FIC: Stand And Breathe
Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel, Jack
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2560
Summary: "Dean's out of the car before it's even completely stopped, fear propelling him forward and forcing the words out of his mouth harshly as Sam pulls himself slowly to his feet." A look into Dean's headspace in the opening scenes of 14x08 Byzantium.
Stand And Breathe
The room has sunk into a tense silence and every fibre of Dean's body is telling him to get out, and he has to make a conscious effort to stay still. Even so, he turns his back to the bed, and he thinks that if he doesn't literally grab onto something, he won't be able to keep himself here any longer. Stay calm. Take a breath. Behind him, he hears Jack move. Sam talks in a soft tone, words meant to soothe but holding little meaning now.
"Please don't be sad."
It's a cliched end-of-life request, for his friends not to mourn him, and Dean wonders idly if Jack realizes it.
"Maybe... Maybe this is how things are supposed to be."
Oh yes, endlessly hopeful Jack. But the words pull at something inside Dean, a feeling dark and angry surging to the surface.
"Don't give me that 'meant to be' crap," he snaps before he can stop himself, "This isn't part of some damn plan."
Castiel admonishes him, but it's halfhearted. Jack starts up that horrible cough-wheeze thing again, and Dean's teeth grind together. He turns around, takes in the scene for a moment; Jack propped up against the headboard, pressing the oxygen mask to his face like it will help (it won't). Watching him struggling for breath breaks something in Dean. They need more time. Why don't they ever have enough time? The room is too small and it's crushing him, and the need to flee overwhelms him. Outside the room, Dean tries to force the grief to turn to anger. Anger is useful. Anger gets things done. Dean hits the wall, hard enough to hurt his hand. He tells himself that they can still find a cure although he knows its a lie, that it's too late. But no, they can beat this, Jack just has to hold on a little longer. Because Dean won't watch him die. He can't. Both hands braced against the wall now, Dean fights for composure. Castiel slips quietly out of the room and Dean quickly straightens up, turns his back to the angel, knowing that his internal struggle is going to be visible on his face.
"Dean," Cas starts, hesitantly.
"I can't..."
Those emotions bubble to the surface and Dean has to pause, collect them, push them down.
"It's not right, Cas. You know? It's just... it's not..."
The words don't fit right in his mouth, like he's pushed down too much and crushed the words underneath the grief. Castiel steps closer, gets in his personal space.
"What?" Cas says, and his voice has gone hard and sharp now, "It's not fair?"
Dean takes a breath, keeps trying and failing to pull himself together. He feels so pathetic, so stupid because he's lost people before and he should know how to be strong but it never hurts any less and Jack is just a kid.
"I know that," continues Cas, a little bit more gentle, "But he needs you."
The words cut deep, and guilt washes over Dean in a sickening wave. What kind of big brother was he, what kind of friend, running off while Jack was... dying? Even in his thoughts, he stumbles over the last word. But in reality, he just swallows, clenches his jaw, making one last attempt to lock it all away. It takes a mammoth effort to force himself back into the room, Castiel following behind. Jack is still and silent. Dean's stomach twists. He's just sleeping, please tell me he's sleeping, but Sam barely looks up at their entrance.
"He's gone."
It feels like a punch in the gut and it couldn't have more knocked the air out of his lungs than if it was an actual, physical blow. Dean can feel Castiel's eyes shift towards him but he doesn't move. The world narrows to a pinpoint and he's hyper-aware of his own breaths, too fast and too loud in the silence. Because Jack is dead and Dean is hit with the absurdity of this moment. Dean and his little brother and their best friend who is an angel, grieving over a Nephilim, Lucifer's freaking son who has somehow become somewhere between brother and son to them. A one year old kid who looks like a teenager. How did they end up here? Dean can't do more than stand and breathe, because if he does anything else he thinks he'll shatter into a million broken pieces. So nobody says anything, or even moves, until Sam stands up, keeping his back to Cas and Dean, rubs a hand over his face. Dean is pulled to offer some word of comfort, he knows he should, maybe a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder, but when he opens his mouth, his throat closes up. He clenches his jaw and swallows instead, lets the silence drag on, crushing him under its weight. Sam walks out into the corridor, and Dean follows, his legs feeling like lead. Castiel is next, and he closes the door behind them, the soft click of the latch so final that it may as well have spoken the words aloud, "it's over." And then they fall back into silence for a long time. Sam slouched against the wall, struggling to pull himself together. Castiel standing stiff and straight as usual but his gaze downcast. Dean's eyes burn with the tears he won't shed.
"Maybe we should... start thinking about next steps," Castiel says finally, but he still doesn't look up.
Next steps. Jack's funeral, you mean. The silence stretches on, again, and Dean slides his eyes across to Cas but he can't hold the contact, the look on the angel's face threatening to send him over the edge. He settles for awkwardly staring at his own fingernails instead.
"Wake and a bonfire," Dean says, and he knows his voice shouldn't be that rough, but at least it doesn't break, "Hunter style."
He catches a glimpse of Sam's face as his brother finally lifts his head, and the raw emotion that Sam's not even trying to hide catches him off guard.
"It's what Jack would have wanted," Dean adds, forcing his gaze to some distant brick in the corridor, so he won't see any more of the heartbroken eyes.
Sam pushes himself away from the wall and takes off, exactly what Dean wishes he could do right now. Get out of this tiny hallway and away from the closed door of Jack's room, where Jack's dead body lies.
"Sam," Cas starts, taking one step to follow Sam.
Dean catches his arm, stopping the movement.
"Your brother's in pain," says Cas, and gone is the sharp tone of earlier, replaced by a bone-deep weariness.
Aren't we all, Cas? Dean shifts his hand to Castiel's shoulder, offering what little comfort he can.
"Just let him be," he says softly, "If he needs his space, we're gonna give it to him."
Hands in his pockets, he leaves Castiel in the corridor. Sam is not the only one needing space.
Dean spends some time in his room, trying to remember how to breathe. His chest feels heavy, the lump in his throat strangling him, and no matter how many deep breaths he takes or how many times he swallows, it won't go away. He hadn't realized how much Jack had meant to him, not really, not until Jack got sick and suddenly it wasn't a guarantee that he would be around for years to come. Dean had really been taking it for granted. He'd thought that since Jack was a Nephilim he was practically invincible, just a touch shy of immortal. Dean could never have dreamed that this was how Jack's life would end and the guilt that's choking him now comes equally from the feeling that he'd failed in keeping Jack safe, and that at the end, Dean hadn't even been there. Clenching his jaw, Dean can't stand being still any longer. But the bunker is eerily quiet and uncomfortably empty, like Jack's presence took up more space than Dean realized. God, he's got to stop thinking about it. He briefly entertains the idea of taking the Impala and just driving, music turned up loud enough to silence his mind. But he discards it. No, Sam needs him here. And for that same reason, he also discards the idea of getting blackout drunk. His next idea is far less appealing but actually necessary; Mom needs to know, and although Dean is dreading giving her the bad news, some part of him is equally desperate to hear her voice, maybe receive some small measure of comfort. But the phone rings only once and then goes to voicemail. It feels like every part of him deflates, but Dean shuts off the emotions as best he can and gets straight to the hard bit. There's no point avoiding it.
"Anyway..." Dean nearly doesn't say what he really wants to, nearly ends the message right there, "...to tell you the truth it would be really nice to hear your voice."
He blurts it out quickly, lets it spill from his lips in a rush before he can change his mind. But now he feels stupid, uncomfortable with the blatant plea for comfort, a little boy desperate for his mother.
"If you could, uh, just call us back..."
Dean ends the call before he can make himself sound any needier. He takes a moment to pull himself together, again. He supposes he should find Sam, make sure he's doing okay. The time for licking his wounds is over and Dean knows he needs to get his head back in big brother mode.
But Sam can't be found, and Dean feels unease coiling in his gut. Sam shouldn't be alone right now, not really alone. He should be hiding in his room sulking but easily accessible to Dean if needed. Dean walks a little faster and meets Castiel in the corridor.
"Hey, have you seen Sam?" Dean asks.
Castiel looks like a deer staring into headlights, somewhat dazed and a lot spooked and Dean's tense stomach feels like it does a full flip. Then Castiel's eyes narrow, actually focusing on Dean now.
"He, uh, he left."
And there it is. Apparently Dean's concern had been for good reason.
"He left?" Dean snaps, anxiety turning quickly to anger, like always.
"Yes. About half an hour ago."
"Half an hour?"
"He took a bag. And the Impala."
"The Impala?"
Dean can't seem to stop himself just repeating Castiel. His mind won't comprehend the words. Doesn't want to think about where Sam could have gone. Definitely doesn't want to think about deals and demons and Hell. No, he doesn't want to even entertain that idea for a second. He yanks out his phone and dials Sam's number. The phone rings and rings and rings before going to voicemail, and Dean's stomach is now a tight knot and he can feel his hands shaking.
"Dean?"
Castiel sounds worried, but not for Sam. Because apparently while Dean's brain had been having its meltdown, his body had still known what to do and Dean's standing by Castiel's car already. His breaths turn to fog in the night air, and he's thankful that even on autopilot he'd shrugged on a jacket. He gets into the passenger seat without responding to Cas and closes the door a bit harder than he needs to.
"I'm sure he's fine," Castiel says as he gets in the car, but he doesn't sound sure at all.
"Just drive," Dean snaps back.
He's pulling up the GPS to track Sam's phone and time is everything right now. The location isn't a crossroad but Dean knows that doesn't really mean anything. Castiel, to his credit, does just drive, following Dean's directions, and he doesn't say anything more to Dean. But Dean's anger boils over, again, and he can't just let it go.
"How could you just let him leave, man? You saw what he was like."
Castiel doesn't answer immediately.
"Dean," he says, and he sounds like he's being very careful with each word, "You said to give him space."
"Yeah, space, in the bunker, with us. Not this..."
Dean doesn't even know what exactly this is, only that Sam driving off alone in the dark after losing one of their own is probably the worst possible scenario. What would make him leave like that? Dean's thoughts keep crawling back to "deal" and he can't make them stop.
"Dean, look," Castiel interrupts his dark thoughts.
At the edge of the road ahead is the Impala, her headlights lights still on, and as they get closer, Dean can see Sam sitting hunched against the back wheel. Dean's out of the car before it's even completely stopped, fear propelling him forward and forcing the words out of his mouth harshly as Sam pulls himself slowly to his feet.
"Tell me you didn't make a deal!"
Sam is all confusion and stammering denial, his voice breaking, and Dean looks him up and down, trying to assure himself that his brother really is okay.
"I... I was trying to... build a pyre," Sam says, and he really looks like he's going to start crying, "But the ax..."
Illuminated in the Impala's lights, Dean can see several trees have been cut down, and slowly, slowly, his heart rate begins to settle. But Sam's falling to pieces in front of him.
"I couldn't... I couldn't even..."
A hard swallow.
"...do that for him. I..."
A long pause.
"..should have done more."
Dean knows he has to shut this down, right now, pull Sam out of the depths of despair and guilt. That's the place for Dean. Not for Sammy.
"Sam," he says gently.
But Sam is not done wallowing yet.
"I should have tried harder," he continues, "Everything we got, the... spells, the lore... What good is any of it if we... couldn't even save him?"
"Well, at least you were there for him," Dean says.
And it hurts Dean to say it out loud, to remind himself how pathetic he was at the end, but if it will shift the guilt off Sam it's worth it. It seems to work, maybe a little, Sam dropping his tortured gaze away from Dean, his eyebrows lifting as he digests that information.
"This doesn't feel right," Castiel speaks up, finally.
Dean had nearly forgotten the angel was even there.
"It's just not how I thought Jack's story would end."
Sam stares out into the darkness, very obviously trying (and failing) to pull himself together.
"Yeah, none of us did."
"The certainty..." Castiel hesitates over the words, "...of death, even for angels, it's always felt natural, but... this doesn't. "
Dean doesn't want to hear this anymore, doesn't want to think about it anymore, or even think at all. The idea of drinking until he can't feel anything is still sounding incredibly appealing. But Cas keeps talking, keeps rubbing salt into the wound.
"Jack being taken before his time. I mean, taken before me."
And then Sam perfectly sets up the invitation for Dean to suggest his idea.
"So, what do we do?"
Dean forces himself to meet Sam's eyes, that are still bright with unshed tears.
"We say goodbye. Tomorrow. Tonight? We get loaded."
It's a clear testament to how hard losing Jack has hit them that they both agree.
END
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2560
Summary: "Dean's out of the car before it's even completely stopped, fear propelling him forward and forcing the words out of his mouth harshly as Sam pulls himself slowly to his feet." A look into Dean's headspace in the opening scenes of 14x08 Byzantium.
Stand And Breathe
The room has sunk into a tense silence and every fibre of Dean's body is telling him to get out, and he has to make a conscious effort to stay still. Even so, he turns his back to the bed, and he thinks that if he doesn't literally grab onto something, he won't be able to keep himself here any longer. Stay calm. Take a breath. Behind him, he hears Jack move. Sam talks in a soft tone, words meant to soothe but holding little meaning now.
"Please don't be sad."
It's a cliched end-of-life request, for his friends not to mourn him, and Dean wonders idly if Jack realizes it.
"Maybe... Maybe this is how things are supposed to be."
Oh yes, endlessly hopeful Jack. But the words pull at something inside Dean, a feeling dark and angry surging to the surface.
"Don't give me that 'meant to be' crap," he snaps before he can stop himself, "This isn't part of some damn plan."
Castiel admonishes him, but it's halfhearted. Jack starts up that horrible cough-wheeze thing again, and Dean's teeth grind together. He turns around, takes in the scene for a moment; Jack propped up against the headboard, pressing the oxygen mask to his face like it will help (it won't). Watching him struggling for breath breaks something in Dean. They need more time. Why don't they ever have enough time? The room is too small and it's crushing him, and the need to flee overwhelms him. Outside the room, Dean tries to force the grief to turn to anger. Anger is useful. Anger gets things done. Dean hits the wall, hard enough to hurt his hand. He tells himself that they can still find a cure although he knows its a lie, that it's too late. But no, they can beat this, Jack just has to hold on a little longer. Because Dean won't watch him die. He can't. Both hands braced against the wall now, Dean fights for composure. Castiel slips quietly out of the room and Dean quickly straightens up, turns his back to the angel, knowing that his internal struggle is going to be visible on his face.
"Dean," Cas starts, hesitantly.
"I can't..."
Those emotions bubble to the surface and Dean has to pause, collect them, push them down.
"It's not right, Cas. You know? It's just... it's not..."
The words don't fit right in his mouth, like he's pushed down too much and crushed the words underneath the grief. Castiel steps closer, gets in his personal space.
"What?" Cas says, and his voice has gone hard and sharp now, "It's not fair?"
Dean takes a breath, keeps trying and failing to pull himself together. He feels so pathetic, so stupid because he's lost people before and he should know how to be strong but it never hurts any less and Jack is just a kid.
"I know that," continues Cas, a little bit more gentle, "But he needs you."
The words cut deep, and guilt washes over Dean in a sickening wave. What kind of big brother was he, what kind of friend, running off while Jack was... dying? Even in his thoughts, he stumbles over the last word. But in reality, he just swallows, clenches his jaw, making one last attempt to lock it all away. It takes a mammoth effort to force himself back into the room, Castiel following behind. Jack is still and silent. Dean's stomach twists. He's just sleeping, please tell me he's sleeping, but Sam barely looks up at their entrance.
"He's gone."
It feels like a punch in the gut and it couldn't have more knocked the air out of his lungs than if it was an actual, physical blow. Dean can feel Castiel's eyes shift towards him but he doesn't move. The world narrows to a pinpoint and he's hyper-aware of his own breaths, too fast and too loud in the silence. Because Jack is dead and Dean is hit with the absurdity of this moment. Dean and his little brother and their best friend who is an angel, grieving over a Nephilim, Lucifer's freaking son who has somehow become somewhere between brother and son to them. A one year old kid who looks like a teenager. How did they end up here? Dean can't do more than stand and breathe, because if he does anything else he thinks he'll shatter into a million broken pieces. So nobody says anything, or even moves, until Sam stands up, keeping his back to Cas and Dean, rubs a hand over his face. Dean is pulled to offer some word of comfort, he knows he should, maybe a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder, but when he opens his mouth, his throat closes up. He clenches his jaw and swallows instead, lets the silence drag on, crushing him under its weight. Sam walks out into the corridor, and Dean follows, his legs feeling like lead. Castiel is next, and he closes the door behind them, the soft click of the latch so final that it may as well have spoken the words aloud, "it's over." And then they fall back into silence for a long time. Sam slouched against the wall, struggling to pull himself together. Castiel standing stiff and straight as usual but his gaze downcast. Dean's eyes burn with the tears he won't shed.
"Maybe we should... start thinking about next steps," Castiel says finally, but he still doesn't look up.
Next steps. Jack's funeral, you mean. The silence stretches on, again, and Dean slides his eyes across to Cas but he can't hold the contact, the look on the angel's face threatening to send him over the edge. He settles for awkwardly staring at his own fingernails instead.
"Wake and a bonfire," Dean says, and he knows his voice shouldn't be that rough, but at least it doesn't break, "Hunter style."
He catches a glimpse of Sam's face as his brother finally lifts his head, and the raw emotion that Sam's not even trying to hide catches him off guard.
"It's what Jack would have wanted," Dean adds, forcing his gaze to some distant brick in the corridor, so he won't see any more of the heartbroken eyes.
Sam pushes himself away from the wall and takes off, exactly what Dean wishes he could do right now. Get out of this tiny hallway and away from the closed door of Jack's room, where Jack's dead body lies.
"Sam," Cas starts, taking one step to follow Sam.
Dean catches his arm, stopping the movement.
"Your brother's in pain," says Cas, and gone is the sharp tone of earlier, replaced by a bone-deep weariness.
Aren't we all, Cas? Dean shifts his hand to Castiel's shoulder, offering what little comfort he can.
"Just let him be," he says softly, "If he needs his space, we're gonna give it to him."
Hands in his pockets, he leaves Castiel in the corridor. Sam is not the only one needing space.
Dean spends some time in his room, trying to remember how to breathe. His chest feels heavy, the lump in his throat strangling him, and no matter how many deep breaths he takes or how many times he swallows, it won't go away. He hadn't realized how much Jack had meant to him, not really, not until Jack got sick and suddenly it wasn't a guarantee that he would be around for years to come. Dean had really been taking it for granted. He'd thought that since Jack was a Nephilim he was practically invincible, just a touch shy of immortal. Dean could never have dreamed that this was how Jack's life would end and the guilt that's choking him now comes equally from the feeling that he'd failed in keeping Jack safe, and that at the end, Dean hadn't even been there. Clenching his jaw, Dean can't stand being still any longer. But the bunker is eerily quiet and uncomfortably empty, like Jack's presence took up more space than Dean realized. God, he's got to stop thinking about it. He briefly entertains the idea of taking the Impala and just driving, music turned up loud enough to silence his mind. But he discards it. No, Sam needs him here. And for that same reason, he also discards the idea of getting blackout drunk. His next idea is far less appealing but actually necessary; Mom needs to know, and although Dean is dreading giving her the bad news, some part of him is equally desperate to hear her voice, maybe receive some small measure of comfort. But the phone rings only once and then goes to voicemail. It feels like every part of him deflates, but Dean shuts off the emotions as best he can and gets straight to the hard bit. There's no point avoiding it.
"Anyway..." Dean nearly doesn't say what he really wants to, nearly ends the message right there, "...to tell you the truth it would be really nice to hear your voice."
He blurts it out quickly, lets it spill from his lips in a rush before he can change his mind. But now he feels stupid, uncomfortable with the blatant plea for comfort, a little boy desperate for his mother.
"If you could, uh, just call us back..."
Dean ends the call before he can make himself sound any needier. He takes a moment to pull himself together, again. He supposes he should find Sam, make sure he's doing okay. The time for licking his wounds is over and Dean knows he needs to get his head back in big brother mode.
But Sam can't be found, and Dean feels unease coiling in his gut. Sam shouldn't be alone right now, not really alone. He should be hiding in his room sulking but easily accessible to Dean if needed. Dean walks a little faster and meets Castiel in the corridor.
"Hey, have you seen Sam?" Dean asks.
Castiel looks like a deer staring into headlights, somewhat dazed and a lot spooked and Dean's tense stomach feels like it does a full flip. Then Castiel's eyes narrow, actually focusing on Dean now.
"He, uh, he left."
And there it is. Apparently Dean's concern had been for good reason.
"He left?" Dean snaps, anxiety turning quickly to anger, like always.
"Yes. About half an hour ago."
"Half an hour?"
"He took a bag. And the Impala."
"The Impala?"
Dean can't seem to stop himself just repeating Castiel. His mind won't comprehend the words. Doesn't want to think about where Sam could have gone. Definitely doesn't want to think about deals and demons and Hell. No, he doesn't want to even entertain that idea for a second. He yanks out his phone and dials Sam's number. The phone rings and rings and rings before going to voicemail, and Dean's stomach is now a tight knot and he can feel his hands shaking.
"Dean?"
Castiel sounds worried, but not for Sam. Because apparently while Dean's brain had been having its meltdown, his body had still known what to do and Dean's standing by Castiel's car already. His breaths turn to fog in the night air, and he's thankful that even on autopilot he'd shrugged on a jacket. He gets into the passenger seat without responding to Cas and closes the door a bit harder than he needs to.
"I'm sure he's fine," Castiel says as he gets in the car, but he doesn't sound sure at all.
"Just drive," Dean snaps back.
He's pulling up the GPS to track Sam's phone and time is everything right now. The location isn't a crossroad but Dean knows that doesn't really mean anything. Castiel, to his credit, does just drive, following Dean's directions, and he doesn't say anything more to Dean. But Dean's anger boils over, again, and he can't just let it go.
"How could you just let him leave, man? You saw what he was like."
Castiel doesn't answer immediately.
"Dean," he says, and he sounds like he's being very careful with each word, "You said to give him space."
"Yeah, space, in the bunker, with us. Not this..."
Dean doesn't even know what exactly this is, only that Sam driving off alone in the dark after losing one of their own is probably the worst possible scenario. What would make him leave like that? Dean's thoughts keep crawling back to "deal" and he can't make them stop.
"Dean, look," Castiel interrupts his dark thoughts.
At the edge of the road ahead is the Impala, her headlights lights still on, and as they get closer, Dean can see Sam sitting hunched against the back wheel. Dean's out of the car before it's even completely stopped, fear propelling him forward and forcing the words out of his mouth harshly as Sam pulls himself slowly to his feet.
"Tell me you didn't make a deal!"
Sam is all confusion and stammering denial, his voice breaking, and Dean looks him up and down, trying to assure himself that his brother really is okay.
"I... I was trying to... build a pyre," Sam says, and he really looks like he's going to start crying, "But the ax..."
Illuminated in the Impala's lights, Dean can see several trees have been cut down, and slowly, slowly, his heart rate begins to settle. But Sam's falling to pieces in front of him.
"I couldn't... I couldn't even..."
A hard swallow.
"...do that for him. I..."
A long pause.
"..should have done more."
Dean knows he has to shut this down, right now, pull Sam out of the depths of despair and guilt. That's the place for Dean. Not for Sammy.
"Sam," he says gently.
But Sam is not done wallowing yet.
"I should have tried harder," he continues, "Everything we got, the... spells, the lore... What good is any of it if we... couldn't even save him?"
"Well, at least you were there for him," Dean says.
And it hurts Dean to say it out loud, to remind himself how pathetic he was at the end, but if it will shift the guilt off Sam it's worth it. It seems to work, maybe a little, Sam dropping his tortured gaze away from Dean, his eyebrows lifting as he digests that information.
"This doesn't feel right," Castiel speaks up, finally.
Dean had nearly forgotten the angel was even there.
"It's just not how I thought Jack's story would end."
Sam stares out into the darkness, very obviously trying (and failing) to pull himself together.
"Yeah, none of us did."
"The certainty..." Castiel hesitates over the words, "...of death, even for angels, it's always felt natural, but... this doesn't. "
Dean doesn't want to hear this anymore, doesn't want to think about it anymore, or even think at all. The idea of drinking until he can't feel anything is still sounding incredibly appealing. But Cas keeps talking, keeps rubbing salt into the wound.
"Jack being taken before his time. I mean, taken before me."
And then Sam perfectly sets up the invitation for Dean to suggest his idea.
"So, what do we do?"
Dean forces himself to meet Sam's eyes, that are still bright with unshed tears.
"We say goodbye. Tomorrow. Tonight? We get loaded."
It's a clear testament to how hard losing Jack has hit them that they both agree.
END