.0102 - Watch the World Tear Us Apart, Stoic Mind and Bleeding Heart
Dean/Sam
Season 8
1,958 words
Title from Mumford & Sons
Loose sequel to Lost in a Day Dream, What Do You See?
Teaser: Dean scoops the pendant into his palm, studying the little horned face like he’s never seen it before. “You’ve had this the whole time?” ...
Propped up on his elbows, still a little disoriented from sleep and the gray darkness stretching out around, Sam watches the specter standing at the window; his own brother, older and strong, courageous. And broken to pieces. Small and sharp bits that no longer seem to fit as they should or used to, and only cut, hurt when Sam tries to pick them up, put back together. Some of them are lost for good, some smashed, shattered or distorted, depicting something else, different than before. It’s hard, almost impossible to see in this man, so bruised, both inside and out, and worn out, the little freckled kid, carefree and smiley, from the few faded, crumbled photographs that Sam keeps in his journal, wanting to never forget the times he cannot actually remember. That boy has been gone for so long, drifting further away with each day and every dead monster that Dean probably doesn’t remember him either. But it seems that there are more things he’s forgotten, or made himself dismiss, and Sam and the whole messed up, concealed history of them are only two of many.
In a certain way, on the kind of level that is considered socially correct and acceptable, Sam thinks that he should be glad for the distance, for the dark hollow that is stretching between them, separating them and dimming their feelings. It makes him feel normal, less tainted, a couple of sins lighter. But instead of being glad, Sam is scared. Because he misses him; emotionally, physically. Misses knowing that no matter how often and how hard they argue and fight, punching and kicking each other, wounding with fists and words that cut deep, deeper and right where it hurts, because they know; how to aim and where, and leaving bruises that’ll fade and holes that’ll never close, what they have, or used to have and be, is still there, just where it’s always been. He doesn’t feel that anymore, the certainty and their bond, the wordless, ‘I’m here. Now and always’. It’s as if the only thing he had known, the only stability in Sam’s life, in their volatile lives, has been taken away, eventually, after so many bumps and turning points, stop signs and red lights, dead ends, leaving them together apart. Like water and oil.
Sam shouldn’t want all that back, all the love that is balancing just at the border of hatred, the anger, the stupid, blinding desire and guilt, the pure, self-destructive reproaches he could always find in Dean’s eyes, from the first damn kiss on Sam’s seventeenth Fourth of July. But he does, and he wonders if Dean has forgotten that summer, too.
Throughout the years, all Sam really wanted was having back the Dean from the hot, endless nights in Nevada. Tanned and nearly blonde, bruised and patched up, but so sexy, irresistible. Relaxed for no apparent reasons, almost happy. These days, he simply wishes he could have at least a part of who Dean was before Purgatory. Before Hell. Someone a little less haywire and dangerous and a little more predictable. Someone he actually knows.
Letting out a heavy sigh, loud and exaggerated to try and get Dean’s attention, let him know he’s awake and that it’s him moving in the drabness behind Dean’s back, Sam stands up, walking across the creaky floor towards the window.
Dean’s been standing there, quietly and immobile like a marble statute for several minutes, ten or twenty, it’s hard to tell, and probably long before Sam woke up. He’s still wearing the same jeans and a worn Henley shirt he had on when Sam went to bed, falling asleep to the over-dramatized music and panicked screams from some old, black and white horror movie Dean was watching. Although Sam is fairly sure he was just looking at the TV, or right through it, without paying any attention to what was happening there.
“Dean.” Sam puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder lightly, feeling the dampness of the fabric under his touch, the fine tremors that run through Dean’s body, tensing his muscles, hints of cold or perhaps fear, and the unexpected jerk, unmistakable and violent.
Dean turns around so swiftly that Sam barely has a chance to react, to take a step back, before Dean’s right there, in his space and closer, pressing the sharp, chilling blade of his knife to Sam’s throat. Again. For the third time, or tenth, maybe the millionth; it’s not really that easy to count all these Déjà vu’s.
Trying to hide the panic he feels, Sam raises his arms, palms high and open, to show that he’s unarmed and harmless, saying, “It’s me.” But it seems that Dean’s not even listening to him, not seeing him. “Sam.”
Eyes narrowed and dark, deeper than they have any right to be, Dean cocks his head to the side a little, measuring Sam like he doesn’t know him, doesn’t quite believe his words, too caught up in his gruesome flashbacks. In the Purgatory no-reality reality where Sam exists only in his memories. His hand shakes, Sam can feel the tiny shivers spiraling to the edge of the knife that is pinned to his Adam’s apple, and several drops of sweat glisten just above the line of Dean’s right eyebrow. He looks scared, terrified, and completely out of Sam’s world.
It’s so quiet Sam can hear the tickling of his watch, the low humming of the refrigerator, the drops of water dripping from the faucet and hitting the stained, porcelain sink in the closed bathroom. At the same time, it’s like time has stopped.
Then, just like a snap, as easy as an intake of breath, an exhalation, Dean nods and steps back, drawing the knife away. He’s holding it up, tightly, looking at Sam over the thickness of its blade for a minute more before he shoves it into the holster on his right thigh. His, “Sorry” is soft and odd, full of embarrassment. And the first one he actually voiced.
“Another nightmare?” Sam asks when he finally takes a proper breath and leans heavily against the hard edge of the wooden table behind him. He doesn’t ask why Dean’s even wearing a thigh holder, in a motel room, when he was supposed to be sleeping. He has learned to omit a lot of questions.
“Just a dream.” Dean runs a hand through his hair, sweaty and all disheveled, then uses the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the perspiration off his face. “Go sleep, Sammy.”
In the pale, grayish light of the dawn that is peeking from behind the curtain, Dean’s skin looks ashy, almost transparent, except the dark shadows beneath his eyes that are huge and red-rimmed. It’s not only the lack of sleep, all the bad dreams that never seem to end, it’s as if the night itself held some strange power over him, some twisted magic that literally sucks the life out of him. He looks so much better in daylight, alive.
“You too.”
Dean doesn’t go to sleep, of course, he doesn’t even try. Instead, he sits down at the table with all of his weapons, gun oil and a few pieces of cloth, doing the same thing he’s done at least a hundred times in the last three days only. Bello ac pace paratus.
“I tried, you know?” Sam begins as he sits down at the edge of his bed, feeling so tired it’s like every bone and muscle in his body was literally weighing him down. He looks at his hands, trembling, at the bruises and scars on his palms, the dirt under his blunt fingernails. “To find you. To save you… But there were no leads, no traces. Nothing… And no one would listen. I thought I was alone.” He lifts his head to look up at Dean across half of the room, watching his long, skillful fingers as they run over the cold, sleek body of his gun, automatically, blindly. Dean’s eyes are fixed on Sam, worried, guilty. “Do you know what that’s like? You, the only person I had left, was gone and I had no idea where. I thought you were dead, lost out there… somewhere. For good. And I had nothing. Not even your bones to burn.” I wanted to die. I tried. “It made no sense. Without you. Nothing made any sense. It seemed like the more monsters we killed, the more of them there were.” He startles when a single teardrop falls onto his hand, fat and glistening, screaming where he no longer can, where his voice shivers and cracks, threatening to disappear completely. “I’m tired, Dean… I’m tired of losing everybody. I’m tired of losing you.”
Sighing, Dean puts down his gun and the dirty rag that has left small smears on his hands and right temple, and pulls from the table. His steps are almost silent as he moves across the room to sit down beside Sam, his breathing heavy. Even that close he feels distant, so stiff and awkward, uncomfortable. He reaches out, his hand hovering above Sam’s knee, hesitating, undecided. It’s like he’s forgotten how to touch someone without wanting to hurt them, or kill them, without trying to dodge an attack. As if he’s expecting to get bitten or gutted out every time someone hugs him or steps too close.
“It’s okay,” he says, like it’s really all that easy, or true, putting his palm on Sam’s leg, just above his knee. It feels hot, like a brand. “I’m here now.” Sam wants to believe it, he does, but he knows better.
“No, you’re not,” he replies, turning his head to glance at Dean sideways. “You’re someone else. You’re still down there.” The tears sting in his eyes, tickle as they slide down his cheek, drying. “You gotta know that, too.”
“Sam...” It seems that Dean wants to say something more, but then he stops without saying a single word. He touches his hand to Sam’s cheek instead, his fingers, cold and smelling of oil, curl around his jawline and he runs his thumb over Sam’s cheekbone, wiping one stray tear away. Sam’s eyes drift closed at that touch, automatically, pathetically, and he leans his head into Dean’s hand, his touch. No matter how simple that contact is, and how strange it actually feels, Sam’s been missing it, for so long. For too damn long. Dean’s fingers move down and lower until they touch Sam’s neck, but Sam doesn’t realize what he’s looking at until they wind around the cord hanging on his neck and tug it from behind his neckline. A wrinkle of confusion crinkling his forehead, Dean scoops the pendant into his palm, studying the little horned face like he’s never seen it before. “You’ve had this the whole time?” he wonders, looking up at Sam, eyes wide with surprise. He sounds both awed and frightened.
“Yes.” It’s been a while, a few years, a few deaths, but it still stings. It still hurts a little. It was as if Dean threw away a piece of Sam himself, a piece of them, like they also weren’t more than a leather cord and a small, heavy piece of brass.
“Why?”
“Because it was yours.” And more significant and compact than the car. “You… Do you want it back?” Please, take it back. Take me back.
Dean shakes his head, smiling, if barely. “Looks better on you.” Which is nonsense, and something that only Dean would say. He leans closer, in, and presses his lips to Sam’s forehead, slightly chapped but warm, just like when they were kids. But there is that tiny bit more now, the, I love you, Dean will probably never say aloud.
Season 8
1,958 words
Title from Mumford & Sons
Loose sequel to Lost in a Day Dream, What Do You See?
Teaser: Dean scoops the pendant into his palm, studying the little horned face like he’s never seen it before. “You’ve had this the whole time?” ...
Propped up on his elbows, still a little disoriented from sleep and the gray darkness stretching out around, Sam watches the specter standing at the window; his own brother, older and strong, courageous. And broken to pieces. Small and sharp bits that no longer seem to fit as they should or used to, and only cut, hurt when Sam tries to pick them up, put back together. Some of them are lost for good, some smashed, shattered or distorted, depicting something else, different than before. It’s hard, almost impossible to see in this man, so bruised, both inside and out, and worn out, the little freckled kid, carefree and smiley, from the few faded, crumbled photographs that Sam keeps in his journal, wanting to never forget the times he cannot actually remember. That boy has been gone for so long, drifting further away with each day and every dead monster that Dean probably doesn’t remember him either. But it seems that there are more things he’s forgotten, or made himself dismiss, and Sam and the whole messed up, concealed history of them are only two of many.
In a certain way, on the kind of level that is considered socially correct and acceptable, Sam thinks that he should be glad for the distance, for the dark hollow that is stretching between them, separating them and dimming their feelings. It makes him feel normal, less tainted, a couple of sins lighter. But instead of being glad, Sam is scared. Because he misses him; emotionally, physically. Misses knowing that no matter how often and how hard they argue and fight, punching and kicking each other, wounding with fists and words that cut deep, deeper and right where it hurts, because they know; how to aim and where, and leaving bruises that’ll fade and holes that’ll never close, what they have, or used to have and be, is still there, just where it’s always been. He doesn’t feel that anymore, the certainty and their bond, the wordless, ‘I’m here. Now and always’. It’s as if the only thing he had known, the only stability in Sam’s life, in their volatile lives, has been taken away, eventually, after so many bumps and turning points, stop signs and red lights, dead ends, leaving them together apart. Like water and oil.
Sam shouldn’t want all that back, all the love that is balancing just at the border of hatred, the anger, the stupid, blinding desire and guilt, the pure, self-destructive reproaches he could always find in Dean’s eyes, from the first damn kiss on Sam’s seventeenth Fourth of July. But he does, and he wonders if Dean has forgotten that summer, too.
Throughout the years, all Sam really wanted was having back the Dean from the hot, endless nights in Nevada. Tanned and nearly blonde, bruised and patched up, but so sexy, irresistible. Relaxed for no apparent reasons, almost happy. These days, he simply wishes he could have at least a part of who Dean was before Purgatory. Before Hell. Someone a little less haywire and dangerous and a little more predictable. Someone he actually knows.
Letting out a heavy sigh, loud and exaggerated to try and get Dean’s attention, let him know he’s awake and that it’s him moving in the drabness behind Dean’s back, Sam stands up, walking across the creaky floor towards the window.
Dean’s been standing there, quietly and immobile like a marble statute for several minutes, ten or twenty, it’s hard to tell, and probably long before Sam woke up. He’s still wearing the same jeans and a worn Henley shirt he had on when Sam went to bed, falling asleep to the over-dramatized music and panicked screams from some old, black and white horror movie Dean was watching. Although Sam is fairly sure he was just looking at the TV, or right through it, without paying any attention to what was happening there.
“Dean.” Sam puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder lightly, feeling the dampness of the fabric under his touch, the fine tremors that run through Dean’s body, tensing his muscles, hints of cold or perhaps fear, and the unexpected jerk, unmistakable and violent.
Dean turns around so swiftly that Sam barely has a chance to react, to take a step back, before Dean’s right there, in his space and closer, pressing the sharp, chilling blade of his knife to Sam’s throat. Again. For the third time, or tenth, maybe the millionth; it’s not really that easy to count all these Déjà vu’s.
Trying to hide the panic he feels, Sam raises his arms, palms high and open, to show that he’s unarmed and harmless, saying, “It’s me.” But it seems that Dean’s not even listening to him, not seeing him. “Sam.”
Eyes narrowed and dark, deeper than they have any right to be, Dean cocks his head to the side a little, measuring Sam like he doesn’t know him, doesn’t quite believe his words, too caught up in his gruesome flashbacks. In the Purgatory no-reality reality where Sam exists only in his memories. His hand shakes, Sam can feel the tiny shivers spiraling to the edge of the knife that is pinned to his Adam’s apple, and several drops of sweat glisten just above the line of Dean’s right eyebrow. He looks scared, terrified, and completely out of Sam’s world.
It’s so quiet Sam can hear the tickling of his watch, the low humming of the refrigerator, the drops of water dripping from the faucet and hitting the stained, porcelain sink in the closed bathroom. At the same time, it’s like time has stopped.
Then, just like a snap, as easy as an intake of breath, an exhalation, Dean nods and steps back, drawing the knife away. He’s holding it up, tightly, looking at Sam over the thickness of its blade for a minute more before he shoves it into the holster on his right thigh. His, “Sorry” is soft and odd, full of embarrassment. And the first one he actually voiced.
“Another nightmare?” Sam asks when he finally takes a proper breath and leans heavily against the hard edge of the wooden table behind him. He doesn’t ask why Dean’s even wearing a thigh holder, in a motel room, when he was supposed to be sleeping. He has learned to omit a lot of questions.
“Just a dream.” Dean runs a hand through his hair, sweaty and all disheveled, then uses the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the perspiration off his face. “Go sleep, Sammy.”
In the pale, grayish light of the dawn that is peeking from behind the curtain, Dean’s skin looks ashy, almost transparent, except the dark shadows beneath his eyes that are huge and red-rimmed. It’s not only the lack of sleep, all the bad dreams that never seem to end, it’s as if the night itself held some strange power over him, some twisted magic that literally sucks the life out of him. He looks so much better in daylight, alive.
“You too.”
Dean doesn’t go to sleep, of course, he doesn’t even try. Instead, he sits down at the table with all of his weapons, gun oil and a few pieces of cloth, doing the same thing he’s done at least a hundred times in the last three days only. Bello ac pace paratus.
“I tried, you know?” Sam begins as he sits down at the edge of his bed, feeling so tired it’s like every bone and muscle in his body was literally weighing him down. He looks at his hands, trembling, at the bruises and scars on his palms, the dirt under his blunt fingernails. “To find you. To save you… But there were no leads, no traces. Nothing… And no one would listen. I thought I was alone.” He lifts his head to look up at Dean across half of the room, watching his long, skillful fingers as they run over the cold, sleek body of his gun, automatically, blindly. Dean’s eyes are fixed on Sam, worried, guilty. “Do you know what that’s like? You, the only person I had left, was gone and I had no idea where. I thought you were dead, lost out there… somewhere. For good. And I had nothing. Not even your bones to burn.” I wanted to die. I tried. “It made no sense. Without you. Nothing made any sense. It seemed like the more monsters we killed, the more of them there were.” He startles when a single teardrop falls onto his hand, fat and glistening, screaming where he no longer can, where his voice shivers and cracks, threatening to disappear completely. “I’m tired, Dean… I’m tired of losing everybody. I’m tired of losing you.”
Sighing, Dean puts down his gun and the dirty rag that has left small smears on his hands and right temple, and pulls from the table. His steps are almost silent as he moves across the room to sit down beside Sam, his breathing heavy. Even that close he feels distant, so stiff and awkward, uncomfortable. He reaches out, his hand hovering above Sam’s knee, hesitating, undecided. It’s like he’s forgotten how to touch someone without wanting to hurt them, or kill them, without trying to dodge an attack. As if he’s expecting to get bitten or gutted out every time someone hugs him or steps too close.
“It’s okay,” he says, like it’s really all that easy, or true, putting his palm on Sam’s leg, just above his knee. It feels hot, like a brand. “I’m here now.” Sam wants to believe it, he does, but he knows better.
“No, you’re not,” he replies, turning his head to glance at Dean sideways. “You’re someone else. You’re still down there.” The tears sting in his eyes, tickle as they slide down his cheek, drying. “You gotta know that, too.”
“Sam...” It seems that Dean wants to say something more, but then he stops without saying a single word. He touches his hand to Sam’s cheek instead, his fingers, cold and smelling of oil, curl around his jawline and he runs his thumb over Sam’s cheekbone, wiping one stray tear away. Sam’s eyes drift closed at that touch, automatically, pathetically, and he leans his head into Dean’s hand, his touch. No matter how simple that contact is, and how strange it actually feels, Sam’s been missing it, for so long. For too damn long. Dean’s fingers move down and lower until they touch Sam’s neck, but Sam doesn’t realize what he’s looking at until they wind around the cord hanging on his neck and tug it from behind his neckline. A wrinkle of confusion crinkling his forehead, Dean scoops the pendant into his palm, studying the little horned face like he’s never seen it before. “You’ve had this the whole time?” he wonders, looking up at Sam, eyes wide with surprise. He sounds both awed and frightened.
“Yes.” It’s been a while, a few years, a few deaths, but it still stings. It still hurts a little. It was as if Dean threw away a piece of Sam himself, a piece of them, like they also weren’t more than a leather cord and a small, heavy piece of brass.
“Why?”
“Because it was yours.” And more significant and compact than the car. “You… Do you want it back?” Please, take it back. Take me back.
Dean shakes his head, smiling, if barely. “Looks better on you.” Which is nonsense, and something that only Dean would say. He leans closer, in, and presses his lips to Sam’s forehead, slightly chapped but warm, just like when they were kids. But there is that tiny bit more now, the, I love you, Dean will probably never say aloud.