Vision - Eight (8/15)
Winter 2004. Alamosa, Colorado.
He calls Sam on Christmas Eve, knowing full well the kid's not gonna be in.
Less awkward that way.
It's of the 'Hey, hope you're not doing anything I wouldn't do. . . Oh, wait, you never do anything I would do anyway, you stay-at-home loser. Merry Christmas, Bro' variety, and he's amazed at how distant it all sounds coming out of his mouth. It's wrong that it's gotten this bad, that he can't even talk to his own brother without it coming out like they're on different frequencies now or something.
It's a two-way street, though, and Sam damn well knows that. Knows how it works pretty well, apparently, since he's never returned any of Dean's calls or the few messages he's left. Kid knows, just doesn't give a fuck.
Fine.
He has a few drinks in some dive bar on his way over. No point in hurrying. Not like the kid's gonna care who walks in once he sees it's not Dad. Hell, Dean's probably right up there with the school principal or the check-out lady at 7-11 in terms of emotional attachment. Who's he kidding?
He buys a bottle of Beam and settles his tab, then sludges out to the car. It's a small enough town that most of the streets make sense, so it takes him only about ten minutes to find the place. It's another apartment, just as small and cheap as the previous one.
He tucks the liquor into his duffle, then grabs it and the weapons up and starts walking around to the other side of the complex and up to the second floor where number 12 is. He bangs on the door with his elbow to avoid getting either of the bags wet, and it only takes a few seconds before Adam's opening the door with a big grin.
Jesus.
"Hey, Dean!" he exclaims, backing up to get out of his way as he goes inside. There are Christmas lights thrown around the place haphazardly, and "A Charlie Brown Christmas Special" is flashing by on the TV.
Dean sets his bags down by the couch, then starts shucking off the leather jacket and boots that are all soaked through with melting snow. Adam hangs up the jacket and nudges the boots over to the side, then turns back to Dean with a rapidly wilting smile.
"Hey, kid," Dean offers, and just like that the smile's back in full force.
"He called half an hour before you did," Adam tells him. "Said he was on his way, and should get in sometime in the next hour or two."
Dean nods, trying to hide his surprise. He moves over to the couch and drops down heavily. Laying his head back, he closes his eyes. When he opens them, Charlie Brown is done, but the Grinch is sewing his fake Santa suit, and then the next time he wakes up it's because of the door opening and heavy footsteps stomping snow off against the outside wall.
Dad tromps in, and does a double-take when he sees Dean on the couch. Adam gets up and grabs one of the bags from Dad's hands, while he sits down in a chair and takes off his muddy, snowy, wet boots to leave by the door next to Dean's.
"Dean," Dad says, nodding to him as he passes by and through the room into the hallway, where presumably a couple bedrooms are hiding. He doesn't know, never having been here before, but it seems likely Dad splurged for a two bedroom. One and a couch might have been fine for him, Sam, and Dad, but that was then.
And Adam isn't him, Sam, or Dad.
When Adam comes back into the room, he gives Dean a strange look before heading towards the small kitchen. Then he hears the clink and clatter of dishes and glasses, the squeak of a drawer being pulled out, and the whooshing suction of the fridge being opened and closed. Good kid.
It's Christmas Eve. There's no tree up that he can see, but the lights are. . . well, it's more than he can really remember ever having. Maybe Adam has a part-time job, or something. Hard to imagine Dad going for multi-colored Christmas lights, after all.
He stares at the TV for awhile, then turns his head towards the hallway and finds Dad looking back at him. Dean turns back to the TV and Dad comes and sits on the other side of the couch.
The Whos down in Whoville are singing their happy welcome Christmas song, and Dad chuckles a little.
"I remember you used to love this movie when you were a kid," he says, and Dean shrugs.
"No accounting for taste, I guess," he returns.
Dad's silent until the Grinch is shown carving the Who-Roast Beast.
"Your mother hated this story."
Dean swivels his head towards him quickly, before he can really think twice. Dad's got one elbow resting on the arm of the couch and that hand sort of covering his mouth. He's got that sad look on his face, too, and a sort of hunched-in-ness that Dean thinks might be embarrassment.
Hard to tell with Dad.
Maybe Dad simply said it because it just popped into his head and he's too tired to really filter his thoughts right now. Maybe. But the way he's looking at Dean from the corner of his eye makes him think otherwise. He's trying to get a reaction from him, trying to. . . get him to do something, and using that comment as the bait.
The credits start rolling, which is when Adam comes over and says, "Supper," real quietly. Dean wastes no time getting off the couch, although his ribs sure let him know they don't appreciate the change of position.
"You get banged up again?" Dad asks, and Dean just nods and walks into the kitchen. There's a table with three chairs and food on it, plates, cheap silverware, napkins, two beers and a glass of milk.
He's angry, for some reason, pulling one of the chairs out with a screech of metal on crappy linoleum. Dad comes in first, Adam just on his heels, and he's thankful that Adam set the table. He and Dad are sitting across from each other, with the kid in the middle and a big empty spot on the other side.
He catches himself looking at that spot a lot during the meal, but manages to always turn his thoughts onto his weapons or the Impala or the deciding of whether to head east or west when this is all done. Adam glances at him questioningly, and Dad's still got that assessing look in his eye, but he never catches either of them looking at the blank space at the table. They just don't see it, and somehow that makes him even angrier.
He finishes eating before either of them, and gets up and starts on the dishes. Adam comes over to dry the plates, but Dean shakes his head at him.
"It's actually better to just let them air-dry," he says, scrubbing at the mashed potatoes pot. "More hygienic." Adam moves away, then, setting the towel in his hand on the counter gently. Dean can hear the kid leave the kitchen, but there's still a presence behind him at the table. Dad's not going anywhere, and Dean scrubs and washes those dishes till they're spotless. Once he's done, he wipes the counter, but leaves the table alone.
"I'm gonna go for a run," he says to the room in general, not looking over.
He goes to the bathroom to change, filing away the fact that there are two bath towels on the rack, instead of just one. There's shaving cream and both a bladed and an electric razor on the counter. There are two toothbrushes.
Adam's leaning against the wall opposite the bathroom when he comes out. He looks expectant, or something, but Dean couldn't care less at this point. He brushes past the kid and pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt. Opening the door, he rushes out and gives in to a good slam as he closes it again. He jogs down the stairs then stands and stretches out in the parking lot, where a space clear of snow is left after a car pulls out.
Then, he jumps over the slush and a drift and starts off fast. Taking the corner out of the complex a little too quickly, he slides and has to grab onto a bus stop sign in order to avoid hitting the ice on his ass. He's about three blocks away when his ribs really start to make breathing hard, but by the next one he's forced it to the back of his mind and has even succeeded in increasing his pace a little.
He comes across a park, and decides to head on through it and then turn back. The snow is deceptive, though, and it drifts up in great waves around playground equipment and sculptures. He's so focused on keeping his speed up and ignoring the pain in his chest that he forgets rule number four.
'Always be aware of your surroundings.'
It's evidently only like three or four stairs, but the snow covers them and makes a drift from the bottom to the top. It looks all one level, and that's how he takes it.
He trips and falls, shoving his hands out at the last second to try and protect his face from hitting the pavement.
"Fuck!" he shouts, moving back into sitting and looking at his palms.
He's bleeding pretty good, and wheezing, and once he realizes that. . . that's when the pounding in his chest really registers.
"God," he lets out, hating how much like a whimper it sounds. He puts a hand to his sternum, only realizing after a few seconds that now he's got blood all over himself and the pain's still there. He's sitting on his ass in a snow drift, in a park in Ala-fucking-mosa, Colorado.
And that's when Sammy pops into his head and starts laughing at him. This is when Sam would chuckle and point and stick out his hand to help him up. This is when he'd tell Dean to turn his sweatshirt inside out so he doesn't look like a serial killer, and would mock him all the way back about how it looked like he'd pissed himself with the way the snow had seeped in all over his pants.
Dean slowly gets to his feet. When he's standing, he looks down and sees he's skinned his knees and legs too. There's blood on his left leg, but none on his right. He turns around and slowly climbs up the four stairs that caused this whole mess. Pausing at the top, he struggles out of his sweatshirt and turns it inside out, then bites his lip putting it back on. The movement irritates his ribs again, bruised and broken from that goddamn dryad three days ago.
Who knew tree nymphs could be so touchy about their. . . trees?
He starts walking, but glances back at one point to where he fell, and then to the whole white-enshrouded park itself.
The snow glistens and glitters in the moonlight, in the low glow from the street lamps. It's cold and dark, and all the trees look dead and ominous. Dean turns around and starts walking back to the apartment.
He does not whisper "Sam."
He doesn't.
Vision - Nine