When Spring Comes They Roar Back Again
When Spring Comes They Roar Back Again
Summary: “I don't think it's about fixing. I think it's more about coping.” A girl, a bar, some scars, and some awkward conversation. A tag to And All the World Drops Dead
Warnings: Deals with trauma from a past sexual assault.
XXX
“You wanna talk about it?” Dean asks, tossing his leather jacket towards the nearest bed, barely sparing it a glance when it hits the edge of the mattress and slides to the floor. Usually he'd be a little more careful - it was Dad's, after all - but right now it's a jacket and Sam is Sam so guess which one is going to get his attention?
“Talk about what?” Sam feigns ignorance though, firing up his laptop even though it's almost midnight. “I'm going to go over the witness interviews one more time before going to bed, okay?” He won't look at Dean.
“Come on, Sammy.” Dean slides into the seat across the table from Sam, leaning forward to push the laptop closed. “You know what.”
Sam rocks back in his seat, both hands braced against the tabletop. He flicks his hair out of his face just long enough to shoot Dean a glare. “You don't get to decide when we talk about it,” he says flatly.
“Fair enough,” Dean says, but neither of them moves to get up. Sam doesn't try to open the laptop again either. Instead, he pulls his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie and folds his arms around himself protectively. He does this whenever it comes up, like it still hurts somewhere deep inside and just talking about it is like probing at a tender wound.
“I just want to help you be okay,” Dean continues, when Sam doesn't seem inclined to do anything other than hide behind his hair and bunch the sleeves of his hoodie together between his fingers, pulling the fabric tight around his hands. “It's kind of my job, ya know?”
“I am okay,” Sam says (lies, come on, Sammy), “She just surprised me, that's all.”
They wouldn't be having this conversation if that was all, but at least Sammy's getting to the point. Dean folds his arms over the table top, leaning forward to make up the distance Sam's trying to build between them. “I know you're okay. We wouldn't be hunting if you weren't okay. But you don't have to be okay all the time. And I'm pretty sure that girl coming up behind you like that didn't make you feel okay.”
That damn girl; cute, tipsy, tottering away from her crowd of girlfriends on strappy, high-heeled shoes. It's not her fault, obviously. It's Dean's if it's anyone's (it's Gordon's) for not intercepting her approach when he noticed her zeroing in on his brother. But he hadn't been looking at her as a threat, not beyond the usual check an approaching civilian deserves. He was too busy thinking that maybe getting hit on would do Sam some good, help him sit a little straighter and see past the scars that trace thin, pale lines across his face, certain that his brother would turn her down anyway. He just hadn't seen the harm in it, not until the girl slid her hand over Sam's shoulder, leaning in close against his back, poised to murmur something drunkenly seductive in his ear, and Sam had suddenly tensed up so hard that Dean hadn't been certain that the kid wouldn't start throwing punches.
“I told you, I just wasn't expecting it,” Sam's insists quietly, and Dean can't stop himself from rolling his eyes.
“Oh, come on, Sam, you're a hunter, you saw her coming.”
“Fine,” Sam snaps, “I wasn't expecting it to freak me out so much, okay? Is that what you want me to say?”
“Only if it's true,” Dean counters. “You can say whatever you want, Sam.”
The silence stretches as Dean waits. Sam sighs and runs his hands over his face, index finger following the path of the long, slightly ragged scar across his cheekbone. He doesn't flick his hair out of his face before he speaks, dropping his hands to the table despondently and letting his bangs fall forward, either to hide the scarring or avoid Dean's gaze, Dean isn't sure which. Maybe it's a bit of both.
“It did freak me out,” Sam says finally. “I knew she was coming over and I figured I'd just brush her off, but then she touched me like that and I...”
A memory of Gordon, in the same position as the girl, moments before slamming Sam's face into a hard, wooden desk, moments before, flashes in Dean's mind, so vivid he can hear the crunch of Sammy's cheekbone shattering. He's sure that this was the scene running through Sam's head at the bar and, damn it, Dean, why didn't you do something?
“I'm sorry, Sam,” he says, unable to stay silent. “I should've intercepted her. Been your, like, anti-wingman or something.”
“It's fine,” Sam says, predictably. He never lets Dean take the blame for these things. “I told you, I just wasn't expecting to go all PTSD when she touched me. I was fine before that. How would you have known?”
“You didn't... you're not...” Dean falters. He can't find the words. He wants to tell Sam that he's not broken, without implying that he ever was in the first place. He can't deny that what Walker did left more scars than the ones on Sammy's face.
Sam flicks his hair back long enough for Dean to see him roll his eyes. “I'm pretty sure we're both a little disordered by now, Dean. Don't try to say I'm not messed up. You're the one who wanted to talk about me being messed up in the first place.”
“I don't want to, I want you to.” That doesn't sound right. “No, I mean I want to. If you want to. Listen, I mean. Fuck. I want to listen if you want to talk.” Nice, Dean. Real smooth. It seems to help somehow though, Sammy's smiling a little as he stumbles over his words. Serious discussions and heart-to-hearts have never been Dean's strong point - and this is so big that words don't always feel like enough - but he thinks Sammy appreciates the effort, or is at least a little amused by it.
“I'm not good at this stuff,” he admits pointlessly. Sam already knows.
“I'm not good at it either,” Sam says.
“So what are we doing?” Dean asks, at a loss. “Is this helping? Am I helping? This would be so much easier if you were a car, I could have you all fixed up in no time.”
Fuck, and there he's gone and implied that Sammy's broken again with what was meant to be a throwaway comment. He really is bad at this stuff. Sam doesn't dispute it though. He's still got that faint amused smile on his face but he looks sad too. “I don't think you can fix me, Dean. I don't think it's about fixing. I think it's more about coping.”
“Yeah?” Dean's not sure if they are coping, if Sam's coping. People who are coping don't freak out when girls touch them in bars, do they? And then there was that incident with those two jerks a few towns back... “What does 'coping' even mean, Sammy?”
Sam traces a fingernail over the wooden tabletop as he thinks over Dean's question, following the grooves of dozens of scratches the table has sustained over time. It reminds Dean of Sam's habit of tracing his own scars with his fingertips and he wonders, not for the first time, why Sam does it. He doesn't ask. Sammy doesn't always seem to realize he's doing it. Maybe there isn't an easy answer.
“I think,” Sam says finally, “that coping means that sometimes something will freak me out, or you out, or both of us, whatever, and then we'll go to a motel room or the Impala and have an awkward conversation like this one, and... I don't know, go from there? Work out a way to make whatever freaked us out better?”
Dean watches Sam's nail scrape around the table. “We can get a booth next time,” he suggests. “Back to the wall. No one sneaking up on you.”
Sam nods. “That sounds good.”
“Or we could just skip the bar scene for a while?” Even before Gordon and the basement, Sam mostly only went along for Dean's sake. “I don't mind, you know. You can always tell me to fuck off if you don't want to do something.”
Sam's smile is more real this time, less weighed down by memories, but still a little guarded. “Believe me, Dean, I have no problem telling you to fuck off if I don't want to do something. It's not just for you. I mean, sometimes it sort of is but I don't exactly want to live out the rest of my life just staying in motels rooms either.”
Dean nods. “I know. I get it. I just don't want you to push yourself too hard. You're fucking awesome” - he likes to remind Sam of this as often as he can - “but this is still our third hunt in a row since our break.” Our break, before; they're always wrapping it up in vague euphemisms. Dean never says, 'since you were raped'. Some things are loud enough without words. “There's no problem with taking a step back to catch our breath every now and then, especially when we've been working so hard.”
Sam won't look him in the eye, which means he doesn't want to admit that maybe a step back is what he needs - kid is a Winchester, after all - which is fine, Dean's got this.
“Look, I'm pretty sick of people anyway - that guy who witnessed the second murder? What a douchebag, right? - so what about we finish up the case and then just take a few days off for ourselves before we find a new one? We could get some beer, watch bad TV, order pizza...” He lets the suggestion trail off enticingly. “We could even find one of those huge old libraries that you love, if you want.”
Sam's face twitches. He's tempted, Dean can tell, but not convinced that Dean isn't trying to baby him. “I'm not... I can still...”
“I know.” Dean puts a halt to Sam's train of thought before the kid's even sorted it out. “Sammy, I also have no problem telling you to fuck off when I don't want to do something. I wouldn't suggest a break if I didn't want a break.”
Maybe it's not strictly true - there's a certain leniency that comes with being forced to watch as your kid brother is beaten and brutalized in front of you - but a few days off, just him and Sam hanging out? Well, he can do that. Easy. He wants to do that. Sam glances up at him, quick, searching, and finally stops fussing with the table's scars, pulling his hands back into his lap. Dean sees the moment he gives in. The release of tensions makes Sammy visibly wilt in his seat. “Okay, we can take a break. After we finish this case.” His fingers twitch towards the computer. “I really do want to go over the witness interviews again before going to bed, Dean.”
Dean rolls his eyes, because only Sammy wants to keep studying at midnight, and reaches across the table to flip open the laptop, recognizing that he's being dismissed, along with their topic of conversation. “All right, geek boy, do your thing. But don't stay up all night, okay?”
“'kay.”
Dean pauses as he rises to his feet. “Wake me up if you need anything.”
He's not talking about the case. Sam's gaze flicks up to meet his.
“I know, Dean,” he says earnestly, and Dean nods, just once, before heading to bed.