Hysterical Blindness - Two
Bobby's. July. 2006.
He woke up early again. It wasn't deliberate. What guy his age wanted to be up at, Jesus, 6:38 in the morning?
It was the sounds coming from the yard that kept jerking him awake, the loud clanging and banging and sometimes the low growl of an engine. It seemed if Dean were awake, then they all would be.
Although who the hell knew if he ever actually slept? Adam's working theory was that Dean looked at his car as his life: if he could get the thing back in shape and under control, running like a well-oiled machine and looking as beautiful as the day it'd been made, then everything would be all right. He sure spent a helluva lotta time on the damn thing.
So, really pissed off that he was awake this early in the day during the summer, Adam got out of bed and shuffled into the empty bathroom across the hall. On his way, he heard the radio playing downstairs, which meant Bobby was up too.
Sam was probably still dead to the world. He never seemed to get up any time before noon these days, and sometimes not even then. Dean hardly slept, and Sam seemed to do nothing but.
Adam picked up his toothbrush and turned on the tap to wet the bristles, before carefully setting down a strip of toothpaste on 'em. One thing about Bobby: he sure didn't go to penny-pinching extremes when it came to certain things. Adam had never realized how much he took toothpaste for granted until he was forced to brush with whatever cheap-ass crap John picked up.
That and coffee. If Adam never had another cup of McDonald's so-called home brew ever again, it would be too soon. Drinking that stuff was like willingly downing ipecac.
He finished brushing, spit and rinsed out his mouth and the brush, and then set it back in the little holder on the counter. After taking a piss, he checked and there was still hot water, so Adam turned the shower on full blast and hopped in. There was Sam's body wash crap and shampoo and conditioner taking up space, and then Adam's and Bobby's bulk size store brand stuff. Dean either didn't have anything, or he took it with him after each time.
And Dean didn't really seem like the OCD type. But then again, his hair was really short too, so maybe he just bummed Sam's "soap" and used it for everything. Hair and body.
Okay. Bad line of thought. Adam looked down at himself, and sighed. Yeah. Good morning to you, too.
He was in and out of the shower within ten minutes, so he considered it a win. Getting dressed and heading downstairs, Adam paused on the stairs to just listen for a moment. The clanging had stopped outside, which meant either Dean was working underneath the frame, or he'd come insi--
" . . . eggs?" came Bobby's voice.
There was a low grumble from Dean, but Adam couldn't make out what his reply was. Taking a deep breath and then letting it out, he finished going down the stairs and swung around into the kitchen. Sure enough, Bobby was at the stove, manning the skillet with one hand and drinking what was probably his third cup of coffee by now.
Dean was at the table. Well, physically anyway. Mentally, he looked about a million miles away.
Like being around Dean could get any more uncomfortable for Adam, now he had to wonder just how much of Dean. . . was really here.
And how much was still back in the hospital.
"Hey, Kid," Bobby said, tiredly. "Park it. Scrambled or sunny side up?"
"Scrambled's fine," Adam answered. Bobby smiled gratefully, then turned back around to monitor the skillet. "Hey, Dean," he ventured after another moment of careful silence.
Dean flicked his eyes over to Adam's face, but didn't make eye contact. Then he went back to looking out the back door onto the yard. "Hey, Kid," he finally returned, quietly.
And that was it. That was about the extent of their conversations these days. Dean and Sam had been here for going on two weeks, and combined. . . they'd probably said less than 100 words. And most of that would be from Sam. They were lucky to even get a look from Dean, let alone a 'Hey, Kid.'
All in all, Adam was beginning to look forward to going back to school. It was still more than a month away, but anything would be better than hanging around here. Even putting up with Jake Carmichael and his stupid jock cronies sounded appealing when faced with. . . whatever this was from Sam and Dean.
Although Sam, he kinda got. That was guilt. Adam could see that plain enough. And Bobby was good about telling Adam stuff he needed to know, personal stuff neither Sam nor Dean would ever volunteer, but that cropped up every now and then. Adam cared for the stupid bastards. He didn't want to step into something and hurt 'em, just cos he didn't know and no one had ever told him.
So he sorta knew what Sam and John's relationship had been like. And then John died, and Sam. . . well, it was a no brainer. Adam. . . he felt guilty too. 'Bout. . . Mom. He hadn't known what to do back then, would still be hard-pressed now to figure out the right way of ganking those fuckers, but. . . Mom had. . . she'd. . .
She was dead. She'd died. And Adam hadn't. He was here, sitting and waiting for Bobby to finish breakfast. So, yeah, he felt a lot of fuckin' guilt about that, and the two of them had always gotten along. Really well. Mom was. . . she'd been awesome. Best there ever was. No one'd understood him like she had.
But Sam and John had had this dysfunctional relationship, and then John died in this weird way and now there's all this unresolved shit. Plus Sam was a bit of a guilt hoarder anyway, with his girlfriend's death and the way that'd turned out.
No surprise there.
It's Dean that Adam's worried about. Sam'll probably get better about everything. Adam has. It'll get easier. Few months from now, Sam will be able to joke and laugh and not feel like a heartless jerk because he can and John can't anymore.
Dean just looks empty. Adam guesses there's gotta be guilt rolling around in there somewhere, but he hasn't seen any sign of it. At the funeral-thing, he'd looked angry and lost, but even that's not there anymore. Now he's like a shell. Empty. He doesn't scowl, or glare or roll his eyes, or sneer. Adam doesn't think any of 'em are quite at the point of laughing, but Bobby can muster up a smile now and then. Even Sam, the other day, he'd dimpled a little when Bobby's new puppy stuck its head out of one of the empty grocery bags. Not a smile, but he'd at least seen the humor and sheer cuteness in what's one day gonna be a massive guard dog now playing around and jumping in paper sacks.
But Dean. . .
When Bobby told Adam what had happened back at the hospital, he could remember freaking the fuck out. John was dead?! What the fuck? How?!
And he'd also been really nervous about Dean somehow letting it slip that Adam was a freakin' perv and they were kicking him to the curb. He even got it together long enough to pack up all his shit and stow his bag in Bobby's trunk. So at least that way, after the guy found out the truth when they went to the hospital, Adam'd have time to dash down and retrieve it before they all went ballistic and reported him to Child Services or whateverthefuck.
Never happened.
Adam had sat in the room with the three of them, Dean's hospital room, for 45 minutes. He'd been so nervous, his leg wouldn't stop bouncing and by the end his fingernails were pretty much a bloody mess. But, nothing. Dean hadn't said a word about it.
After that, Adam had been paranoid enough that he'd thought it meant Dean was just not telling for some strange reason. Because Dad was dead, and they all knew Adam had nowhere else to go? Damned if he knew, but also damned if he'd ever jeopardize having a home for telling the truth. Fuck that. If they weren't gonna call him on it, then he wasn't gonna admit to it.
Dean was a good guy. Maybe he'd understood that this. . . it wasn't like Adam was. . . it didn't mean things had to change.
But now he knew all that worry had really been for nothing. Dean wouldn't tell what had happened. . . because he didn't know. He'd been unconscious, on Death's door. He couldn't remember. Dean not looking at him, not making eye contact anymore, that had less to do with that he couldn't stand the sight of such a fucked-up pervert, and more to do with the fact he couldn't meet anyone's eyes. Dean never looked Bobby in the face. Or Sam. Or any of the doctors that'd been around when he'd still been in the hospital. Or the police.
It wasn't Adam. It was Dean. And maybe that should make things easier. Dean didn't know how weird his stupid, fucking half-brother was, so Adam could just pretend his whole confession had never happened and everything was back to how it was.
Except that it wasn't. Everything was all different, and Adam couldn't figure out why when he'd realized Dean didn't know anything about anything. . . why he'd felt sad instead of relieved.