WHEN YOU STUMBLE (i'll hold you up)
WHEN YOU STUMBLE
(i’ll hold you up)
They mill around for a few days after they first move in, not doing much other than getting used to the house, adjusting to the idea of staying in one place on a permanent basis.
Dean learns that the stairs creak when you walk on the left, but not on the right; the garage door is automatic, but you have to press the button three times before the door will open, and that the microwave door has to be slammed shut otherwise it pops back open again. There’s still only the one bed, but it’s a double and Sam seems to sleep better when he can hear Dean breathing.
Dean can understand that, doesn’t complain that - though they always drift off facing opposite sides, back pressed together - he always wakes up tangled up with his little brother in a way that should probably make him uncomfortable. It doesn’t.
Him and Sam have always been a little tangled up.
When they were kids, their father had wasted away many an hour sat at the kitchen table of whatever shithole had become their residence of the month, just watching the two of them interact. It wasn’t until years later, after words like co-dependent and unhealthy had been thrown around enough for even Dean to sit up and take note, that he wondered if their dad had been trying to work out where one son ended and the other began.
When Sam had skipped off to Stanford with an acceptance letter in his hand and determination in his eyes, Dean had nearly drunk himself into the hospital and had continued the spend the next four years living off anger and betrayal, too caught up to take notice of the silence that Sam left in his wake.
It wasn’t until that first night in Lisa’s house, memories of that last sad smile that Sam had offered him lingering behind his eyes, that he’d found himself listening for the steady cadence of Sam’s breathing and had found nothing but silence in its place. He hadn’t slept that night, had found himself curling up in the backseat of the Impala with the first rays of morning, a bottle of Jack in his hand and tears drying on his eyelashes.
Sam seems more relaxed than he has since he first came back, still jumpy and skittish but looking less and less like he might bolt at the smallest thing. They work out the things to avoid doing; that starting the washing machine up without telling him first, or leaving the shower on the full-power setting, lead to panic attacks and freak outs. Things slowly start to fall into place.
And then the Kenningworth’s show up.
First thing on Saturday morning, before Dean’s had his morning coffee and he’s still bleary-eyed, more asleep than awake. He’d left Sam curled up in the tangle of blankets on their bed, still breathing easily and dead to the world, and he’s half-way to the kitchen when the doorbell rings.
He flinches at the noise, sudden and unexpected, and hears a crash from upstairs.
It doesn’t take a genius to work out that his previously sleeping brother is now awake and, from the sheer volume of the bell, probably working himself into a nice little state of panic. He swears, wondering why he hadn’t thought to turn the damn thing off when they’d moved in, and spins to head back the way he just came - hoping that he can head off another panic attack before it gets bad.
He’s just stepping onto the first step when the bloody thing rings again; two short, shrill and insistent rings that lead Dean to the conclusion that whoever it is hounding them this early in the morning is not going to leave until someone answers the door. He considers tracking his brother down regardless, but he knows that there’ll be no talking Sam down if the noise keeps repeating itself over and over.
Instead, he spins and jogs towards the door, flinching as whoever’s on the other side presses the bell for the fourth time. From the top of the stairs, Sam’s voice drifts down to him in a jolting cadence that Dean recognizes as Enochian. He can visualize the poor kid wedging himself into the corner between the wardrobe and the wall, curled in as small as he can and trembling as he remembers things that Dean doesn’t even want to consider. The idea of leaving him there even a second longer makes his stomach flip nauseatingly, but he knows that he has no choice.
He fumbles the keys from the hook on the wall next to the door, and circles through three of them that he doesn’t recognize before the lock finally clicks and the door swings open.
On the other side of the door, Dean comes face-to-face with two people that encapsulate every nightmare that he’s ever had about suburbia.
The woman’s hair is the kind of blonde that only ever comes from a bottle, and her neck is adorned with a string of pearls. Her yellow sundress might actually be brighter than the sun itself, but it’s the salmon pink of her husband’s shirt that has Dean’s nose wrinkling in distaste.
The woman starts talking before Dean can blurt out something vaguely insulting, apparently oblivious to Dean’s attempts to interrupt her and tell them that this is really not a good time, thank you very much.
“I’m Karrie.” She chirps with a megawatt grin. “And this is my husband, Jones Kenningworth. We wanted to welcome you to the neighbourhood - we would have come over days ago, but you know how it is when you have kids. Megan’s got ballet, and Jordan’s got baseball, and even Mason’s got his little soccer group now. Never a dull moment, I tell you! Anyways, we brought you a welcome basket. Just a few little things, don’t get too excited, but I made the muffins myself. I hope you like them.”
Dean falters a few seconds, thrown off guard by her apparent enthusiasm, and not quite sure what he’s supposed to say in response. Still, John Winchester had raised his sons to be nothing if not polite - it was a lot easier to avoid suspicion when you were well mannered - so he pastes on his most charming grin and dutifully accepts the basket that Jones thrusts into his arms.
“That’s very kind,” He forces out. “And I would offer you in, but-”
He’s interrupted by the sound of faltering footsteps on the stairs, and spins to find that - somehow - Sam has dragged himself from his usual corner, and is currently forcing himself down the stairs. His eyes are wide and wild; looking frantically for something that Dean realizes with a warm rush of affection is none other than his brother.
It makes him wonder if this was what Sam was like in the first few hours that he came back. When his blind panic had led to him trying to walk from Kansas to Indiana, uncaring of the progressively worsening condition of his bare feet, or of his need to eat and drink. It was a blind faith that had put him in the hospital, and though Dean had turned up in the end, he’d never forgive himself for the three days that Sam had spent alone in a psych ward, desperately trying to free himself.
“Sammy,” He breathes, and the kid’s eyes twist to him, and he flinches a little at the sight of the strangers. When he opens his mouth, Dean expects his name, but is caught somewhat off guard by the strange tangle of English and Enochian words that follow.
In the doorway, Karrie presses a hand to her heart, her eyes filling with pity.
“Oh, my.” She says, and Dean barely restrains himself from shutting the door in her face.
He knows that he needs to get rid of them, but Sam’s still wavering on the stairs, and that feels like the most pressing issue. He abandons the couple, the door swinging slightly in the wind, and jogs to close the gap between himself and his brother.
He expects Sam to flinch away, perhaps to even go as far as to sink to the step he’s stood on and cower, but the young boy reaches for him instead.
“Dean,” He mutters, and there’s panic in his voice, desperation in his eyes. Dean doesn’t know what to do, and hates the feeling of uselessness with a vengeance like no other. “Dean, please.”
He breaks off into that same strange cadence of unfamiliar words that Dean is growing gradually more accustomed too, tugging desperately on the older man’s sleeve.
“Hey,” he soothes, feeling more than a little desperate himself. The kid’s breathing is growing steadily faster, and he worries about hyperventilation, knows he needs to move this to some place a little more convenient than the godforsaken stairs. “Easy there, tiger. You need to take some deep breaths, okay?”
Sam continues muttering, and Dean gently tugs him down onto the flat ground of the hallway, lowering him to sit on the bottom step. His brother complies bonelessly.
“Sammy, I can’t understand you, kid. You need to speak in English.”
Sam shakes his head, his mumbling breaking off into a high-pitched whine that has Dean sighing. He reaches out, settles onto the seat next to the younger boy, and gathers him into his arms.
The large wicker basket is directly in his line of sight, along with one half of Jones and the barest hint of one of Karrie’s hideous yellow heels. He wishes that they’d left when Sam had first appeared, that they’d taken the hint and disappeared, but they show no signs of moving.
Sam’s hand flexes where it’s gripping his shirt, tightening and relaxing his grip on the worn material, and gradually his breaths slow, the tension in his muscles beginning to dissipate. He relaxes into Dean’s hold, sniffling a little, and the older boy knows that his brother is more than a little embarrassed.
The trembling eighteen-year-old in his arms is a far cry from the confident twenty-six year old that had offered himself up for the safety of the world, and Dean only loves him more for it.
“Doing better?” He mutters quietly into the younger man’s head, and Sam nods slowly against his shirt, letting out a trembling breath.
It’s a few more moments before he starts to pull away, but Dean doesn’t complain, doesn't release his firm grip until Sam draws away from him. He studies the kid’s face for a few moments before he lets go completely, recognizes that the kid is still terrified as hell by the thought of two strangers in his home, but coherent with it, at least.
“Wanna go clean up?” Dean offers, and receives another nod, this time accompanied by a grateful look. He grins as he hauls himself to his feet, watching as Sam grips the banister and tugs himself up.
The kid hesitates a moment on the stairs, resolutely keeping his eyes on Dean and not the doorway, before he retreats back to the upstairs bathroom.
The older boy watches after him until he disappears around the corner, and only then does he allow himself to return to the door. Unfortunately, his desperate hopes that Karrie and Jones might have left are entirely unfounded, and he’s confronted by two very concerned looking civilians.
He sighs, but steps up to the doorway with a look on his face that he hopes is an indication that they should get lost right then if they have a problem with what they’ve seen.
Karrie surprises him by speaking.
“Was that your son?” She asks gently, searching the stairs behind him as if waiting for Sam to magically reappear.
“Brother.” Dean replies tersely. “Now, if you don’t mind, this isn’t exactly a good time.”
His attitude doesn’t seem to faze either of them, and Jones smiles as he reaches out to clasp a hand over his wife’s shoulder.
“Of course,” He says politely, stepping back a little. He hesitates there for a second, as if debating the intelligence of speaking again. “I, uh... I used to do a lot of work with trauma patients - people with PTSD and the likes. For the record? You handled him wonderfully. Have a good day, now. We'll be seeing you around, I'm sure.”
Dean bristles at the idea of anyone telling him how well he can or cannot take care of his brother, but Jones doesn’t give him a chance to shoot out an angrily-worded, sarcasm-fueled retort, turning and leading his wife away before the eldest Winchester has the chance.
Dean finds himself standing alone in the doorway for a long moment, looking after them, and then he steps back inside and closes the front door with a quiet snick.
Frowning to himself, he bends down and collects the welcome basket, lugging the impressively heavy collection of items to the kitchen table.
He momentarily debates throwing the entire lot in the trash, but has to admit that the two of them weren’t really that bad - had undoubtedly handled the situation better than a large majority of people would have - and he finds himself slowly pulling everything out to assess it instead.
Sam appears a few moments later, face pink from being scrubbed, and hesitates nervously in the doorway.
Dean rolls his eyes.
“Get your ass in here, would you?” He demands gruffly, knowing Sam will take it for the invitation that it’s intended as, rather than a reprimand.
The kid slinks forward, the hesitant stride of an oft-kicked dog that he'd perfected since his return, dropping soundlessly into one of the wooden chairs.
“I’m sorry,” He says quietly, eyes downcast as he fiddles with the head of his shirt. “That must have been embarrassing. I just panicked, and...”
“Came looking for me?”
Sam nods wordlessly, and Dean sighs, reaching over to tug the kid’s head up. Sam meets his eyes reluctantly, and Dean holds them there.
“Good.” He says firmly. “Isn’t that what I’ve been telling you all along? You need anything, you come and find me. End of story. It doesn’t matter if there’s people at the door... hell, the entire neighbourhood could be there, and I’d still want you to come to me, understand?”
Sam nods reluctantly.
“Good,” He grouses, and nods to the large wicker basket. “Now help me unpack all of this crap. Apparently there’s homemade muffins in here somewhere, and I’m determined to find them.”
Sam grins, slowly and surely, and nods his head.
When he replies, it’s jokingly, and Dean’s heart soars at the sound.
“Yes, sir.”