Eventually Dean got the 4-1-1 from June, who’d wrangled the info from her sister, April, because April knew the veterinary receptionist. (This was the way small towns worked when you hung around long enough, Dean came to realize.) The dog had been hacking, off and on, for a month … could’ve been allergies, could’ve been asthma. Asthma? Really? Yeah, wasn’t unheard of.
After this last bad bout, though, the vet in nearby Latshaw had taken an x-ray and the results weren’t optimistic. Apparently, there was some serious fluid retention around Doc’s heart that indicated either congestive heart failure-unlikely in such a young animal-or more probably, a mass. Inoperable, and it simply wasn’t doable to submit the dog to radiation or chemotherapy, too complicated and too expensive, even if the clinic had the wherewithal to try.
Sam had made the humane decision to put Doc down. Humane, for everyone but Sam, Dean decided.
Sam moved through the next few weeks like a shadow. He went to work, stayed late even though he didn’t need to, came home exhausted and ate cold dinner. If he ate at all. He still jogged with Dean, but the friendly competition between them, trying to beat each other’s time or make it over the mountain first, just wasn’t there. Mrs. Quackenbush, the landlord’s wife, brought over a casserole like they did when a family member died. Sam even tried to beg off the rafting trip but April would have none of it, though he barely said a dozen words that whole afternoon.
The depression, Dean could handle. Of course they’d never owned a pet as kids, and one of the first things Sam had done when he’d ran away, at 15, was adopt a Golden Retriever and name him Bones. So understandably, losing Doc hit Sammy hard.
But what hit Dean hard was Lucifer, and what the fucker did to his brother when given an opening. The sleepwalking got worse, to the point Dean had to padlock everything sharp or gun-shaped. Twice, Dean had come home from the diner to discover Sam zoned-out in the backyard tomato bed in nothing but his boxers, sunburnt and mindlessly digging at his palms until the skin looked like hamburger. Sam had neglected work, food, getting dressed, himself.
It was slightly surreal, the acres of carefully aligned evergreens, in their compulsively neat rows and arranged by type so that the greens changed and darkened in waves. Dean navigated the Impala down the dirt ruts, eyes peeled for the telltale flash of metal in the sun. Five rows deep, he saw the top of Sam’s head and the whiz of his shearing knife, taking off the tips of errant branches. Dean sounded the horn; Sam had his earbuds in, listening to something suitably emo, Dean supposed.
Sam shoved his sunglasses onto his forehead, pulled on the fine cord running from his iPod, and squinted around a Norway spruce. His t-shirt was ringed with sweat and he was flushed from exertion and the heat. Despite a solid tan, there was sleep-deprived bruising under his eyes. “What’re you doing here?”
Dean leaned over and shoved open the shotgun door. “Get in. I’ve got lunch.”
“Dean, I’m not-”
“I packed a God-damned picnic.”
“A what?”
“Aw, come on, dude. Don’t make me say it twice. I already feel like a chick.”
Sam snorted, plucking off his gloves one finger at a time. “Alright, alright.” He rounded the tree, threw the knife in the footwell and slid into the Impala. “Did you bring me flowers too?”
“Shut up, ass hat.”
They drove a good twenty minutes, following June’s directions. Dean assured Sam he’d already talked to his boss about taking a long lunch and Sam didn’t have the vinegar to argue. They hadn’t met a single car the entire way up the pass and by the time they’d reached the crest of the butte, Dean felt like they were the only two people on the planet.
The world stretched out before them in the dense, saturated colors of summer. A small lake, as still as a mirror, plucked the blue from the sky like a bull’s eye in the middle of the valley. Some of the bordering trees had tiny strips of bright fabric tied to their branches. Prayer bundles. The wind kicked up as Dean hauled a big wicker basket from the backseat of the car.
“You did pack a picnic.” Sam sounded mildly surprised.
“Blame the Whitecrows …” Dean grunted, setting lunch on a hot, flat slab of boulder wedged into the side of the mountain. The view really was impressive, if a bit vertigo-inducing.
Sam sat on the rock gingerly, keeping his hands off the sun-bleached stone.
Dean was glad he’d worn jeans. He reached into the basket and pulled out a pair of foil-wrapped sandwiches, tossing one to his brother. “Eat. April says you’re bruising her with your damned knobby elbows.”
“That’s disturbing . You and April talk about me?” Sam smiled vaguely, snagging the sandwich with one hand.
“Me and April and June. So now you can be really disturbed. Hell, whole town’s talking about you.”
Sam sighed and set his ham-and-swiss aside, brows angled in what Dean read as guilt. Embarrassment. Probably shame. “Wish they’d stop.”
“I know,” Dean said around a mouthful of sandwich. “They’ll stop when you get out of this funk, man. They care.”
“It’s not their business.”
Dean scooted across the rock, bumping his knee into Sam’s. “You’d think. But see, here’s the score …” He’d been pondering this all morning, and he prodded Sam’s knee again and again until the kid looked up. Sam would always be ‘the kid’ to Dean. “Some stupid way, we got adopted by Moon Gulch. Don’t ask me how or why; I haven’t figured that part out yet. And not only have we got this … this normal life thing going, we’ve become part of the fucking community. I know, right? Who’da thunk it.”
Sam might’ve played at a half-genuine grin but it dropped off his face far too quickly to be sure. His gaze shifted from Dean to something off in the distance, and Sam’s eyes grew cloudy and lost again.
Dean knew there was nothing back there, over his left shoulder. “Hey. It’s none of his business either. Sam. Sam.” Snapping his fingers, Dean forced Sam’s attention back to the here-and-now. Didn’t always work that easily but this time, it did. Small blessings.
Dean waited a second to be sure the Devil didn’t regain Sam’s interest. “Okay, look, I didn’t just bring you up here for lunch. I have something-” He reached back into the basket and rummaged around briefly. Sam followed his movements warily, and Dean could tell he was resisting the urge to track Lucifer’s imaginary progress. Eventually, Dean produced a tin, roughly the size of a small pickle jar. “Don’t open it just yet.”
Sam tilted his head and took the canister. There was a tag taped to the lid. “‘Doc’ Longabaugh,” it read.
“I, um, picked him up this morning. Thought you might like to, yanno, put him someplace nice.” Dean gestured to the wide, deep valley. “To rest.”
Sam rotated the tin in his hands, his fingers thin and starting to show early signs of arthritis in the pronounced knuckles. He sniffed, scrubbed at his nose, and didn’t say anything for a good few minutes until he finally coughed out a “Thanks.” He rocked to his feet, still staring at the tin, and walked down-wind a few paces. Dean wrapped up the sandwiches again, just in case.
When Sammy opened the lid, the breeze scooped up the mountainside, right on cue. He tilted the canister and fine, gray dust was lifted into the air, carried up and away, out across the basin as the prayer bundles fluttered.
Dean watched his little brother until there was no more ash to spread and Sam quietly put the lid back on the tin. They listened to the wind, to the sound of a hawk’s call in the distance and the rustle of branches and the occasional ping from the car. By the time Sam returned to the rock, Dean had a sweating bottle of cream soda waiting for him.
Sam took the soda. His eyes were weary, so weary, but clear and focused.
Dean slung an arm over Sam’s shoulders because why the hell not? There was no one out here to bear witness. “Better?”
Sam nodded, rolled the bottle between his palms. “Better.”
“I think we should get rid of his collar, though. Just in case.”
“Oh, I dunno. Would it be so bad to have a ghost dog-”
This was so heartbreaking. Dean did a great job of being there for Sam and offering the help he knew Sam needed, without completely smothering him or being over-emotional about such a terrible situation.
Dean leaned over and shoved open the shotgun door. “Get in. I’ve got lunch.” “Dean, I’m not-” “I packed a God-damned picnic.” “A what?” “Aw, come on, dude. Don’t make me say it twice. I already feel like a chick.” Sam snorted, plucking off his gloves one finger at a time. “Alright, alright.” He rounded the tree, threw the knife in the footwell and slid into the Impala. “Did you bring me flowers too?” “Shut up, ass hat.” ... “You did pack a picnic.” Sam sounded mildly surprised. Awww :-) I could so see this.
I didn't see your reply here! Thank you bunches for reading; we have such a wealth of things to read in this fandom it's nigh impossible to get on anyone's radar. *smishes*
**********
Eventually Dean got the 4-1-1 from June, who’d wrangled the info from her sister, April, because April knew the veterinary receptionist. (This was the way small towns worked when you hung around long enough, Dean came to realize.) The dog had been hacking, off and on, for a month … could’ve been allergies, could’ve been asthma. Asthma? Really? Yeah, wasn’t unheard of.
After this last bad bout, though, the vet in nearby Latshaw had taken an x-ray and the results weren’t optimistic. Apparently, there was some serious fluid retention around Doc’s heart that indicated either congestive heart failure-unlikely in such a young animal-or more probably, a mass. Inoperable, and it simply wasn’t doable to submit the dog to radiation or chemotherapy, too complicated and too expensive, even if the clinic had the wherewithal to try.
Sam had made the humane decision to put Doc down. Humane, for everyone but Sam, Dean decided.
Sam moved through the next few weeks like a shadow. He went to work, stayed late even though he didn’t need to, came home exhausted and ate cold dinner. If he ate at all. He still jogged with Dean, but the friendly competition between them, trying to beat each other’s time or make it over the mountain first, just wasn’t there. Mrs. Quackenbush, the landlord’s wife, brought over a casserole like they did when a family member died. Sam even tried to beg off the rafting trip but April would have none of it, though he barely said a dozen words that whole afternoon.
The depression, Dean could handle. Of course they’d never owned a pet as kids, and one of the first things Sam had done when he’d ran away, at 15, was adopt a Golden Retriever and name him Bones. So understandably, losing Doc hit Sammy hard.
But what hit Dean hard was Lucifer, and what the fucker did to his brother when given an opening. The sleepwalking got worse, to the point Dean had to padlock everything sharp or gun-shaped. Twice, Dean had come home from the diner to discover Sam zoned-out in the backyard tomato bed in nothing but his boxers, sunburnt and mindlessly digging at his palms until the skin looked like hamburger. Sam had neglected work, food, getting dressed, himself.
And this simply had to stop.
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**********
It was slightly surreal, the acres of carefully aligned evergreens, in their compulsively neat rows and arranged by type so that the greens changed and darkened in waves. Dean navigated the Impala down the dirt ruts, eyes peeled for the telltale flash of metal in the sun. Five rows deep, he saw the top of Sam’s head and the whiz of his shearing knife, taking off the tips of errant branches. Dean sounded the horn; Sam had his earbuds in, listening to something suitably emo, Dean supposed.
Sam shoved his sunglasses onto his forehead, pulled on the fine cord running from his iPod, and squinted around a Norway spruce. His t-shirt was ringed with sweat and he was flushed from exertion and the heat. Despite a solid tan, there was sleep-deprived bruising under his eyes. “What’re you doing here?”
Dean leaned over and shoved open the shotgun door. “Get in. I’ve got lunch.”
“Dean, I’m not-”
“I packed a God-damned picnic.”
“A what?”
“Aw, come on, dude. Don’t make me say it twice. I already feel like a chick.”
Sam snorted, plucking off his gloves one finger at a time. “Alright, alright.” He rounded the tree, threw the knife in the footwell and slid into the Impala. “Did you bring me flowers too?”
“Shut up, ass hat.”
They drove a good twenty minutes, following June’s directions. Dean assured Sam he’d already talked to his boss about taking a long lunch and Sam didn’t have the vinegar to argue. They hadn’t met a single car the entire way up the pass and by the time they’d reached the crest of the butte, Dean felt like they were the only two people on the planet.
The world stretched out before them in the dense, saturated colors of summer. A small lake, as still as a mirror, plucked the blue from the sky like a bull’s eye in the middle of the valley. Some of the bordering trees had tiny strips of bright fabric tied to their branches. Prayer bundles. The wind kicked up as Dean hauled a big wicker basket from the backseat of the car.
“You did pack a picnic.” Sam sounded mildly surprised.
“Blame the Whitecrows …” Dean grunted, setting lunch on a hot, flat slab of boulder wedged into the side of the mountain. The view really was impressive, if a bit vertigo-inducing.
Sam sat on the rock gingerly, keeping his hands off the sun-bleached stone.
Dean was glad he’d worn jeans. He reached into the basket and pulled out a pair of foil-wrapped sandwiches, tossing one to his brother. “Eat. April says you’re bruising her with your damned knobby elbows.”
“That’s disturbing . You and April talk about me?” Sam smiled vaguely, snagging the sandwich with one hand.
“Me and April and June. So now you can be really disturbed. Hell, whole town’s talking about you.”
Sam sighed and set his ham-and-swiss aside, brows angled in what Dean read as guilt. Embarrassment. Probably shame. “Wish they’d stop.”
“I know,” Dean said around a mouthful of sandwich. “They’ll stop when you get out of this funk, man. They care.”
“It’s not their business.”
Dean scooted across the rock, bumping his knee into Sam’s. “You’d think. But see, here’s the score …” He’d been pondering this all morning, and he prodded Sam’s knee again and again until the kid looked up. Sam would always be ‘the kid’ to Dean. “Some stupid way, we got adopted by Moon Gulch. Don’t ask me how or why; I haven’t figured that part out yet. And not only have we got this … this normal life thing going, we’ve become part of the fucking community. I know, right? Who’da thunk it.”
Sam might’ve played at a half-genuine grin but it dropped off his face far too quickly to be sure. His gaze shifted from Dean to something off in the distance, and Sam’s eyes grew cloudy and lost again.
Dean knew there was nothing back there, over his left shoulder. “Hey. It’s none of his business either. Sam. Sam.” Snapping his fingers, Dean forced Sam’s attention back to the here-and-now. Didn’t always work that easily but this time, it did. Small blessings.
“Sorry.”
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Dean waited a second to be sure the Devil didn’t regain Sam’s interest. “Okay, look, I didn’t just bring you up here for lunch. I have something-” He reached back into the basket and rummaged around briefly. Sam followed his movements warily, and Dean could tell he was resisting the urge to track Lucifer’s imaginary progress. Eventually, Dean produced a tin, roughly the size of a small pickle jar. “Don’t open it just yet.”
Sam tilted his head and took the canister. There was a tag taped to the lid. “‘Doc’ Longabaugh,” it read.
“I, um, picked him up this morning. Thought you might like to, yanno, put him someplace nice.” Dean gestured to the wide, deep valley. “To rest.”
Sam rotated the tin in his hands, his fingers thin and starting to show early signs of arthritis in the pronounced knuckles. He sniffed, scrubbed at his nose, and didn’t say anything for a good few minutes until he finally coughed out a “Thanks.” He rocked to his feet, still staring at the tin, and walked down-wind a few paces. Dean wrapped up the sandwiches again, just in case.
When Sammy opened the lid, the breeze scooped up the mountainside, right on cue. He tilted the canister and fine, gray dust was lifted into the air, carried up and away, out across the basin as the prayer bundles fluttered.
Dean watched his little brother until there was no more ash to spread and Sam quietly put the lid back on the tin. They listened to the wind, to the sound of a hawk’s call in the distance and the rustle of branches and the occasional ping from the car. By the time Sam returned to the rock, Dean had a sweating bottle of cream soda waiting for him.
Sam took the soda. His eyes were weary, so weary, but clear and focused.
Dean slung an arm over Sam’s shoulders because why the hell not? There was no one out here to bear witness. “Better?”
Sam nodded, rolled the bottle between his palms. “Better.”
“I think we should get rid of his collar, though. Just in case.”
“Oh, I dunno. Would it be so bad to have a ghost dog-”
“Dude. The smell.”
Sam chuckled. “Mmm. Point taken.”
~fin
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This was a great read! I love how you portrayed Sam's depression effecting his mental issues with Lucifer, too.
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Dean leaned over and shoved open the shotgun door. “Get in. I’ve got lunch.”
“Dean, I’m not-”
“I packed a God-damned picnic.”
“A what?”
“Aw, come on, dude. Don’t make me say it twice. I already feel like a chick.”
Sam snorted, plucking off his gloves one finger at a time. “Alright, alright.” He rounded the tree, threw the knife in the footwell and slid into the Impala. “Did you bring me flowers too?”
“Shut up, ass hat.”
...
“You did pack a picnic.” Sam sounded mildly surprised.
Awww :-) I could so see this.
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