The Purple Prose Grief Scene that I Cut in the Final Version of The Things We Carry With Us
“You need a haircut,” says Dean, reaching for his, pulling the butter dish closer. He spreads butter over the top of the glaze and bites in with all his teeth. Chews for a moment, and then swallows. “What’ll Dad say when-”
Then he stops like he’s been poleaxed and he looks at Sam with wide round eyes, his coffee cup half way to his mouth. Like he thinks he might should want to apologize for the slip, for upsetting anyone, least of all Sam, and because he can’t, simply can’t believe he doesn’t remember that Dad is dead.
Sam wonders when he’ll ever remember, if ever, if easily, without reminding himself with a bit of string wrapped around the memory, of that day, the fire. Dean probably won’t ever be able to forget, but Sam wants to. The burning smell, the flakes of ash coming down in the air like dark, unhappy feathers. The bit of sting in his eyes, the raw feeling of his upper lip as he used his sleeve, yet again, to wipe away the snot there, to scrub at the tears pooling along his jaw line. His face had been rough-raw at the end of it, his chest like it had been gnawed out by a chainsaw, and his knees ached like he’d been on them for hours, praying. But as bad as he’d been messed up that day, it wasn’t half, or even half of a half of what it had been for Dean. Only to look at Dean, had he not known better, Dean looked like, well Dean. Like himself. Hair like a teddy bear that’s been loved by a rough and zealous hand, eyes green sparks, mouth and shoulders straight as though set that way by a carpenter’s leveling tool. Face dirty from the ash, hands blackened by moving around the ash, having knelt down to hold it in his fists, looking up at Sam as if asking him what they should do with it.
And Sam remembers, his throat closing up even now, looking down at his brother, and feeling the empty places within him. The places that his own anger and frustration and all those things associated with Dad once held sway and did for some time but are now, slowly being replaced by other things. But for Dean will never be replaced, but which he will carry around with him forever, no matter that he looked like he did every day. Not imploding from grief nor being ripped up on the inside even though he was. That’s Dean. Sam looked at the sky, that night, at the trees around them, in the clearing they’d chosen, and at the way they bend in the midnight air, curling around each other with hands and arms and thinks there could be no better way.
He’d dipped down his head to make Dean look up at him, Dean crouched down among the ash, fistfuls of it sparking through his fingers, and Sam said, “Let the wind take it. The wind will take it everywhere. Everywhere you’ll be.” His voice had not cracked or broken, he remembers this, and Dean, with a face as pale as iced paper, had stood up with two handfuls of ash and lifted his arms to the wind and opened his palms. The ash had streamed out from his skin like he was pouring it, and the little gusts of wind had taken the black and swirled it in the air, turning black to grey and grey to white. Some of it whipped back in their faces, and Sam had taken a deep breath, thinking I have you, I have you, and Dean had almost staggered with it. Then leaned down and two more times repeated the gesture, lifting the ash to the wind, spreading his arms wide, letting the wind take it. Sam had done it too, arms wide, hands blackened with it, ash in their hair, their eyes, their lungs.
After, one shower had not been enough for either of them, and the clothes they’d stood up in had been tossed out by Sam. When Dean wasn’t looking. And other than the explosions they’d shared at Bobby’s that one day neither of them has discussed it much. There’s too much that Sam doesn’t want to say about Dad, and too much Dean can’t say, even if he wanted to and now, it’s out there, in front of them, exposed like the underside of a badly butchered carcass, raw and red and frankly bleeding all over the place.
Sam wants to get mad at the sting the remark gives birth to, the comeback on his lips that is 100% sass and belligerence and runs along the lines of Dad can just go suck my hind tit if he thinks I’m gonna get a haircut just because he says so. He’d made that remark once, just once, and Dean had curled back a fist to punch him and then, instead, had crumpled to laughter so hard, he sank to the nearest chair and laughed till he cried. Arms over his head saying hind tit, hind tit over and over again, till Sam had to smile too, and went the next day for a trim. Just a short one.
Now it’s Dean at him, though not in the way Dad ever had. There’s no way Dean could ever make Sam get a haircut, no way he would even want to try. There’s no requirement here, no obligation, just a comment, somewhat in passing, over hash browns and a sticky bun that was surely invented by the angels in heaven. Sam butters his sticky bun, now, slathering the soft butter on with a knife and bites into it, tongue springing to life at the crisp edges and the crunch of sugar and cinnamon. He chews and swallows for a minute, taking a slug of coffee, and gives Dean a minute.
Then he stops like he’s been poleaxed and he looks at Sam with wide round eyes, his coffee cup half way to his mouth. Like he thinks he might should want to apologize for the slip, for upsetting anyone, least of all Sam, and because he can’t, simply can’t believe he doesn’t remember that Dad is dead.
Sam wonders when he’ll ever remember, if ever, if easily, without reminding himself with a bit of string wrapped around the memory, of that day, the fire. Dean probably won’t ever be able to forget, but Sam wants to. The burning smell, the flakes of ash coming down in the air like dark, unhappy feathers. The bit of sting in his eyes, the raw feeling of his upper lip as he used his sleeve, yet again, to wipe away the snot there, to scrub at the tears pooling along his jaw line. His face had been rough-raw at the end of it, his chest like it had been gnawed out by a chainsaw, and his knees ached like he’d been on them for hours, praying. But as bad as he’d been messed up that day, it wasn’t half, or even half of a half of what it had been for Dean. Only to look at Dean, had he not known better, Dean looked like, well Dean. Like himself. Hair like a teddy bear that’s been loved by a rough and zealous hand, eyes green sparks, mouth and shoulders straight as though set that way by a carpenter’s leveling tool. Face dirty from the ash, hands blackened by moving around the ash, having knelt down to hold it in his fists, looking up at Sam as if asking him what they should do with it.
And Sam remembers, his throat closing up even now, looking down at his brother, and feeling the empty places within him. The places that his own anger and frustration and all those things associated with Dad once held sway and did for some time but are now, slowly being replaced by other things. But for Dean will never be replaced, but which he will carry around with him forever, no matter that he looked like he did every day. Not imploding from grief nor being ripped up on the inside even though he was. That’s Dean. Sam looked at the sky, that night, at the trees around them, in the clearing they’d chosen, and at the way they bend in the midnight air, curling around each other with hands and arms and thinks there could be no better way.
He’d dipped down his head to make Dean look up at him, Dean crouched down among the ash, fistfuls of it sparking through his fingers, and Sam said, “Let the wind take it. The wind will take it everywhere. Everywhere you’ll be.” His voice had not cracked or broken, he remembers this, and Dean, with a face as pale as iced paper, had stood up with two handfuls of ash and lifted his arms to the wind and opened his palms. The ash had streamed out from his skin like he was pouring it, and the little gusts of wind had taken the black and swirled it in the air, turning black to grey and grey to white. Some of it whipped back in their faces, and Sam had taken a deep breath, thinking I have you, I have you, and Dean had almost staggered with it. Then leaned down and two more times repeated the gesture, lifting the ash to the wind, spreading his arms wide, letting the wind take it. Sam had done it too, arms wide, hands blackened with it, ash in their hair, their eyes, their lungs.
After, one shower had not been enough for either of them, and the clothes they’d stood up in had been tossed out by Sam. When Dean wasn’t looking. And other than the explosions they’d shared at Bobby’s that one day neither of them has discussed it much. There’s too much that Sam doesn’t want to say about Dad, and too much Dean can’t say, even if he wanted to and now, it’s out there, in front of them, exposed like the underside of a badly butchered carcass, raw and red and frankly bleeding all over the place.
Sam wants to get mad at the sting the remark gives birth to, the comeback on his lips that is 100% sass and belligerence and runs along the lines of Dad can just go suck my hind tit if he thinks I’m gonna get a haircut just because he says so. He’d made that remark once, just once, and Dean had curled back a fist to punch him and then, instead, had crumpled to laughter so hard, he sank to the nearest chair and laughed till he cried. Arms over his head saying hind tit, hind tit over and over again, till Sam had to smile too, and went the next day for a trim. Just a short one.
Now it’s Dean at him, though not in the way Dad ever had. There’s no way Dean could ever make Sam get a haircut, no way he would even want to try. There’s no requirement here, no obligation, just a comment, somewhat in passing, over hash browns and a sticky bun that was surely invented by the angels in heaven. Sam butters his sticky bun, now, slathering the soft butter on with a knife and bites into it, tongue springing to life at the crisp edges and the crunch of sugar and cinnamon. He chews and swallows for a minute, taking a slug of coffee, and gives Dean a minute.