Really just testing...
I kinda just want to see what this looks like in print.
It always happened at dusk.
He tried to keep himself occupied against it, to be busy or asleep or hell, even unconscious would work. Anything, but idle. Anything, but sitting still in a chair staring out the grimy window of another nameless motel with nothing to do, but think…
It was his own fault really. He should have stayed out of California. How hard was it to avoid the state anyway? It’s not like it was in the middle of anything… it was the edge, literally-and for him, in more ways then one.
But poltergeist’s existed in the sunshine state too, and when you had a hysterical mother on the phone because her child had just been locked in a cellar by one, telling her you were hoping to avoid the state at all costs because your baby brother lived there just wasn’t an option.
Dad was in Missouri. He was in Colorado. Colorado happened to be closer to California than Missouri- fuck.
It was all he’d been thinking as he drove. Fuck. He really didn’t want to be in California.
But a job was a job. And really-the kid had been three, so the poltergeist had to die- so to speak, anyway.
The kid had also taken a liking to him, she was after all female, so he couldn’t really blame her. She’d requested with a shy smile that Mis-ther Win‘es-ther come to her soccer game the next afternoon. Her mom had pushed the request with a grateful smile and the offer of a home-cooked meal and hell- its not like he had anywhere else to be.
So he’d gone to a soccer game today. He’d sat on bleachers and watched an array of tiny people kick around a black and white ball; and every so often the tiny person who’d invited him would stop, search the crowd and wave at him. He would wave back.
It had been a nice day.
It was dusk now. He should be getting on the road, except he really had no where to go. Dad would have a job for him-if he called Dad.
If he stopped staring out the fuckin window and got up off his ass to find his cell phone and dial the number, that would help.
But it was dusk…
And it always happened at dusk… that’s when he missed his little brother the most.
Dusk conjured up images of two boy’s home from school, of book-bags dropped on the couch and the microwave nuking dinner. It made him remember a little boy who didn’t understand the words, not now, I have homework, of a little boy who’d had seven hundred questions and two dimples, of a little boy who couldn’t get away fast enough…
Sam had cut the ties that bound them with one surgical strike and hadn’t looked back. He’d set his sights on “normal” and goddamn anything and anyone that got in his way.
Sometimes, usually after a particularly brutal battle with something undead that just would die, Dean felt anger towards his baby brother… sometimes, he felt something darker… something bordering on betrayal. But the feeling would fade… it had to, because ultimately, Dean adored his little brother and as pat as the sentiment seemed, he really did just want his little brother to be happy.
He could still see it; the rage that drummed in Sam’s eyes that day. He and Dad had hurled torrents of accusations at each other. Slicing into each other, making each other bleed-and Dean had felt each set of wounds like they were his own. He’d bled for them both; caught in the middle, as always, he’d done the only thing he could do-he’ remained silent.
Other times he’d sided with Sam. Sam was his little brother, Dad had taught him, trained him, to protect Sam… and Dean had learned the lesson well. He protected his brother- even from their father…
… but that day… that day the words had stuck in his throat. To speak, to take Sam’s side would have been to help the boy tear himself away; and Sam had needed no help.
He’d done a pretty good job on his own.
As long as he lived, Dean would never forget that last glare his brother had shot him before turning away.
Angry, resentful, accusing… how could you just stand there? The eyes had yelled. I won’t forget this, they’d screamed, I won’t forgive this.
And true to his Winchester genes Sam hadn’t. Four years and not one peep out of his baby brother; Sam might as well have dropped off the face of the earth. Dean had tried-at first. He would call and leave a message, tell his little brother where he was, what he was doing, what the weather was like…
But the calls were never returned… and each time he bled a little more. Sometimes leaving a message required more energy then he had to spare, sometimes he just wanted to hear his brother’s voice-those times were the worst, because a voice in the back of his mind reminded him that Sam never had that problem… that Sam never needed to hear his voice… it taunted him with that weakness.
So he forced himself to stop. He forced himself to stop being weak. It was only times like now-dusk, when the memories washed over him, that he was in danger of giving in.
He wouldn’t give in though-he knew that. It had become easier to ignore the urge, he wasn’t sure, though, if that was something to be grateful for or ashamed about.
Truth was, in an effort to miss his little brother less-he’d started pushing memories of Sammy away, started dwelling on them less, remembering less…
Keeping busy at dusk helped, blasting his music helped, going after every evil thing he could find helped-these days, it was rare when the images of the dark-haired youth flittered through his mind.
He sighed roughly, running a hand over his face. He really needed to get off his ass and do something. He needed to drum up the energy first- it was this fuckin state… god, he hated California.
It made him numb.
A surreal feeling he couldn’t shake would wash over him; brought on by a voice, a feeling, an instinct that would whisper continuously-Sammy’s here…
An instinct, a feeling, a voice that lied to him… Sammy didn’t exist anymore. Sammy had wanted “normal,” Sammy was never further away than when Dean was in California…
Drawing in a deep breath, Dean forced himself to get up. Technically, the room was paid up for the night, but the need to leave was so suddenly overpowering that a technicality like that wasn’t going to stop him.
With the efficiency of a professional he severed any and all thoughts of his little brother. Quickly, he picked up the few belongings he’d strewn around the room, stuffed them in his duffle, and collected his weapons.
Action. Movement. Hunting. That kept unwanted thoughts at bay.
He’d call his Dad from the road, he thought as he checked out of the motel and headed for the Impala, or hell, he could stop somewhere and find a job on his own… it wasn’t odd for him. He and Dad had gone weeks in the past with little to no conversation. It made the business a little lonely, but Dean enjoyed following his own gut and not being ordered around.
As he ran the possibilities through in his mind, he settled himself and his stuff into the car. He turned the ignition and pulled out of the lot.
The sun set completely and his thoughts once again tried to return to the dark-haired urchin that had once dogged his every step.
He refused to acknowledge thoughts of his little brother though. Drawing in a slow breath he stopped trying to figure out what he’d do next. He turned off every thought save that of getting the fuck out of California.
It had taken Dean years of unanswered, unacknowledged phone calls, but he’d gotten the point.
Sam didn’t need him, had stopped needing him years ago. Sam didn’t want him around, didn’t want their life, didn’t Dean in his life. Sam wanted “normal,” had run towards “normal.”
He’d made his choice, had made it clear, hadn’t looked back…
And Dean had bled enough.
It always happened at dusk.
He tried to keep himself occupied against it, to be busy or asleep or hell, even unconscious would work. Anything, but idle. Anything, but sitting still in a chair staring out the grimy window of another nameless motel with nothing to do, but think…
It was his own fault really. He should have stayed out of California. How hard was it to avoid the state anyway? It’s not like it was in the middle of anything… it was the edge, literally-and for him, in more ways then one.
But poltergeist’s existed in the sunshine state too, and when you had a hysterical mother on the phone because her child had just been locked in a cellar by one, telling her you were hoping to avoid the state at all costs because your baby brother lived there just wasn’t an option.
Dad was in Missouri. He was in Colorado. Colorado happened to be closer to California than Missouri- fuck.
It was all he’d been thinking as he drove. Fuck. He really didn’t want to be in California.
But a job was a job. And really-the kid had been three, so the poltergeist had to die- so to speak, anyway.
The kid had also taken a liking to him, she was after all female, so he couldn’t really blame her. She’d requested with a shy smile that Mis-ther Win‘es-ther come to her soccer game the next afternoon. Her mom had pushed the request with a grateful smile and the offer of a home-cooked meal and hell- its not like he had anywhere else to be.
So he’d gone to a soccer game today. He’d sat on bleachers and watched an array of tiny people kick around a black and white ball; and every so often the tiny person who’d invited him would stop, search the crowd and wave at him. He would wave back.
It had been a nice day.
It was dusk now. He should be getting on the road, except he really had no where to go. Dad would have a job for him-if he called Dad.
If he stopped staring out the fuckin window and got up off his ass to find his cell phone and dial the number, that would help.
But it was dusk…
And it always happened at dusk… that’s when he missed his little brother the most.
Dusk conjured up images of two boy’s home from school, of book-bags dropped on the couch and the microwave nuking dinner. It made him remember a little boy who didn’t understand the words, not now, I have homework, of a little boy who’d had seven hundred questions and two dimples, of a little boy who couldn’t get away fast enough…
Sam had cut the ties that bound them with one surgical strike and hadn’t looked back. He’d set his sights on “normal” and goddamn anything and anyone that got in his way.
Sometimes, usually after a particularly brutal battle with something undead that just would die, Dean felt anger towards his baby brother… sometimes, he felt something darker… something bordering on betrayal. But the feeling would fade… it had to, because ultimately, Dean adored his little brother and as pat as the sentiment seemed, he really did just want his little brother to be happy.
He could still see it; the rage that drummed in Sam’s eyes that day. He and Dad had hurled torrents of accusations at each other. Slicing into each other, making each other bleed-and Dean had felt each set of wounds like they were his own. He’d bled for them both; caught in the middle, as always, he’d done the only thing he could do-he’ remained silent.
Other times he’d sided with Sam. Sam was his little brother, Dad had taught him, trained him, to protect Sam… and Dean had learned the lesson well. He protected his brother- even from their father…
… but that day… that day the words had stuck in his throat. To speak, to take Sam’s side would have been to help the boy tear himself away; and Sam had needed no help.
He’d done a pretty good job on his own.
As long as he lived, Dean would never forget that last glare his brother had shot him before turning away.
Angry, resentful, accusing… how could you just stand there? The eyes had yelled. I won’t forget this, they’d screamed, I won’t forgive this.
And true to his Winchester genes Sam hadn’t. Four years and not one peep out of his baby brother; Sam might as well have dropped off the face of the earth. Dean had tried-at first. He would call and leave a message, tell his little brother where he was, what he was doing, what the weather was like…
But the calls were never returned… and each time he bled a little more. Sometimes leaving a message required more energy then he had to spare, sometimes he just wanted to hear his brother’s voice-those times were the worst, because a voice in the back of his mind reminded him that Sam never had that problem… that Sam never needed to hear his voice… it taunted him with that weakness.
So he forced himself to stop. He forced himself to stop being weak. It was only times like now-dusk, when the memories washed over him, that he was in danger of giving in.
He wouldn’t give in though-he knew that. It had become easier to ignore the urge, he wasn’t sure, though, if that was something to be grateful for or ashamed about.
Truth was, in an effort to miss his little brother less-he’d started pushing memories of Sammy away, started dwelling on them less, remembering less…
Keeping busy at dusk helped, blasting his music helped, going after every evil thing he could find helped-these days, it was rare when the images of the dark-haired youth flittered through his mind.
He sighed roughly, running a hand over his face. He really needed to get off his ass and do something. He needed to drum up the energy first- it was this fuckin state… god, he hated California.
It made him numb.
A surreal feeling he couldn’t shake would wash over him; brought on by a voice, a feeling, an instinct that would whisper continuously-Sammy’s here…
An instinct, a feeling, a voice that lied to him… Sammy didn’t exist anymore. Sammy had wanted “normal,” Sammy was never further away than when Dean was in California…
Drawing in a deep breath, Dean forced himself to get up. Technically, the room was paid up for the night, but the need to leave was so suddenly overpowering that a technicality like that wasn’t going to stop him.
With the efficiency of a professional he severed any and all thoughts of his little brother. Quickly, he picked up the few belongings he’d strewn around the room, stuffed them in his duffle, and collected his weapons.
Action. Movement. Hunting. That kept unwanted thoughts at bay.
He’d call his Dad from the road, he thought as he checked out of the motel and headed for the Impala, or hell, he could stop somewhere and find a job on his own… it wasn’t odd for him. He and Dad had gone weeks in the past with little to no conversation. It made the business a little lonely, but Dean enjoyed following his own gut and not being ordered around.
As he ran the possibilities through in his mind, he settled himself and his stuff into the car. He turned the ignition and pulled out of the lot.
The sun set completely and his thoughts once again tried to return to the dark-haired urchin that had once dogged his every step.
He refused to acknowledge thoughts of his little brother though. Drawing in a slow breath he stopped trying to figure out what he’d do next. He turned off every thought save that of getting the fuck out of California.
It had taken Dean years of unanswered, unacknowledged phone calls, but he’d gotten the point.
Sam didn’t need him, had stopped needing him years ago. Sam didn’t want him around, didn’t want their life, didn’t Dean in his life. Sam wanted “normal,” had run towards “normal.”
He’d made his choice, had made it clear, hadn’t looked back…
And Dean had bled enough.