want to hurt him.
At night they watch whatever they can find on TV and steal food from each other's plates. Sam stretches out after dinner, taking up as much space on the couch as possible until his feet are slid snugly under Dean's warm thigh. Sometimes he falls asleep like that, lulled by the screams and gunfire of whatever b-movie's rolling on screen, until Dean nudges him awake and gets him to a bed.
On weekends they hit every bar they haven't already been banned from. Sometimes they will walk into one they don't remember entertaining, only to be met with a shotgun barrel. When they find a bar, they strip it bare. Sam quickly learns how to hustle pool, long limbs melding seamlessly into the positions Dean moves them to. They find a mark, play him, drink, start a fight, win, grab their money then stumble home, laughing and licking blood from their fists.
Sometimes they make it to their beds and wake up on blood-stained sheets (which Dean never fails to make crude jokes about) but most nights they fall into a tangle on the couch. They wake the next morning, Sam curled into his brother's warmth or splayed out against his side, aching from their injuries but grinning through black eyes and red teeth.
Dean still sees Mary, burning on the Laundromat ceiling or crumbling into ash that scatters over the roses he's pruning for Mr. White. He can see her face, every strip of her soft skin peeling away from the muscle underneath.
Sometimes she's still whole and human, smiling at her eldest son like he remembers from sepia memories. Then her nightgown catches on fire and the flames flit higher and higher until her eyes are dripping out of their sockets and Dean can't watch anymore. When it's really bad, when Dean feels like he can't breathe anything except ash and fire, he pulls Sam out of school on a 'family emergency' and they drive to the middle of nowhere.
In a random field, they fight until they've bathed the Earth in their blood. Then Sam fills Dean's entire world with his dimples painted red, his eyes bright and fixed on Dean. Then there’s no room for Mary.
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The screams still ring in Sam's head, always there, although sometimes they're so quiet it's just background noise. They always come back though, his mother's dying moments echoing in his head forever. Most days he wonders how he hasn't gone mad yet, how he can be so sane with the screaming in his thoughts. At least, he thinks he’s sane.
At night it's the worst and every couple of weeks the clamour keeps him awake and staring into the dark. On those nights he climbs out of bed and slips into Dean's, ignoring his father's words ‘too close not right’. Dean grounds him, holds his sanity in place. Dean’s his bay, port, pier and anchor.
Sam squirms into the warmth of his brother, fingers twisted in Dean's shirt. He nudges his nose against smooth, bare skin then sinks his teeth into Dean's shoulder. The crescendo in his head dies away, the screams almost gone, never quieter than when Sam has his brother to hold him in the world. And Dean never complains, just hooks an arm around his little brother, digs his fingernails into soft skin and never let's go.
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It's a month after the end of school when Sam finally decides he's going to Stanford. Sam’s eighteen and he has eleven acceptance letters in his hands. A full ride. The screaming in his head isn't as loud, almost dulled at the edges. Mary’s proud, he's certain of it.
Sam’s still sitting at the table, paper dreams spread in front of him, when Dean comes back from re-painting Mr. Pinkman's front door. There's no point in going to greet his brother, the routine that Dean Follows is imprinted in his mind. Close door, toe shoes off, hang keys on hook, head down the hall, into the kitchen, open fridge, grab a beer.
Then Dean’s at the door, grinning at Sam with a sun-worn smile, freckles standing out like cigarette burns around his green eyes. The scent of sweat and paint reaches Sam as Dean slides into a chair across from his brother, head tipped back as he chugs at the cold beer in that way only Dean could survive. Mary’s quiet in Sam's head but it won't last, can't last, not anymore.
"What'cha doing, Sammy." And Dean’s smiling easily at him. Dean, Sam's big brother. His rock, his life, his soul. Dean who has always looked after him, who never complains, who never lets Sam get hurt.
"I'm leaving." The grin slips away, the bright green eyes dull, the beer clunks against the table. "I got accepted into Stanford with everything paid for. First semester starts in a week.”
There’s something in Dean’s eyes, broken and devastated, like the Earth after an apocalypse. Sam has dropped a nuclear bomb behind those green irises and now he’s looking at a wasteland. Dean looks down and the demolition’s gone. He’s just a frail man sitting at a table in a frail life that Sam’s smashing under his feet.
This is Dean. This is the brother who has given Sam everything, who has held back the world so that Sam can breathe. This is Dean who has burnt their life to the ground only so he can build a new one. Dean who has destroyed all the monsters so they can sit in a small kitchen in a small town, safe.
And that’s why he says it, that’s why he chooses Stanford. That’s why Sam can’t stay. Because Dean has given everything for Sam so now it’s his turn to do something for his big brother.
“I’m leaving in two days.” Dean turns away, leaving the half-drunk bottle dripping condensation tears on the table. Sam hears the door open, listens to it close and doesn’t move.
Dean deserves better than this jagged world of ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ and ‘maybes’. Dean deserves better than a half-sane brother who holds wildfires under his skin. Sam doesn’t know how long he will last in a world without Dean; he doesn’t know how long it will be before the fire consumes everything in orange and yellow and pain. All that matters is that he’s as far away from Dean as possible when the flames escape.
In his head, Mary’s screaming harder than ever until the worlds fuzzy at the corners with black holes and burning stars and a million galaxies spread across his vision. Sam’s going to pass out and this time he doesn’t know how to make her stop.
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Sam leaves the next day.
Dean drives him down to the bus stop but he doesn’t say anything, barely even looks at his brother. Sam’s relieved. He isn’t sure if he can get out of the Impala with Dean’s green gaze spearing him like a bug under a pin. It’s hard enough as it is and he finds his hands lingering on the worn leather of the car, remembering how that rip and that scar found their way onto her insides.
When he’s finally outside and Dean’s still sitting in the driver’s seat, the world’s black and white. Everything’s hollow inside, as though a giant has dipped his spoon in and scooped out all the fleshy organs that Sam needs to stay alive. Air’s getting caught in his throat, catching and hiccupping, the simple functions of his body forgotten as all his brain’s focused on not climbing back in, not burrowing back into his brother’s skin..
And Mary. Her scream’s sandpaper on the tiny thread that’s holding Sam’s skeleton in place. That shrill, never-ending sound, wearing down the sinews and muscles that keep Sam whole, breaking them down inch by inch. This is what it’s like when Dean isn’t there, when Dean won’t hold Sam down and keep him from blowing away.
For a moment Sam isn’t sure he’s going to make it but there’s still stubbornness left in the clench of teeth and the tightening of his jaw. Dean doesn’t need him. Sam’s brother deserves to be free and Mary deserves the perfect son she always dreamed of.
Mind set, he slams the trunk of the Impala and moves round to the passenger door of the car. Everything he owns is packed in carefully folded squares and impeccably ordered rows inside two gym bags. It had taken Sam an hour to pack everything into three bags that morning. Then another two hours to take everything out, pick out what was Dean’s and put back what was left.
“Bye then, I guess.” Even the door opening hasn’t knocked Dean out of his obstinate stare into the distance. Mary’s screams momentarily break into sobs. “Okay. I-“ Sam knows he shouldn’t open his mouth again, knows he should just go. “I’ll miss you, Dean.”
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There’s a little puddle of water in the middle of the road next to the bus stop. An oil rainbow furls and unfurls in it, rocked by the gentle breeze from a distant storm. Tiny black flakes float on the surface, little boats that will never complete an odyssey. The flakes fall from the black and red woman who’s standing next to the puddle with the water lapping at her toes.
Dean watches Mary turn to look at him. Well, turn to him anyway. She doesn’t have any eyes to look with. The fire has eaten everything, left her skin black and falling like snowflakes, giving way to the red red flesh underneath. Rivers of blood and pus and the sloppy mess of liquefied insides drip into new puddles on the road.
As Dean stares, the left side of Mary’s forehead slowly drops away from her face, muscle and skin gradually pulling apart until the chunk of charred flesh slides over her cheek and falls to the ground. It leaves a gaping hole behind, carved all the way to the brown-tinged bone, drizzled with red.
The door opens and Sam ducks his head into the Impala but Dean doesn’t - can’t look away. He understands; this is his punishment. Sam’s leaving because Dean let Mary burn, because he didn’t saved her. This is Sam’s chance to get away from him and the way that everything around Dean blackens and withers away. So yeah, he understands why his brother’s leaving.
“Bye then, I guess.” Dean feels like a boat set adrift in the night, anchor-less, captain-less. He’s lost and the stars aren’t shining to point the way home. “Okay, I- I’ll miss you, Dean.” Mary tries to smile but her jaw unhinges and splatters against the pavement, wet strings of red and black trailing from what is left of her face.
“Sammy.” Dean doesn’t remember thinking anything, doesn’t remember saying his brother’s name, but he must have. There are words that can mean a thousand things, ‘sorry’s that can cover years and 'thank you's that cross lifetimes, but nothing’s more important than that word. It means everything.
The door closes and Dean’s voice’s lost. Sam plods to the bus, shaggy head bowed, eyes on his feet. Dean can’t move, can’t look away from Mary, and can’t stop watching Sam. His little brother’s leaving him and Dean knows it’s the right thing. That doesn’t stop his chest from caving in and pulverising his heart.
The puddle splashes rainbow red water over the grey tarmac road as Mary’s arm leaves her body. Sam’s bus pulls away from the stop, big tires tracking through the puddle, crushing Mary’s ribcage under its feet. Dean barely manages to escape from the Impala before he’s losing his breakfast on the ground and this, this is what it’s like without his brother
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| Part Two |