justprompts: Past
It had been worse this year than ever before.
In its way, it had been worse last year than the year before, because he'd known Jessica just a little bit better. Known what she could have been to Sam a little bit better. Not that he didn't know before, but seeing it immediate... the look on his brother's face when he raised her hand, showing off the ring...
Sure it was the djinn's illusion. But it was also real in ways that he just couldn't put words to.
And this year...
This year, he knew their mother a little bit better. Bright, hopeful Mary. The way she looked at John, the way she talked about him. The way she talked about what she wanted for her children. Sure, a teenager's dream; Sam had wanted the same thing at nineteen. Just... out. And then she'd made the deal - because he, Dean, had failed her. Six years before he was born, at the age of twenty-nine, he had failed his mother. His grandfather and grandmother too. His father. Consequently, his brother too.
He'd failed everybody, let down every single person in his life, and on November second he felt the full weight of that.
Sam... had lost more. Dean understood that. He saw how the world seemed to be crushing around his brother, minute after minute throughout this whole day. Hour after hour. Crying or not crying. Looking out the window or trying to will the time go by faster lying in bed or staring at an open book or the screen of the laptop without really seeing any of the words. Trying to sleep - and failing, just as Dean was, generally. Not really nightmares of hell this time, even though they seemed to drift in that direction when he was thinking of their father. Who'd spent longer there than--
He hoped, hoped even to God, that Mary and John, and Samuel and Deanna too (although it was six months yet to go till it would be their deaths' anniversary) were at peace now. And Jess. They all deserved it. And if anything... Mary needed it more than anybody.
Dean wasn't very good with grieving. Or maybe the grieving he could do was too tied up with guilt, and blaming still, and it didn't come out right. Something. He was there with Sam when it seemed like it was too much. But he was not steady either. Sadness. Self-accusations. Guilt before Sam, oh man that day was just too much and the wall sometimes felt like they were closing in but outside was no better. He'd suggest going out and riding off to the next town, the purr of the Impala soothing and helping, but neither of them could run from this.
And he was so fucking grateful that Sam was there too. Despite the fact that it was his failure, his fault, that things were screwed up as they were. His shortcomings, his mistakes, his being not fast enough, not good enough. Sam was still there with him. And when his own voice broke, his brother rounded up whatever reserves he had and manned up, until they ran out again and over and over again...
Not that he could ever say how much he had to thank Sam for. Not that he'd ever even admit how much he needed that presence, that... that trust despite of everything wrong that he'd done and caused.
But he felt it nonetheless. Made himself shove all the guilt and helplessness somewhere just because it wouldn't help anybody. And being just a bit strong, just a bit... there could help Sammy. And he'd given in to the guilt and helplessness, and that had gone down well. NOT. And so he also manned up until the next something made it all flare again.
November second was the day that the past came and haunted the Winchesters, without remorse. Without a hope for escape. And it wasn't getting any easier. Quite the opposite.
Dean was awake when midnight came, mentally checking the date off. November the third now.
It would be easier today. It was supposed to. They would go on, that's what Winchesters did, wasn't it?
He only sighed, turned sideways, Sam's shape more obvious on his bed, and tried to sleep again. Not that it was very likely to happen, but he tried anyway.
And out of his memory swam up the smell of smoke, the heat of the fire, even from that distance. The smell of leather and the feel of dad's jacket as he was pressing his cheek to it, watching the firemen try to do something, himself helpless and not understanding anything, anything at all.
He still didn't.