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TRIPLE PLAY at OhSam!
Let’s try something a little different for September at ohsam! We’re calling it the Triple Play Challenge and here’s the deal …
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Dean gets a suite for the night at a dingy motel along a stretch of highway somewhere in Missouri. He grumbles about the extra mouth to feed and house and glares pointedly at you before slamming the bathroom door. Sam smiles sheepishly and says, “He doesn’t mean it,” and fishes a pair of worn flannel pants and a t-shirt for Little Darlings Gentlemen’s Club in Kalamazoo, Michigan out of his bag. He tosses the garments across the bed and apologizes ahead of time that they’ll probably be too big. You shuck your suit and carefully fold it on the table near the door. You roll the cuffs on the too-long flannels and stretch out on the hard pull-out sofa on the other side of the partition separating the living area from the sleeping area and it’s two queens. Sam is already a lump beneath the blankets on the far bed when Dean emerges from the bathroom in his boxers, smelling like toothpaste and cheap complimentary shampoo.
He says, “First one up goes on a coffee run,” then flops on the near bed with an obscene groan, “Night,” then quieter, “Night, Sammy.”
Nothing.
“Sam?”
A garbled, “What?”
“Nothing.”
You thought it would be harder to find rest in this strange new world, with these strange and rough men who claim they are your grandsons, but the exhaustion from your escape, the shock of your surroundings and the truth about what you lost and may still lose sits firmly on your back and presses you into the welcoming darkness of sleep.
It’s several hours later when you jerk awake to screams. You think it’s Johnny having a nightmare, but it’s too deep and too pained and you remember where you are with a pang of remorse as a light goes on in the next room. Dean’s voice, rough with lost slumber, is too low to make out the words, but the gentle cadence is unmistakably parental. You round the partition and Dean is reaching an arm towards Sam. Sam has one hand tangled in his long hair and the other nervously scratching at the skin beneath his eye. Dean brushes his knee with one hand and Sam flinches-- kicks-- and curls inward with a small wince as though bracing for retaliation.
You start, “Is everything--”
“Get out.” Dean doesn’t even turn to face you, “Just turn around and go back to bed.”
“What--”
“I said get OUT,” Dean snaps and Sam scrambles, moaning low in his throat and rounding the far side of his disheveled bed. If you strain, you can make out his frantic mutterings.
“Get away. Get away. Not real. Get away.”
The mantra lasts until he hits the wall, then he’s clawing at the yellowed wallpaper and screaming and bashing his head against the barrier. On the other side, in the next room, there's a bang on the wall and an irate voice tells him to “shut the fuck up.” Dean scrambles to action, ducking punches like an expert and slipping through the holes in Sam’s defenses. He grabs the sides of Sam’s face and holds firmly until Sam’s terrified efforts calm and he’s reduced to twitching and trembling.
“Sam. SAMMY. Listen to me. Listen. You’re good. I’m here. I’m right here and he’s not. Just snap out of it, okay?”
Dean remembers that you’re standing there and shoots a glance over his shoulder, “He’s fine.”
“He doesn’t seem fine.”
Sam lets out one heaving sob and wretches himself out of Dean’s grasp, but the fight is gone from him. He retreats to the corner,-- purposefully-- more aware than he’s seemed in the past several minutes, but still broadcasting the skittishness of a spooked deer. Dean reaches for him again and Sam withdraws.
“No,” he pulls away from Dean’s hand, “Just give me a minute.” He wipes at his nose and it comes away streaked with red. Eyes that know and understand what they see flinch at the soft glow from the lamp between the beds and Sam asks for Advil and a tissue and a minute-- just a fucking minute-- to himself.
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You duck into the dark living area and Dean reluctantly follows. Before you even ask, he says, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
You say, “I don’t understand.”
Dean fishes a bottle of Old Crow from a bag near the door and takes a swig from the bottle before pulling a pair of plastic tumblers from the cabinet above the tiny sink in the kitchenette, “Honestly, man, neither do I. Thought we took care of this shit. But every once in awhile,” he shrugs, “might as well get comfortable. He’ll be laid up with a migraine tomorrow. We ain’t goin’ anywhere.”
You share drinks and Dean has two for every one you manage. He keeps the truth about Sam’s outburst close but you always excelled at seeing the picture despite the lost puzzle pieces. It’s part of being a Man of Letters. It’s just what you do.
“It sounds like psychic trauma,” you say as the sky outside just begins its journey from the gray of dawn the blue of morning, “There was a medium we worked with, connecting her to hunters who may find her services useful, mostly concerning hauntings.”
“Yeah, been there.” Dean slurs.
“She encountered a house where a horrific murder had taken place-- an entire family-- depraved in it’s violence. We later learned the mother acted under a demonic influence--”
“Possessed? Yeah, that’s always fun.”
“No, no, the family was a sacrifice to prove her loyalty to Hell. Regardless, the echoes of the murders, the traumatized spirits, and her own twisted shade-- took a toll on Monica. She’s well-- was well-- .I’m sure she’s long dead by now, but she was prone to fits and hallucinations. She was institutionalized for a time. After.”
Dean rubs his eyes and shakes his head, “That’s rough. She get better?”
You know it’s the wrong answer, but it’s the truth, and sometimes that’s just the way things are, “No.”
Dean’s face turns stony and he stiffly slides his chair back and wets a towel at the sink. He retreats to the bedroom.. You stay at the table and nurse the dregs of your whiskey until you hear the distinctive sound of gagging, followed by twin shuffles and soft murmurs. You angle your chair so you can see without disturbing, because frankly, you’re tired and you’re certain that they have to be exhausted. This is your legacy. It hits you and you almost gag yourself, but then Dean gently guides Sam to the nearest bed and says he’ll bring water in a little bit. Sam shakes his head and trembles, but doesn’t flinch away from his brother’s touch like he was earlier. Dean folds the cool cloth over Sam’s head. Sam sighs with relief and asks quietly, “How did you get down here?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow. Go to sleep, okay?”
“If I sleep, he’ll be angry.”
“He’ll never know. He’s not here right now, is he?”
Sam squints, “No.”
Dean’s shoulders droop as though a great burden has been lifted and he slides up the headboard to sit with his legs stretched out straight. Sam curls around him and Dean draws the thin motel blankets up to Sam’s shoulders. They’re still like that when you retreat to the pullout.
In the morning, you wake first. You’re relieved to find that McDonald’s is still a thing, though the format and the menu has changed considerably in decades since you last ate at one. You order three coffees and whatever the hell an Egg McMuffin is and when you get back to the motel, Dean is slumped at the table in the kitchenette, shadows beneath his eyes dragging his head down to the surface of the table with their weight. He looks up when you close the door quietly, perks up at the smell of coffee and fried egg. “How’s Sam?” You ask.
“Fine,” Dean says and cuts off further avenues of discussion. It’s simple and not entirely accurate and you think that perhaps someday he won’t be, or he will be, and it won’t be enough. That’s later, though, and possibly never. You think the future is still happening and maybe it isn’t too late to change it for the better after all.
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Poor Henry trying to understand and realizing that they are more than just a MOL case but his grandsons.
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