Not A Believer, part 1
Ok, let's try this.
Title: Not A Believer
Author: chiiyo86
Characters: Dean, mentions of Sam and John
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Pilot, A Very Supernatural Christmas
Disclaimer: I don't own anything Supernatural related
Summary: Dean doesn't believe in a higher power, but he believes in his father, in his own strength, and that the only thing worth fighting for is his brother.
A/N: This one shot was originally written in French, and I translated myself from French to English. This is the longest thing I have ever written in English! The only reason it doesn't completely suck, is because the lovely trasan accepted to be my beta. All remaining mistakes are my own.
I also wrote a companion piece from Sam's POV, but I have not translated it yet.
Mommy screams and Dean wakes up with a start. The house is quiet for a moment, and he thinks he must’ve had a bad dream. Before Sammy were born, he would have been sneaking in his parents’ room to be cuddled, but things are different now, he’s a big brother and he has to be strong and brave. Daddy said so.
So, when Dean hears Daddy yelling, ‘Mary !’ and frantic footsteps climbing the stairs, he understands that something is very wrong.
He lies in his bed, his heart pounding, for a few long minutes. Silence is heavy, and Dean wishes he could go back to sleep and completely ignore that something awful is happening right now.
Then Daddy is yelling again, and there is a deafening noise, some kind of ‘froumpff’. Here, Dean can’t take it anymore. Maybe Daddy needs him. Daddy is really strong, the strongest person Dean knows, but he has been yelling twice now, and Mommy can’t be heard anymore. Dean recognizes his baby brother’s wails.
So he gets out of his bed, tightly tucked in by Mommy, and makes his way silently out of his room. It’s once he’s in the hallway that he sees…
---
Sam leaves on a Sunday. Weather has sucked all morning, then around one p.m buckets of rain start falling from the sky until the middle of the night. Dean can tell, because he hasn’t slept at all that night. When Sam leaves he says, ‘I’ll call’, and since the two of them have always known how to have conversations of many levels, Dean gets the message behind : ‘Don’t call me’.
The first few times without Sam fade in a series of indistinct hunts. No one at school anymore, so no need to stay at the same place longer than it takes to find the son of a bitch of the moment and waste it. No strings attached, anywhere, and life is reduced to eating, hunting, sleeping, and going across the country in a car.
Things between Dean and his dad are quite uneasy. John Winchester has never been a funny guy, but has still always possessed some kind of dry sense of humor that appears in his best days. After Sam’s departure, it seems that there will be no days of that kind anymore. So much so that it’s almost a relief when they have to part and each drive their own car.
But it’s also when Dean misses Sam the most. The passenger seat screams his brother’s absence. He turns up the music louder and louder until he almost can’t bear it but it never quite manages to cover that up. After the Impala was given to Dean as a present for his eighteenth’s birthday, they have always traveled together, because Sam and Dad in a car for hours simply never worked. Dean very clearly remembers the day he got the car, a perfect day when his brother and his father had not even one fight. Now it seems unlikely that such a day will ever happen again.
At the end of the first week - without Sam - Dean is lying on his motel bed, staring at the ceiling. He’s exhausted, knows his father is too, but they can’t stop, because then they would have to think - about Sam - and that is out of the question. But at the same time Dean knows it’s not working, not for him at least, because even when he doesn’t think about it, even when he’s hunting, or hustling pool, getting drunk, fighting, Sam is like a missing limb. Every morning he wakes up having forgotten he isn’t there anymore, and every morning, when his memories come back, it’s like he was leaving all over again.
So at the end of this first week, when he realizes that Sam and he have never been away from each other that long, he wonders how they can possibly expect him to go on that way for months, or years.
He’s angry, at Sam, at his dad too - he doesn’t like it, not at all, because Dad has always been his polar star, his fucking guiding light, but he feels like his faith is wearing out and he doesn’t think he’s anything without it - and he’s angry at himself of course, too. He should have been able to do something before things went too far, past the point of no return, where you just have to live with the damages or quit living. But the only thing he wanted when hearing his father and brother yelling words of anger and hatred to each other was to cover his ears and hum to himself, like those kids whose parents threw dishes at each other’s face. Well done, Winchester.
Then three weeks later, Dean and Dad are dragging themselves to their motel room, having taken care of a twenty-two years old young woman’s spirit. She had been murdered by her boyfriend, who hid her body in the Everglades, around Miami. Dad had salted and burned her bones while the young ghost lady went for a dip with Dean in the troubled waters. To be this good looking is like a curse. Damn, I hate Florida.
So he’s soaked to the bones, tired, shivering despite the mild temperature of the Floridian night and covered in mud. When they reach their room, he finds his bed on sheer instinct and drops himself on it, firmly intended on not moving before, say, the next week. Therefore when he feels a hand on his shoulder, and hears his father’s deep voice calling for him, all he can do is to grunt in his best imitation of a sulking teenager - inspired by a fourteen years old Sam - even if he knows that attitude never went well with his dad.
“Dad, I just wanna sleep, leave me alone.”
“No, Dean, not yet, get up, damn it.”
Dean opens one single eye, because it’s the only concession he’s ready to make at the moment, even to his father. Life really sucks lately, and all he wants is to sleep, to sleep, if it’s not too much to ask.
“What ? I don’t move unless there’s fire.”
“And me kicking your ass? Look, I know you’re tired, kiddo, but even if I’m ready to take a lot, I got my limits.”
That draws his attention, because Dad has never been patience incarnate, so for him to say something like “I’m ready to take a lot”, well, it’s damn hilarious. Sam would piss himself just hearing that.
“Hm, what you talking about?”
“Son, there’s no way I share a room with a living septic tank. Go shower, or you’re spending the night in your car.”
Dean sniffs himself suspiciously, and glances to his father, in time to notice this minute curve of the mouth that can pass with him for a true laugh, and he understands that there’s a joke somewhere. So Dean is bursting out laughing himself, louder and longer than the situation deserves, because for one brief moment, it’s like all is all right in his world again.
“Dean…”
“Yes, sir. I’m going.”
In the shower he lets the water slowly warm him. He has to admit that it’s pretty nice to get rid of the smelly mud. His muscles are painfully unknotting, a warm torpor installs itself, and he has to make a conscious effort not to fall asleep here and now.
I miss you, Sam. I miss you so fucking much. But there’s not a lot I can do about it, huh ?
It’s something he has started to do, talking to his little brother like he was here. He thinks it’s pathetic, but he’s doing it anyway because it’s also comforting.
Tonight is not really different from yesterday, or the day before, and still Dean is feeling lighter. He never asked a lot from life, and didn’t get a lot either, so a half smile and a joke from his father are enough for him to see things in a better light.
He thinks that maybe, maybe, it’ll be okay.
---
Dean is awaken by the feeling that something is moving in his bed. He opens an eye; closes it right away. Daylight is aggressive like a fucking spotlight in the face, interrogation from the Gestapo type.
His mouth feels all furry, and his temples are pulsating with pain, all familiar symptoms. Ha. Hangover. Night must’ve been hot. He tries again gingerly to open his eyes, a hand on his forehead to protect himself from daylight. It’s at this moment that he realizes he’s not alone.
Well. That’s awkward.
Lying besides him is a dark-headed young woman, still asleep, and most probably naked under the sheet. The fact is Dean has not a whole lot experience with waking up near a woman and not knowing even her name.
First, he rarely drinks to the point of being wasted. He likes having fun, sure, but he’s also a hunter. He’s aware of his limits, and he avoids drinking more than he can bear when he’s hunting - which is, most of the time, and more since Sam left. His father let him do whatever he wants in his free time, but he wouldn’t like for him to let his guard down in a potentially dangerous situation.
And second, when he’s sleeping with a woman, he doesn’t stay for the night, and the women he chooses don’t especially want him to stay either. It’s only about sex, and Dean always make sure both parties agree on that, no matter what other bullshit he’d told them.
The girl is moving a little, and Dean is suddenly freaking out. Does he have the time to leave before she wakes up? If not, what could they talk about? What do you say to a girl you had sex with, when you don’t remember her name? And when you don’t remember the sex itself? That was awesome, honey, well, that’s probably what I’d say if I could remember a thing.
She opens her eyes, gray eyes, with some metallic quality in them, and winces immediately - she probably feels as shitty as Dean himself. She raises an eyebrow when she notices his presence.
“Oh. Still here?”
“Well, yeah…”
“Coffee?”
“God, yes.”
She chuckles, throws her legs out of the bed, and rummages around on the floor until she finds panties and a tee shirt that she puts swiftly on. While she goes and makes coffee, Dean looks around him. There’s a kitchenette in the far end of the room, with two hotplates, a sink, an electric kettle and some cupboards above. A desk by the window where the light comes from, with a laptop on it, and the bed in which they slept - that can obviously fold up in a sofa - are the only pieces of furniture, except for the shelf filled with books. Books are everywhere, on the desk, of course, but also on the floor, in half-collapsed piles. A student, maybe, but he doesn’t dare to ask, not sure if he’s supposed to know.
“Want some sugar with your coffee?”
“What? Huh, no, no sugar, thanks.”
She comes up, cups in her hands, she reaches out and gives him one, then sits cross-legged on the bed. They’re drinking their coffee in silence, and Dean is wracking his brains to find something to say. Sweet-talk to sleep with a girl, or even to flirt innocently, that he knows, but this kind of situation…If Sam could see him now, he would laugh himself sick.
“By the way, it’s Jill.”
He blinks, and watches her smile above her coffee. At least, she doesn’t seem offended.
“Sorry.”
“No problem. You’ve already largely made up for it, believe me.”
He feels himself smiling. Hey, it’s always nice to know you did a good job, especially when you don’t remember anything. He likes to think he leaves some good memories to women he’ll probably never see again.
“Who is Sammy?”
“Sammy?” What? “Where did you hear that name?”
The girl - Jill - smiles mischievously. “You said it. You know, when we were…” She waggles suggestively her eyebrows. “An ex?”
He chokes on his coffee. What the hell? It’s a fact that even eight months after he left, Sam is still terribly present in everything Dean is doing but the mere idea that he could have said his baby brother’ s name during sex is disturbing on so many levels that all Dean can do is just gasp at Jill, who finally takes pity on him:
“Hey, I’m kidding, I didn’t think I would provoke such a reaction.”
“What do you mean, you’re kidding?
“I got up during the night to go to the bathroom, and when I opened the door, you mumbled something like ‘Sammy, close the fucking door’. I thought that was funny, but maybe I shouldn’t have…”
“No, it’s okay, interrupts Dean. It’s just that, one, Sammy’s not a girl. And two, he’s my kid brother…”
Jill burst out laughing, an infectious and cheerful laugh - Sam’s when he’s not busy brooding or butting heads with their father.
“Ah, really, I’m sorry! But I understand your reaction better.”
“Yeah. But thinking about it, that you thought Sam was a girl, that was kinda funny.”
“How old is he?”
“Sam? Nineteen. He’s in college. Stanford.”
“Wow. That’s impressive.”
“And he got a full ride.” He can’t contain a half smile. “These people are paying so he will study there. My baby bro’s a fucking genius.”
He doesn’t know why he’s telling her all this. It’s not like he knows the girl, and he usually avoids talking about Sam, because it’s way too painful - well, at the same time, it’s not like a lot of people around him mention Sam; the kid could as well have fallen from the earth.
Maybe it’s because he felt a real surge of pride, and for the first time, he thinks about his brother’s admission to Stanford as something positive instead of the event that destroyed his family. He remembers that he’s so, so proud of Sam, his brave, independent, stubborn little brother. Free, in a way Dean will never be - but it’s okay, Dean has given everything for that. If he did one good thing in his life, it’s to have helped raising Sam.
He would gladly keep talking about Sammy to this girl he knows nothing about except for her name, with his coffee getting cold between his hands, but he’s interrupted by a ring he recognizes as his phone’s. And like often lately, it’s probably his dad calling, and not to talk about weather or the last Oprah’s show.
He jumps out of the bed so fast he barely has the presence of mind to put his cup on the floor to avoid spilling coffee everywhere. While looking for his phone among the scattered clothes, he remembers why he allowed himself to drink that much last night: the Impala broke down, and his father gave him the night off, before leaving for Wisconsin to see if it was really a two-person job.
He doesn’t check the caller before picking up, but he wasn’t wrong.
“Dean, I want you to meet me tonight.”
“The Impala is still at the garage.”
“Take a flight. We’ll get your car later. Don’t worry about weapons, I know someone here that can supply us.”
John Winchester’s words are law, and Dean doesn’t think twice before agreeing. A flight? No trouble, sir. He leaves Jill with a smile and a short kiss, none of the two having any illusions about the probability for them to meet again. Dean will finally never know for sure if she’s a student or not.
He goes to the motel room he paid for but didn’t stay more than an hour in, and gathers his things. He has to take the bus to reach the airport, and feels like he’s doing something terribly sacrilegious; it’s been a while since he has taken any vehicle other than the Impala. It’s only when he is in the airport, when he buys his ticket that he realizes fully that he has never taken a plane in his life, and that he’s not overjoyed by the perspective.
His palms are sweaty as he gets on the plane. The stewardess who welcomes him is quite good looking, green eyes, sweet face, and nice legs, but it leaves Dean cold. Once in his seat, he feels nauseous. His left leg is shaking nervously - he can’t keep it still, like he has lost all control over it, something that haven’t happened in years, since the time of his first real hunts.
When the plane takes off, he thinks for a minute that he’s living his last moments. His hands grip the arms of his seat until his knuckles turn white, and he whispers all the curses he knows, some of which would make even his father blink. The guy next to him glares disapprovingly.
Then the engine stops shaking, and Dean makes the monumental mistake to look through the window.
Dean is not very fond of heights. It’s not exactly an incontrollable phobia, he can suck it up if he has to, and it has never been much of a problem, but the fact is he likes solid ground a lot better. To say the plane is high would be understatement of the year - the plane is fucking high, and suspended in the emptiness by nothing Dean can see or touch.
Oh, fuck. Oh God.
Not that God would be of a great help. If Dean believed in God, he’d see him as a bearded asshole sitting on a cloud, watching human beings uselessly moving around like ants whose anthill has been destroyed while eating popcorn. The vision is silly, and Sam would roll his eyes, but hey, Dean has seen stranger things.
Okay, calm down. Lots of people fly, and - most of them - make it out alive. If he doesn’t look through the window, he can pretend they’re on firm ground - almost. It takes a minute for him to be aware he’s humming “Don’t fear the Reaper” by the B.O.C.
All our times have come, here but now there, gone, seasons don’t fear the reaper…
It’s morbidly appropriate, he thinks, but it helps him to calm down. He regains control of his breathing, and his grip loosens on the seat’s arms.
It would be easier if he could drive - pilot. He doesn’t like very much his life being in the hands of some unknown guy. Still, he begins to think maybe he has a chance to make it out alive, when the engine starts to shake violently.
Seconds later, and it’s over. Dean has bitten his tongue, and his nails have gone deep in the seat. Next to him, the man barely contains a smile. Bastard. Were they anywhere but in a plane suspended in nothing, Dean would kick his ass without breaking a sweat.
He’s glad Sam isn’t here to see this. Or maybe not. No matter how many times he tells himself it’s a good thing Sam is not here, he never fully manages to believe it.
There are a few more bumps during the trip that seems very, very long to Dean - and he’s used to driving sometimes ten hours in a row. When they finally land, he needs all his control not to rush outside.
His father is waiting for him outside the airport, leaning against his truck, hands in his pockets. Dean probably doesn’t look so good, because he asks:
“Dean? You okay?”
It’s somewhat humiliating to see that apparently it didn’t crossed Dad’s mind that his son could be shaken by his first flight. Dean comes up to his dad, puts a hand on his shoulder - leans a little, just the time to find his balance again - before speaking solemnly:
“Never, you hear me, I’m never getting on one of these damn things again. Under no circumstances. Okay?”
“Dean, what…”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good. Great.” Dean takes a deep breath. “So, what’re we hunting?”
---
It may not be possible to die of boredom, but it can definitely drive you mad, Dean decides, after so many hours of watching soap opera and dumb talk shows he barely remembers his own name, and not at all the name of the town he’s staying in.
He’s used to small towns, because for some reason supernatural beings like to hole up in the middle of nowhere, but No-fucking-where, Wyoming, seems to beat them all. Outside it’s Indian summer in its last golden glory, and the sun of October is shining, as if to taunt Dean.
He moves a little on the bed, trying to relieve the ache in his arm that is becoming real pain, and he sighs. Painkillers are wearing out, but he doesn’t want to take some more - he hates feeling dependant on the damn things. Instead, he’s finishing the bottle of beer waiting on the bedside table, and even if he knows it’s not good to mix meds and alcohol, well, nobody is here to lecture him after all. His father is in Illinois, or Indiana, one of the states in “i” anyway, and he called yesterday to make sure his first born still hasn’t shot himself in the head.
He’s now loathing the hideous brown pattern of the wallpaper so much he thinks that when he will finally be leaving, the last thing he’ll do will be to set the motel on fire. And he has been stuck in this room barely a week, handicapped by his right arm, and only T.V for distraction. It’s not the first time he is immobilized by a wound, but repetition never makes things easier, and this time, this time…
There’s a reason why he’s numbing himself with T.V, despite the risks of brain damage, and it is that in his situation, the alternative would be to think about the circumstances of his…let say accident - that’s what he told doctors - and he’d rather not. It’s funny how the most terrible things generally happen so fast - the rotten banister in this abandoned house - and haunted, of course - that breaks under his weight, and him falling downstairs. He was lucky, they told him, nothing but bruises of the size of Texas, a slight commotion, and a right arm in pieces, but there are good chances that you will get back at least partial use of your arm.
At least partial use. He takes another sip of lukewarm disgusting beer. The world he lives in, it’s all or nothing, there is no partial use. He can use his left arm well enough, but nothing equals the use of two arms. If he can’t recover full use of his right arm, the hunt is over for him. As soon as he left hospital, he found himself locked up in this seedy room, and his father cleared from the place two days after, once he was convinced Dean would be okay by himself; since then he sleeps, eats, watches T.V, takes meds, and feels like he is contemplating how the rest of his life will be like.
He hesitates to call Sam. First, because he doesn’t want to look like a pathetic whiner who needs comfort from his little brother. And it’s usually Sam who calls, not the reverse, by this tacit agreement they have - they have dozens of them - since he left for college, two years ago. Two years already, Jesus. A blink and an eternity.
He doesn’t want to push his luck because their last conversations didn’t go well, and he doesn’t want to risk that Sam wouldn’t talk to him anymore. It’s his only link to his brother, that and the times Dad swings by California and comes back with a “Sammy is okay” and nothing else - Dean himself can’t, he can’t watch his brother from a distance and not go and talk to him, like some stalker, when if there is one thing he knows in his life, it’s Sam.
It’s all right and good, but today is the sixth day he’s spending in the antechamber of hell, and all his common sense went through the window when compared to the idea of not feeling alone in the world anymore; he is aware of what he’s doing only when the phone is pressed against his ear, and he’s hearing the persistent tut tut tut of dial tone.
He stays like this for a moment, and is ready to hang up before he reaches voicemail, but he is stopped by Sam’s “Hello?”.
“Dean? What do you want?”
Damn it, his brother doesn’t sound like he is in a good mood.
“Sam, hum, …” he begins eloquently.
He really wants to hang up, but Sam wouldn’t find it funny. He knows he can’t tell the reason of his call, can’t talk about his wound, and about the possibility that he stays crippled. He has quickly realized that it’s better if Sam ignores the moments he is hurt or sick, because then he starts freaking out, but as there is nothing he can do hundred or thousand miles away, his worry mutates in anger, and dishes are flying - metaphorically speaking.
“What is it, Dean? I don’t have all day, man. I have this essay to finish, and I’m a bit late.”
“A bit late for homework?” jokes Dean. “Who are you and what have you done to my brother?”
“Ha ha, very funny. No, seriously, Dean.”
Sam pronounces his name with this way of his, like he could, by sheer strength of will, make it have more syllables than one.
“I need a reason to call my kid brother?”
“You never call.”
Dean feels an irritate feeling build up, and tries to contain it, but really, it’s rich coming from Sam, because it’s him who didn’t want Dean to call, even if it’s true he never said it that way.
“Dean, what’s the matter?” Then, with concern: “Is something wrong? Dean? Dean!”
The conversation is clearly going the wrong way, he can feel it, and he should hang up right now, but pain is clouding his judgment - he regrets he didn’t take the damn painkillers, now.
“There’s nothing wrong, Sam, everything is okay. I’m bored, that’s all. What is your essay about?”
“You’re bored? No hunt? Where’s Dad?”
Dean stiffens. He doesn’t get why every time they talk, Sam feels the need to ask where their Dad is, generally to reproach to him for something the next moment. He doesn’t want to engage this way with Sam again, so he ignores the question, which, he should have remembered, is always a tactical mistake when speaking to his brother.
“So, what’re you working on?”
“You kidding me? What I’m doing doesn’t really interest you.”
“Sure it does!”
“No. You’re changing the subject. Where’s Dad? What did he do this time?”
“Stop right there, Sam” Dean warns, deadly calm, but not for long. “I’m sure you don’t want to go further on the subject.”
That, of course, is only giving his brother more ammunition.
“I was sure there was a problem! What’s going on?”
“Nothing is wrong, Sam.” He’s a little sick of repeating himself.
“Nothing’s wrong? So you’re calling just to know what I’m working on?”
“For instance, to know what you’re doing. To have some news, hell, it’s not like you were calling that often.”
“You’re not interested in what I study. You barely finished high school, what I do could be Greek to you.”
“And what does that’s supposed to mean? I’m too dumb, that’s it?”
“I didn’t mean it like that. You know, I don’t get why you’re defending him all the time.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You never protest! So he thinks he can get out with anything.”
“How come we’re talking about Dad, now? How come every time we talk you’re using me to spit your venom about him? If Hitler hadn’t existed, you’d make Dad responsible for World War II!”
“And for you he’s the Creator in person! But he’s just a man, he’s not perfect!”
“No, because you got the monopole of perfection! You go to college, and now you’re better than anyone else!”
“At least, I see beyond the aspirations of a revenge-obsessed loser!”
Dean doesn’t know how they came to screaming at each other through the phone. It’s like all of a sudden, he doesn’t have any control on what he’s saying, like someone else was speaking through him, like he was possessed or something. None of their previous fights can compare to this one, even if the topics aren’t new. It’s like the Fight between Sam and their dad, minus the objects flying through the room, except this time, it’s between him and Sam. Him and Sam.
Finally, after an infinitely long time or surprisingly short, Sam whispers with a voice raw with screaming, “I think we have nothing to say to each other anymore,” and hangs up without giving Dean the time to answer anything. Dean shuts his phone, throws it violently against the wall. The gesture echoes in his body, and pain makes him grit his teeth.
He gets up and leaves the room, even if outside twilight is cooling the air. He locks himself up in his car, because that all the comfort he has left, even if can’t drive in his state. He switches on the ignition, grabs the first tape that he finds, and slips it into the cassette player. Metallica fills the interior.
So close, no matter how far, couldn’t be much more from the heart, forever trusting who we are, and nothing else matters…
He rests his forehead on the wheel, lets the music overwhelm him, then raises his head, and hit it against the wheel once, twice, harder and harder until he’s sure to let a bruise, trying to quiet the sobs that threaten to strangle him.
…never cared for what they do, never cared for what they know, but I know…
He had his doubts for a while, but now he’s sure. Sam doesn’t want to have anything to do with him anymore. They could as well live on different planets. And maybe it’s better this way, better for Sam at least, but fucking Christ it hurts, it hurts worse than his wounded arm.
But if it is what Sam wants, it’ll be what he gets, because Dean could never deny anything to his brother - his father gave him enough shit about it. If it is what Sam wants…
…forever trusting who we are, no, nothing else matters.
---
… big flames, of a fiery orange, and it’s hot, very hot, like he was in an oven. Daddy is in the hallway, with Sammy crying in his arms. Dean doesn’t see Mommy anywhere.
“Daddy” calls Dean, now utterly terrified. He’d like a lot for everything to be a nightmare.
Daddy rushes to Dean, and puts hurriedly Sammy in his arms. The baby is heavy, warm against his chest, and his fine hair tickles his chin.
“Take your brother outside as fast as you can! Don’t look back! Go, Dean, now!”
Dean wants to know why he can’t look back and he wants also to ask ‘Where is Mommy?’, but he recognized Daddy’s tone, the one he doesn’t use often but that means it’s very important, and that Dean absolutely has to do what he’s told.
So he runs toward the stairs, his little brother hugged tightly against him…
Part two