Fic: A momentary lapse of reason
The reveals have now been posted for spn_summergen, which means I can now claim my story!
This was my first time participating in this challenge and it was a lot of fun. I got an awesome prompt which I really enjoyed writing for. I have also decided that seeing as this challenge is called summergen, it is perfectly okay that I probably won't finish reading all the awesome fic this challenge generated until well into the Australian summer!
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Title: A momentary lapse of reason
Author: zara_zee
Recipient: themegalosaurus
Beta: 9tiptoes (Thank you as always! All remaining mistakes are my own.)
Rating: PG-13. Gen.
Word Count: ~3,700
Warnings: cynophobia, references to death and violence as depicted by Show, some swearing
Prompt:[Click to see:]Although I realise that it was just the prelude to 40 years in Hell, and Sam's love for dogs is well-established in canon, it seems to me like Dean getting ripped apart by hellhounds might be quite a traumatic experience (if not for him then for Sam, watching him). Can you write a fic where Sam or Dean (or both I guess but I like hurt/comfort and if they're both going to pieces, I'm not sure how that would work) develops a fear of dogs as a result? You could link it to Yellow Fever (where Dean is afraid of that tiny little dog) but I'm not fussy: any time post-S3 finale. I'm a big Sam girl so nothing where Sam is horrible!
A/N: This story also fills the ‘phobias’ square on my H/C bingo card…
Summary: As soon as he shuts the motel door, Dean sags against it. It’s ridiculous that after everything he endured in Hell, after everything he did, he’s losing his shit over a goddamn dog. His shirt is stuck to his back, he’s still fucking shaking and there’s a pretty good chance he’s going to toss his cookies all over the puke-green carpet.
In the aftermath of Hell, Dean exhibits symptoms of cynophobia.
--
The dream is always the same; he is running down a narrow dirt track through dense woodland, whip-thin branches lashing at him like angry switches as he claws his way through the foliage at speed.
It’s dawn or dusk, he’s never sure which, but the sun is low and it’s mostly dark, and the cold air burns his lungs as he pulls in desperate, sawing breaths. Behind him the panting and growling gets louder and the thud of four feet pounding the dirt begins to drown out the sound of his own footfalls. And then Dean skids to a frantic stop, because it’s suddenly right there-in front of him-black and huge, muscles rippling as it quivers with contained power. Its eyes are glowing red and its teeth are cruelly-sharp. It growls a warning at him and its hot breath is like sulphur and rotting flesh. Dean turns to run and Lilith throws him across the room and onto the table, and he scrabbles on his back like a beetle, pinned and unable to get up, unable to defend himself.
“Sic ‘im, boy,” says Lilith.
The Hellhound charges and Dean knows he’s going to pee himself, knows too that it’s fucking stupid to even give a shit about that, given that he’s about to be puppy chow. Maybe he’s a little crazy, but if this is lights out, he’d like to go to his death with his dignity intact.
Teeth like daggers clamp down on his ankle and he’s dragged from the table. He hits the floorboards with a smack that knocks all the air from his lungs and wakes up with a scream dying on his lips. His hand quests under his pillow and he grips the handle of his bowie knife tightly, before flipping onto his back, knife held out before him, eyes flicking back and forth, searching the blackness of the motel room for threats. The room is quiet and empty. Dean can almost make out the fugly snow-flake patterned wallpaper, but that’s only a threat to good taste, so he lowers the knife and turns his head to the side.
Sam is watching him from the other bed, his laptop balanced on his knees.
“Bad dream?” Sammy says.
Dean grimaces. He puts his knife back under the pillow and then rolls onto his side and looks at his brother. Sammy’s hair got longer while he was…away; too long for a hunter, in Dean’s opinion. Sam can tuck his bangs behind his ears now and Dean wishes idly that his little brother would give him just five minutes with the clippers.
“It’s three o’clock in the morning,” he says, voice raspy. “You watching porn on that?”
“Researching Revelations,” Sam says. “After that whole thing with the Witnesses, I figured I’d better brush up.” He looks up from beneath his eyelashes. “Are you okay, Dean?”
Dean stretches his lips in a poor imitation of a smile. “Peachy,” he says.
Abruptly, he swings out of bed and crosses to the bathroom. The taps are stiff, the basin rusted and the water is icy when it finally spits fitfully from the faucet. Dean splashes several handfuls on his face and then stares at himself in the bathroom mirror.
Flashes of red and haunted eyes blaze across his retina and Dean closes his eyes and rubs a tired hand across his forehead.
Despite what he told Sam and Bobby, he remembers Hell; the red of blood and fire, the white of ash and bones. And pain. So much pain.
Time moves differently in Hell. Dean’s not entirely sure it’s strictly linear, but as far as he can make out, he was there for forty years. And yet, it’s already fading, his pre-Hell human memories starting to reassert themselves and his time in Hell starting to take on a dreamlike quality. A bad dream. A nightmare. But somehow, not truly real. Dean wipes a hand across the mirror; makes himself meet his eyes; and then heads back to bed.
Sam has switched his laptop off and is silent under his covers. Dean eases himself down onto his mattress, checks that his knife is within easy reach, and then stares up at the ceiling until daybreak.
~X~
Dean is sitting at the lime green Formica motel table lacing his boots when Sam wakes up. He looks restless, driven and every bit the in-charge big brother that Sam really needs right now.
It’s only really at night that the mask slips; that Sam gets a glimpse into what’s really going on inside his brother’s melon.
Dean has been stupidly brave for as long as Sam can remember. Even when they were kids, he’d face down a werewolf with a grin on his face, then grimace his way through having his arm stitched without anaesthetic, telling Sam, through gritted teeth, how awesome his life was, because what other fifteen-year-old got to drink half a dozen shots of whiskey on a school night with his father’s blessing? He faced up to school principals and social workers and sleazy motel owners with a winning smile and a ‘whatever it takes’ attitude and he took on schoolyard bullies with a zeal that was a little scary, if truth be told.
Dean has always put himself in between Sam and danger too. Always choosing the bed closest to the door; always making sure that it was him who went off to do ‘chores’ for the motel owners when Dad was late back and there was no money left for rent; even putting himself in between Sam and Dad when Sam was too stubborn and foolhardy to back down and Dad looked like he was about to start throwing punches.
Selling his soul to bring Sam back from the dead.
Sam owes his big brother more than he can ever hope to repay.
He rubs a hand across his eyes. “What time is it?” he says.
“Breakfast time, Sammy. C’mon, Princess. Up and at ‘em.”
Sam dresses in yesterday’s clothes and they make plans to do laundry later in the day.
There is a Denny’s about a block over and Dean wants to drive to it. Sam frowns disapprovingly and begins to lecture his brother on the evils of burning fossil fuels and the perils of global warming and Dean capitulates, pocketing his keys and striding down the sidewalk muttering something about Sam being able to give Alastair a run for his money. Sam wonders who Alastair is.
They’re about a dozen steps away from Denny’s when Dean suddenly stops.
“Dean?” Sam says.
Dean has become a statue. His eyes are wide, his pupils dilated, and he’s not even blinking. Or breathing. He looks terrified. Sam follows his brother’s gaze to the Doberman that is tied to the trash can on the sidewalk. It’s a nice looking dog, lean and muscular, healthy and alert. Its tail has been docked, which Sam doesn’t approve of, but he can’t see any reason why Dean would be looking at it with such horror.
“Dude, what?” Sam says.
Dean doesn’t even twitch in response.
“Dean?” Sam puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder and Dean flinches. Violently. He jerks his head around and looks up at Sam with round eyes, his lips falling open as he sucks in a shaky breath.
“Sammy, I can’t.” Deans voice is higher than usual and it cracks on the word can’t.
Dean’s eyes are back on the Doberman and Sam can feel tremors running through his brother’s body.
“Is it…the dog?” Sam asks, and Dean’s trembling increases.
It makes sense, Sam thinks, as he moves to stand in between his brother and the dog, blocking Dean’s line of sight. The last thing Dean saw before he died was a Hell Hound tearing his chest apart. Sam might’ve been able to see the damage, the gashes that appeared as if by magic, the blood bubbling and pulsing from his brother’s chest as his heart pumped out its last few beats, but the creature itself was invisible to him. When Sam thinks of Dean’s death, it is Lilith wearing Ruby’s old face that he sees.
Sam puts his hands on his brother’s shoulders. “It’s just a dog. Somebody’s pet. It won’t hurt you.”
“Right,” says Dean. He’s still trembling and his voice still sounds strained. “And I’ve got three knives and the Taurus. I could take it, if I had to.”
“Right,” Sam echoes, hoping to God he’s not going to have to stop his brother from ganking somebody’s dog. “So. Breakfast?”
Dean takes a deep, shuddering breath and runs a hand across his lips. “You know what? I’m not hungry. But, uh, you go on. I’m just gonna go back to the motel.”
And he turns and briskly walks back the way they came.
~X~
As soon as he shuts the motel door, Dean sags against it. He can’t believe he lost it in front of Sammy like that. If he’s not a big brother-dependable, reliable, protective-then he doesn’t know who he is. And if he’s not who Sam needs him to be, then maybe he’s who Alastair says he is, and that-Dean grinds his knuckles into his eyes-that’s not him. It’s not.
It’s ridiculous that after everything he endured in Hell, after everything he did, he’s losing his shit over a goddamn dog. His shirt is stuck to his back, he’s still fucking shaking and there’s a pretty good chance he’s going to toss his cookies all over the puke-green carpet.
Dean breathes in through his nose and draws on the reserves of strength that got him through thousands of sessions with Alastair; the same reserves that got him through the long, long weeks when Dad was late back from a hunt and Dean was left in charge with a dwindling supply of money, a suspicious motel owner and an angry little brother.
An excited, far-away yap propels Dean into action. He digs the Goofer dust out of the bottom of the weapons bag and barricades all the doors and windows. It makes him feel better; safer. The nausea recedes slowly. The trembling stops. Dean peels off his sticky shirt and uses it to wipe his sweaty brow. He rummages through his dirty washing bag and changes into the Henley that smells the least. They really do need to do laundry.
When Sam returns-with a long black coffee and a sausage-and-bacon burrito for Dean-Dean has himself back under control.
Sam doesn’t say anything about the Goofer dust. He messes around in the bathroom while Dean eats his burrito and when he comes out, he’s wearing that face. The bare-your-soul-to-me face. He sits down opposite Dean and gazes at him with big, sorrowful eyes that remind Dean of…certain … things … that he would rather not think about right now.
“Dean,” Sam says, voice brimming with compassion.
Dean rubs a hand over his forehead. “Look, can we not?”
“It’s called cynophobia,” Sam says, plowing on as though Dean hadn’t spoken.
Dean frowns. “Sinophobia? Fear of the Chinese?”
Sam huffs. “No. That’s Sinophobia with an ‘s’. This is cyno with a ‘c’, from the old Greek word for dog, which is Kyon.”
“Uh, huh,” Dean claps his little brother on the upper arm and stands up. “Good talk. I gotta hit the head.” And then he books to the bathroom and locks himself inside, because they are not having this conversation.
Apparently Sam didn’t get that memo. “Dean,” he wriggles the handle and then bangs on the door.
“Seriously?” Dean gripes. “A man can’t even pee in peace? You ain’t a toddler any more, Sammy. You don’t get to follow me into the can at 25.”
Sam huffs. “Normally, you don’t even bother to shut the door. No matter what you’re doing in there. Excuse me if a locked door worried me.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Trust me when I say that I can pee without hurting myself.”
Sam’s sigh is audible, even through the closed (and locked) door. “Fine,” he says.
A moment later the TV comes on and Dean cautiously unwraps his arms from around his knees and hauls himself up off the small square of floor in between the toilet and the back wall of the bathroom. He paces to the sink and splashes cold water on his face. He tries to ignore the flashes of red and haunted eyes that blaze across the mirror.
Dean looks at the door and rubs a hand across his jaw. He seriously considers spending the day in the bathroom, but he knows he’ll be bored within ten minutes and besides, it sounds like Sam’s watching Dr Sexy M.D. out there and Dean is still trying to catch up on all the episodes he missed while he was…away. So.
Sam is stretched out on top of his bed, feet crossed at the ankles and his laptop sitting on his thighs. He looks up when Dean shuffles into the room.
“Look,” Dean says, focusing on the grey-and-olive paisley quilt cover so that he doesn’t have to meet his brother’s eyes. “I’m fine, really. Last night…I had a…dream. A kinda shitty one. And today, when I saw that d…dog, I just kind of,” Dean’s lips press together in a brittle smile and he spreads his arms out wide, searching for the right expression. He stares out the window at his baby gleaming black and shiny in the late morning sun and recalls the Pink Floyd cassette he slotted into the tape player the previous day. “I had a momentary lapse of reason,” he finishes. “But I’m fine. Seriously. I don’t need to talk, or to hug it out, okay?”
Sam inhales noisily. “Okay,” he says.
Dean turns and looks at Sam, but his brother is focused on his lap top.
“Okay,” Dean echoes. He goes and sits on his bed and loses himself in Dr Sexy. They don’t get around to doing the laundry.
~X~
Sam wakes up to loud battering winds, the groan of a roof struggling to stay in place and the poorly-sealed motel door rattling so hard in its frame that he won’t be surprised if it smashes open. Outside a dog is howling.
It’s dark and Sam can only just make out the hump of his brother on the other bed. He slips quietly from beneath his quilt and tiptoes around to the window, peering through the curtain at street signs that are bending and creaking and tree branches that are waving about violently, as if they’re trying to attract attention urgently. The parking lot is swirling with debris and the motel’s sign is pitching back and forth like the mast of a sailing ship in high seas, its neon colors winking in and out of existence.
The Doberman that had freaked Dean out earlier is hunched miserably in the back of a red pick-up truck. Her name is Sally and Sam met her owner earlier, in Denny’s. Rob is in town for a landscaping job and is staying three doors down. He takes Sally with him on all his jobs, to protect his tools. Right now, Sam is more concerned about protecting the dog; she shouldn’t be out in this wind. He’s working up a good head of steam, seriously considering going and banging on the door to Rob’s room and complaining, when the man in question comes out of his room and heads to his truck. He unlocks the cage and takes Sally out, glancing briefly at the motel’s reception and office before smuggling her quickly into his room.
Sam grins and turns to head back to bed. Now that his eyes have adjusted to the dark he can see that the hump on his brother’s bed is just bunched-up blankets. He stops smiling and starts searching the room, eyes moving rapidly.
His brother is on the far side of Sam’s bed, wedged in between the nightstand and the back wall of the motel room with his knees drawn up to his chest and Ruby’s knife clutched in his hand.
Sam approaches slowly. Much like he’d approach a frightened dog, come to think of it, and isn’t that just ironic?
“Dean?” he says softly, hands held out in front of him.
Dean looks up at him, his face damp and pasty in the darkness. “I could hear them howling,” he says and his tone is haunted. “Those last few days? I could hear them. Howling in the distance. And…I know it’s now, not then. I…I knew it was just a dream. I knew, but, uh…you never really know, right? And then I woke up. And they were still howling.”
Sam nods. “It was Sally,” he says.
He elaborates when Dean just looks at him vacantly. “The Doberman we saw earlier? Tied up outside Denny’s? She’s staying here with her owner. She was out in his truck and she didn’t like all the wind. Rob’s taken her inside now.”
Dean blinks at him. “Right,” he says, voice vague and eyes distant.
Sam squats down in front of his brother. “So,” he says, “how about you get back into bed?”
Dean stares at him for a moment and then looks thoughtfully over at his bed. He shudders. “I’m good,” he says.
Sam nods. “Right. Well I’m not. I won’t be able to sleep with you crouching down here, so how about you take my bed and I’ll take yours?”
“No,” Dean shakes his head. “No. I’m the oldest. I should sleep closest to the door.”
Sam huffs and barely restrains an eye roll. “I’m not eight any more, Dean,” he says, “I can survive without you to protect me.”
Maybe not well, maybe not happily, but he can survive.
Dean is still shaking his head. “What kind of a big brother would I be if I let you stand in between me and…” he trails off and swallows hard.
“There’s nothing out there, Dean,” Sam says, and Dean raises an incredulous eyebrow.
“Okay,” Sam concedes, “there’s a lot out there in the dark. But you’re not scared of ghosts or demons or werewolves or vampires. You’re scared of dogs. And I promise you, Dean; no dog is going to hurt you.”
Dean smacks the heel of his palm against his forehead, once, twice, three times. “This is stupid,” he says, “so stupid.”
Sam takes hold of his arm. “Stop that. It’s not stupid. You just got out of Hell. Of course there are gonna be nightmares.”
Even in the darkness Dean looks exhausted and Sam wants to gather his brother up in his arms and hug him tightly. But Dean is still holding the knife and looking shaky and Sam really doesn’t want Dean to stab him on reflex.
He stands up slowly and offers his brother a hand. “C’mon.”
Dean frowns. “Where are we going?”
“Bed. You’re gonna sleep in my bed.”
“I told you,-”
Sam cuts him off. “With me. It’s a queen. No reason we can’t share it. Like when we were kids, yeah?”
Dean stares up at him for a moment and then takes his hand and lets Sam haul him to his feet. “Okay,” he says, “but I’m sleeping on the side closest to the door.”
Sam beams at him. “Perfect. You can be the little spoon.”
Dean waves the knife at him. “No spooning,” he says sternly.
Dean lies on his side, his back to Sam, and Sam lies next to him and listens to the rhythm of his breathing.
“Dean,” he whispers. He gets a grunt in response. “Are you starting to remember Hell?”
The rhythm of Dean’s breathing falters and there is a long moment of silence. “Not really,” Dean says finally. “I have nightmares that I can’t remember when I wake up and flashes that make no sense. But that’s it.”
Sam isn’t sure why, but he just doesn’t believe him. Dean is holding his own alright when they’re on the job; when they’re hunting, he’s as ruthless and as lethal as ever. It’s down time he doesn’t cope with; down time that sees him restless and haunted; his eyes suddenly too old as they stare sightlessly into the middle distance.
Dean is damaged. Ruby says he’s not the same man anymore; that you couldn’t be after enduring Hell’s tortures. She says Sam will have to step up now, be the strong one; do whatever it takes. And she’s right. Lilith needs to be stopped. And Dean…he may not be strong enough anymore to do what needs to be done.
Dean’s breathing evens out and he begins to snore softly. Sam leans over and looks at his brother’s face, so relaxed, so young, so innocent looking, despite everything.
Dean went to Hell for him. And-Sam’s not stupid-he knows that none of those sleazy motel owners from when they were kids wanted Dean to do chores for them. Dean has been sacrificing himself to keep Sam safe his whole life. Now it’s Sam’s turn to return the favor; to be the protective brother for a change. No matter what it takes.
Sam lies back down and snuggles up to his brother, putting an arm over Dean’s torso so that he can feel his beating heart while he listens to the in/out of his breath. He is almost asleep when he hears a flutter. He cracks open his heavy eyelids just in time to see some guy in a rumpled suit and a long coat put two fingers to his brother’s forehead. Before Sam can react, the guy vanishes and Sam’s mouth drops open as he wonders if he just saw his first angel.
~X~
When they walk to Denny’s the next morning, Sally is tied up outside again. Sam slows down, looking sideways at his brother, trying to gauge the level of freakout Dean is about to have. Dean walks past Sally as if she’s not even there.
“You okay, Dean?” Sam calls as he hurries to catch up.
Dean frowns. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Sam nods toward the dog and Dean inclines his head and stares at it.
“Huh,” he says. “Can’t say as I’d ever want a dog riding in my baby,” he turns away and heads toward the restaurant’s front door, “but they ain’t exactly the stuff of nightmares. Like I said, what happened yesterday? Just a momentary lapse of reason.”
The End
This was my first time participating in this challenge and it was a lot of fun. I got an awesome prompt which I really enjoyed writing for. I have also decided that seeing as this challenge is called summergen, it is perfectly okay that I probably won't finish reading all the awesome fic this challenge generated until well into the Australian summer!
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Title: A momentary lapse of reason
Author: zara_zee
Recipient: themegalosaurus
Beta: 9tiptoes (Thank you as always! All remaining mistakes are my own.)
Rating: PG-13. Gen.
Word Count: ~3,700
Warnings: cynophobia, references to death and violence as depicted by Show, some swearing
Prompt:[Click to see:]Although I realise that it was just the prelude to 40 years in Hell, and Sam's love for dogs is well-established in canon, it seems to me like Dean getting ripped apart by hellhounds might be quite a traumatic experience (if not for him then for Sam, watching him). Can you write a fic where Sam or Dean (or both I guess but I like hurt/comfort and if they're both going to pieces, I'm not sure how that would work) develops a fear of dogs as a result? You could link it to Yellow Fever (where Dean is afraid of that tiny little dog) but I'm not fussy: any time post-S3 finale. I'm a big Sam girl so nothing where Sam is horrible!
A/N: This story also fills the ‘phobias’ square on my H/C bingo card…
Summary: As soon as he shuts the motel door, Dean sags against it. It’s ridiculous that after everything he endured in Hell, after everything he did, he’s losing his shit over a goddamn dog. His shirt is stuck to his back, he’s still fucking shaking and there’s a pretty good chance he’s going to toss his cookies all over the puke-green carpet.
In the aftermath of Hell, Dean exhibits symptoms of cynophobia.
--
The dream is always the same; he is running down a narrow dirt track through dense woodland, whip-thin branches lashing at him like angry switches as he claws his way through the foliage at speed.
It’s dawn or dusk, he’s never sure which, but the sun is low and it’s mostly dark, and the cold air burns his lungs as he pulls in desperate, sawing breaths. Behind him the panting and growling gets louder and the thud of four feet pounding the dirt begins to drown out the sound of his own footfalls. And then Dean skids to a frantic stop, because it’s suddenly right there-in front of him-black and huge, muscles rippling as it quivers with contained power. Its eyes are glowing red and its teeth are cruelly-sharp. It growls a warning at him and its hot breath is like sulphur and rotting flesh. Dean turns to run and Lilith throws him across the room and onto the table, and he scrabbles on his back like a beetle, pinned and unable to get up, unable to defend himself.
“Sic ‘im, boy,” says Lilith.
The Hellhound charges and Dean knows he’s going to pee himself, knows too that it’s fucking stupid to even give a shit about that, given that he’s about to be puppy chow. Maybe he’s a little crazy, but if this is lights out, he’d like to go to his death with his dignity intact.
Teeth like daggers clamp down on his ankle and he’s dragged from the table. He hits the floorboards with a smack that knocks all the air from his lungs and wakes up with a scream dying on his lips. His hand quests under his pillow and he grips the handle of his bowie knife tightly, before flipping onto his back, knife held out before him, eyes flicking back and forth, searching the blackness of the motel room for threats. The room is quiet and empty. Dean can almost make out the fugly snow-flake patterned wallpaper, but that’s only a threat to good taste, so he lowers the knife and turns his head to the side.
Sam is watching him from the other bed, his laptop balanced on his knees.
“Bad dream?” Sammy says.
Dean grimaces. He puts his knife back under the pillow and then rolls onto his side and looks at his brother. Sammy’s hair got longer while he was…away; too long for a hunter, in Dean’s opinion. Sam can tuck his bangs behind his ears now and Dean wishes idly that his little brother would give him just five minutes with the clippers.
“It’s three o’clock in the morning,” he says, voice raspy. “You watching porn on that?”
“Researching Revelations,” Sam says. “After that whole thing with the Witnesses, I figured I’d better brush up.” He looks up from beneath his eyelashes. “Are you okay, Dean?”
Dean stretches his lips in a poor imitation of a smile. “Peachy,” he says.
Abruptly, he swings out of bed and crosses to the bathroom. The taps are stiff, the basin rusted and the water is icy when it finally spits fitfully from the faucet. Dean splashes several handfuls on his face and then stares at himself in the bathroom mirror.
Flashes of red and haunted eyes blaze across his retina and Dean closes his eyes and rubs a tired hand across his forehead.
Despite what he told Sam and Bobby, he remembers Hell; the red of blood and fire, the white of ash and bones. And pain. So much pain.
Time moves differently in Hell. Dean’s not entirely sure it’s strictly linear, but as far as he can make out, he was there for forty years. And yet, it’s already fading, his pre-Hell human memories starting to reassert themselves and his time in Hell starting to take on a dreamlike quality. A bad dream. A nightmare. But somehow, not truly real. Dean wipes a hand across the mirror; makes himself meet his eyes; and then heads back to bed.
Sam has switched his laptop off and is silent under his covers. Dean eases himself down onto his mattress, checks that his knife is within easy reach, and then stares up at the ceiling until daybreak.
~X~
Dean is sitting at the lime green Formica motel table lacing his boots when Sam wakes up. He looks restless, driven and every bit the in-charge big brother that Sam really needs right now.
It’s only really at night that the mask slips; that Sam gets a glimpse into what’s really going on inside his brother’s melon.
Dean has been stupidly brave for as long as Sam can remember. Even when they were kids, he’d face down a werewolf with a grin on his face, then grimace his way through having his arm stitched without anaesthetic, telling Sam, through gritted teeth, how awesome his life was, because what other fifteen-year-old got to drink half a dozen shots of whiskey on a school night with his father’s blessing? He faced up to school principals and social workers and sleazy motel owners with a winning smile and a ‘whatever it takes’ attitude and he took on schoolyard bullies with a zeal that was a little scary, if truth be told.
Dean has always put himself in between Sam and danger too. Always choosing the bed closest to the door; always making sure that it was him who went off to do ‘chores’ for the motel owners when Dad was late back and there was no money left for rent; even putting himself in between Sam and Dad when Sam was too stubborn and foolhardy to back down and Dad looked like he was about to start throwing punches.
Selling his soul to bring Sam back from the dead.
Sam owes his big brother more than he can ever hope to repay.
He rubs a hand across his eyes. “What time is it?” he says.
“Breakfast time, Sammy. C’mon, Princess. Up and at ‘em.”
Sam dresses in yesterday’s clothes and they make plans to do laundry later in the day.
There is a Denny’s about a block over and Dean wants to drive to it. Sam frowns disapprovingly and begins to lecture his brother on the evils of burning fossil fuels and the perils of global warming and Dean capitulates, pocketing his keys and striding down the sidewalk muttering something about Sam being able to give Alastair a run for his money. Sam wonders who Alastair is.
They’re about a dozen steps away from Denny’s when Dean suddenly stops.
“Dean?” Sam says.
Dean has become a statue. His eyes are wide, his pupils dilated, and he’s not even blinking. Or breathing. He looks terrified. Sam follows his brother’s gaze to the Doberman that is tied to the trash can on the sidewalk. It’s a nice looking dog, lean and muscular, healthy and alert. Its tail has been docked, which Sam doesn’t approve of, but he can’t see any reason why Dean would be looking at it with such horror.
“Dude, what?” Sam says.
Dean doesn’t even twitch in response.
“Dean?” Sam puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder and Dean flinches. Violently. He jerks his head around and looks up at Sam with round eyes, his lips falling open as he sucks in a shaky breath.
“Sammy, I can’t.” Deans voice is higher than usual and it cracks on the word can’t.
Dean’s eyes are back on the Doberman and Sam can feel tremors running through his brother’s body.
“Is it…the dog?” Sam asks, and Dean’s trembling increases.
It makes sense, Sam thinks, as he moves to stand in between his brother and the dog, blocking Dean’s line of sight. The last thing Dean saw before he died was a Hell Hound tearing his chest apart. Sam might’ve been able to see the damage, the gashes that appeared as if by magic, the blood bubbling and pulsing from his brother’s chest as his heart pumped out its last few beats, but the creature itself was invisible to him. When Sam thinks of Dean’s death, it is Lilith wearing Ruby’s old face that he sees.
Sam puts his hands on his brother’s shoulders. “It’s just a dog. Somebody’s pet. It won’t hurt you.”
“Right,” says Dean. He’s still trembling and his voice still sounds strained. “And I’ve got three knives and the Taurus. I could take it, if I had to.”
“Right,” Sam echoes, hoping to God he’s not going to have to stop his brother from ganking somebody’s dog. “So. Breakfast?”
Dean takes a deep, shuddering breath and runs a hand across his lips. “You know what? I’m not hungry. But, uh, you go on. I’m just gonna go back to the motel.”
And he turns and briskly walks back the way they came.
~X~
As soon as he shuts the motel door, Dean sags against it. He can’t believe he lost it in front of Sammy like that. If he’s not a big brother-dependable, reliable, protective-then he doesn’t know who he is. And if he’s not who Sam needs him to be, then maybe he’s who Alastair says he is, and that-Dean grinds his knuckles into his eyes-that’s not him. It’s not.
It’s ridiculous that after everything he endured in Hell, after everything he did, he’s losing his shit over a goddamn dog. His shirt is stuck to his back, he’s still fucking shaking and there’s a pretty good chance he’s going to toss his cookies all over the puke-green carpet.
Dean breathes in through his nose and draws on the reserves of strength that got him through thousands of sessions with Alastair; the same reserves that got him through the long, long weeks when Dad was late back from a hunt and Dean was left in charge with a dwindling supply of money, a suspicious motel owner and an angry little brother.
An excited, far-away yap propels Dean into action. He digs the Goofer dust out of the bottom of the weapons bag and barricades all the doors and windows. It makes him feel better; safer. The nausea recedes slowly. The trembling stops. Dean peels off his sticky shirt and uses it to wipe his sweaty brow. He rummages through his dirty washing bag and changes into the Henley that smells the least. They really do need to do laundry.
When Sam returns-with a long black coffee and a sausage-and-bacon burrito for Dean-Dean has himself back under control.
Sam doesn’t say anything about the Goofer dust. He messes around in the bathroom while Dean eats his burrito and when he comes out, he’s wearing that face. The bare-your-soul-to-me face. He sits down opposite Dean and gazes at him with big, sorrowful eyes that remind Dean of…certain … things … that he would rather not think about right now.
“Dean,” Sam says, voice brimming with compassion.
Dean rubs a hand over his forehead. “Look, can we not?”
“It’s called cynophobia,” Sam says, plowing on as though Dean hadn’t spoken.
Dean frowns. “Sinophobia? Fear of the Chinese?”
Sam huffs. “No. That’s Sinophobia with an ‘s’. This is cyno with a ‘c’, from the old Greek word for dog, which is Kyon.”
“Uh, huh,” Dean claps his little brother on the upper arm and stands up. “Good talk. I gotta hit the head.” And then he books to the bathroom and locks himself inside, because they are not having this conversation.
Apparently Sam didn’t get that memo. “Dean,” he wriggles the handle and then bangs on the door.
“Seriously?” Dean gripes. “A man can’t even pee in peace? You ain’t a toddler any more, Sammy. You don’t get to follow me into the can at 25.”
Sam huffs. “Normally, you don’t even bother to shut the door. No matter what you’re doing in there. Excuse me if a locked door worried me.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Trust me when I say that I can pee without hurting myself.”
Sam’s sigh is audible, even through the closed (and locked) door. “Fine,” he says.
A moment later the TV comes on and Dean cautiously unwraps his arms from around his knees and hauls himself up off the small square of floor in between the toilet and the back wall of the bathroom. He paces to the sink and splashes cold water on his face. He tries to ignore the flashes of red and haunted eyes that blaze across the mirror.
Dean looks at the door and rubs a hand across his jaw. He seriously considers spending the day in the bathroom, but he knows he’ll be bored within ten minutes and besides, it sounds like Sam’s watching Dr Sexy M.D. out there and Dean is still trying to catch up on all the episodes he missed while he was…away. So.
Sam is stretched out on top of his bed, feet crossed at the ankles and his laptop sitting on his thighs. He looks up when Dean shuffles into the room.
“Look,” Dean says, focusing on the grey-and-olive paisley quilt cover so that he doesn’t have to meet his brother’s eyes. “I’m fine, really. Last night…I had a…dream. A kinda shitty one. And today, when I saw that d…dog, I just kind of,” Dean’s lips press together in a brittle smile and he spreads his arms out wide, searching for the right expression. He stares out the window at his baby gleaming black and shiny in the late morning sun and recalls the Pink Floyd cassette he slotted into the tape player the previous day. “I had a momentary lapse of reason,” he finishes. “But I’m fine. Seriously. I don’t need to talk, or to hug it out, okay?”
Sam inhales noisily. “Okay,” he says.
Dean turns and looks at Sam, but his brother is focused on his lap top.
“Okay,” Dean echoes. He goes and sits on his bed and loses himself in Dr Sexy. They don’t get around to doing the laundry.
~X~
Sam wakes up to loud battering winds, the groan of a roof struggling to stay in place and the poorly-sealed motel door rattling so hard in its frame that he won’t be surprised if it smashes open. Outside a dog is howling.
It’s dark and Sam can only just make out the hump of his brother on the other bed. He slips quietly from beneath his quilt and tiptoes around to the window, peering through the curtain at street signs that are bending and creaking and tree branches that are waving about violently, as if they’re trying to attract attention urgently. The parking lot is swirling with debris and the motel’s sign is pitching back and forth like the mast of a sailing ship in high seas, its neon colors winking in and out of existence.
The Doberman that had freaked Dean out earlier is hunched miserably in the back of a red pick-up truck. Her name is Sally and Sam met her owner earlier, in Denny’s. Rob is in town for a landscaping job and is staying three doors down. He takes Sally with him on all his jobs, to protect his tools. Right now, Sam is more concerned about protecting the dog; she shouldn’t be out in this wind. He’s working up a good head of steam, seriously considering going and banging on the door to Rob’s room and complaining, when the man in question comes out of his room and heads to his truck. He unlocks the cage and takes Sally out, glancing briefly at the motel’s reception and office before smuggling her quickly into his room.
Sam grins and turns to head back to bed. Now that his eyes have adjusted to the dark he can see that the hump on his brother’s bed is just bunched-up blankets. He stops smiling and starts searching the room, eyes moving rapidly.
His brother is on the far side of Sam’s bed, wedged in between the nightstand and the back wall of the motel room with his knees drawn up to his chest and Ruby’s knife clutched in his hand.
Sam approaches slowly. Much like he’d approach a frightened dog, come to think of it, and isn’t that just ironic?
“Dean?” he says softly, hands held out in front of him.
Dean looks up at him, his face damp and pasty in the darkness. “I could hear them howling,” he says and his tone is haunted. “Those last few days? I could hear them. Howling in the distance. And…I know it’s now, not then. I…I knew it was just a dream. I knew, but, uh…you never really know, right? And then I woke up. And they were still howling.”
Sam nods. “It was Sally,” he says.
He elaborates when Dean just looks at him vacantly. “The Doberman we saw earlier? Tied up outside Denny’s? She’s staying here with her owner. She was out in his truck and she didn’t like all the wind. Rob’s taken her inside now.”
Dean blinks at him. “Right,” he says, voice vague and eyes distant.
Sam squats down in front of his brother. “So,” he says, “how about you get back into bed?”
Dean stares at him for a moment and then looks thoughtfully over at his bed. He shudders. “I’m good,” he says.
Sam nods. “Right. Well I’m not. I won’t be able to sleep with you crouching down here, so how about you take my bed and I’ll take yours?”
“No,” Dean shakes his head. “No. I’m the oldest. I should sleep closest to the door.”
Sam huffs and barely restrains an eye roll. “I’m not eight any more, Dean,” he says, “I can survive without you to protect me.”
Maybe not well, maybe not happily, but he can survive.
Dean is still shaking his head. “What kind of a big brother would I be if I let you stand in between me and…” he trails off and swallows hard.
“There’s nothing out there, Dean,” Sam says, and Dean raises an incredulous eyebrow.
“Okay,” Sam concedes, “there’s a lot out there in the dark. But you’re not scared of ghosts or demons or werewolves or vampires. You’re scared of dogs. And I promise you, Dean; no dog is going to hurt you.”
Dean smacks the heel of his palm against his forehead, once, twice, three times. “This is stupid,” he says, “so stupid.”
Sam takes hold of his arm. “Stop that. It’s not stupid. You just got out of Hell. Of course there are gonna be nightmares.”
Even in the darkness Dean looks exhausted and Sam wants to gather his brother up in his arms and hug him tightly. But Dean is still holding the knife and looking shaky and Sam really doesn’t want Dean to stab him on reflex.
He stands up slowly and offers his brother a hand. “C’mon.”
Dean frowns. “Where are we going?”
“Bed. You’re gonna sleep in my bed.”
“I told you,-”
Sam cuts him off. “With me. It’s a queen. No reason we can’t share it. Like when we were kids, yeah?”
Dean stares up at him for a moment and then takes his hand and lets Sam haul him to his feet. “Okay,” he says, “but I’m sleeping on the side closest to the door.”
Sam beams at him. “Perfect. You can be the little spoon.”
Dean waves the knife at him. “No spooning,” he says sternly.
Dean lies on his side, his back to Sam, and Sam lies next to him and listens to the rhythm of his breathing.
“Dean,” he whispers. He gets a grunt in response. “Are you starting to remember Hell?”
The rhythm of Dean’s breathing falters and there is a long moment of silence. “Not really,” Dean says finally. “I have nightmares that I can’t remember when I wake up and flashes that make no sense. But that’s it.”
Sam isn’t sure why, but he just doesn’t believe him. Dean is holding his own alright when they’re on the job; when they’re hunting, he’s as ruthless and as lethal as ever. It’s down time he doesn’t cope with; down time that sees him restless and haunted; his eyes suddenly too old as they stare sightlessly into the middle distance.
Dean is damaged. Ruby says he’s not the same man anymore; that you couldn’t be after enduring Hell’s tortures. She says Sam will have to step up now, be the strong one; do whatever it takes. And she’s right. Lilith needs to be stopped. And Dean…he may not be strong enough anymore to do what needs to be done.
Dean’s breathing evens out and he begins to snore softly. Sam leans over and looks at his brother’s face, so relaxed, so young, so innocent looking, despite everything.
Dean went to Hell for him. And-Sam’s not stupid-he knows that none of those sleazy motel owners from when they were kids wanted Dean to do chores for them. Dean has been sacrificing himself to keep Sam safe his whole life. Now it’s Sam’s turn to return the favor; to be the protective brother for a change. No matter what it takes.
Sam lies back down and snuggles up to his brother, putting an arm over Dean’s torso so that he can feel his beating heart while he listens to the in/out of his breath. He is almost asleep when he hears a flutter. He cracks open his heavy eyelids just in time to see some guy in a rumpled suit and a long coat put two fingers to his brother’s forehead. Before Sam can react, the guy vanishes and Sam’s mouth drops open as he wonders if he just saw his first angel.
~X~
When they walk to Denny’s the next morning, Sally is tied up outside again. Sam slows down, looking sideways at his brother, trying to gauge the level of freakout Dean is about to have. Dean walks past Sally as if she’s not even there.
“You okay, Dean?” Sam calls as he hurries to catch up.
Dean frowns. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Sam nods toward the dog and Dean inclines his head and stares at it.
“Huh,” he says. “Can’t say as I’d ever want a dog riding in my baby,” he turns away and heads toward the restaurant’s front door, “but they ain’t exactly the stuff of nightmares. Like I said, what happened yesterday? Just a momentary lapse of reason.”
The End