Truth, Denial, and Other Useless Words
This is a 5.03--thing, which I had to write for my own peace of mind. IDEK. Mostly pre-series, a little set post-5.03.
Wordcount: ~1700
Warnings: Spoilers for 5.03. Self-indulgent, written quickly.
Notes: Gen, but can read as pre-Sam/Dean; pick your poison.
-
Dad never talked about it. Not the day after, when Dean's stomach knotted up so hard he couldn't eat, could barely even breathe--not that night, when Dean almost drove the Impala into a telephone pole. Not that first stretch of days, before missing Sam got hard, when Dean would come home at night bleeding and bruised, his teeth stained red and all his words held up inside himself like a bomb.
Not a month later, when he drove down to Stanford from South Dakota without telling Dean.
Never one word.
-
Dean was staying with Bobby for a couple days while Dad wasted a spirit in some podunk town down in Northern California, helping Bobby fix a '66 Mustang he'd just gotten for cheap. When Dad didn't come back on schedule, Dean asked if Bobby'd heard from him saying he'd be late.
"No," Bobby grunted, up to his elbows in engine. He paused in tightening a valve to stare up at Dean, flatly, from under the hood. "But I'm not surprised."
"Why not?" Dean asked, tossing a wrench from hand to hand, idly wondering if learning to juggle would do him any good.
"Oh, use your head for a minute, boy," Bobby scolded, turning his focus back on the engine. "What reason's your daddy got to be in California?"
"Sam," Dean realized. "Oh. Huh."
"Yeah, huh," Bobby said. "Stupid. You damn Winchesters won't ever say anything--idiots, all'a you--but I know you're both missin' him like you'd miss a rib. Your daddy just went to check on him, I'd bet."
"I'm not," Dean said, shrugging. He put the wrench down and pretended to look for another size in Bobby's toolbox. The setting sun was turning everything too bright, and he hunched his shoulders in tight like a shield against the glare. "Missin' him, I mean," he clarified, clearing his throat.
The words were guilty. It was right that they were guilty, too, 'cause he knew it was wrong that he wasn't missing Sam, but there you had it.
It'd been bad at first, yeah--he'd woken up those first few days feeling like the bottom of the world had dropped out, and wondering how possibly to keep putting one foot in front of another. Dad never talked about it, but that was fine, because Dean knew he couldn't have spoken over the rawness of it anyway. He'd thought he'd never really breathe again, and then--
And then, like any wound, it scabbed over. Dean got the fuck over himself, and realized things were easier than they'd been in years.
He didn't have to worry about Sam, for one, and that was a big one. A lot of his life had been tied up in worrying about Sam, and now that Sammy wasn't here, things were a lot simpler. There was no pulling his brother back by the collar of his jacket out of a hunt or shoving him behind Dean's body so he didn't take the brunt of blow, because Sam wasn't hunting and he wasn't fighting. There were no patented Sam bitchfests about the music, could they change the radio station please for the love of God, because Sam wasn't scrunched up in the backseat with that thunderstorm scowl of his. There was no crafting those careful little moments of humor and sticking them like offerings between Sam and Dad, hoping he could deflect enough of their crazy anger so a fight wouldn't start that night, because Sam wasn't there to needle Dad into one.
There was no trying to keep Sam from leaving, because he'd already gone and done it.
And hey, the world was still going. That was the part that had surprised Dean--that everything wasn't falling apart without Sam. But who was he to look a gift horse in the mouth? Stupid metaphor, but it was true. He'd been stronger than he thought without Sam, and now he and Dad could concentrate on hunting without having to work to keep Sam safe or happy. Things were simple, and Dean was amazed at what a difference that made.
The clanking of the engine stopped, and Bobby was looking up at him. He kept looking for a long, long minute, eyes smooth and dark as a lake, while Dean fidgeted and felt the familiar, sweet rush of guilt over what he knew he should be feeling.
"Uh-huh," Bobby said, finally, and turned his full attention to the car, silence a wall at his back.
Dean rolled his eyes and went back to looking for the wrench. "I'm not," he muttered.
He knew what he was feeling--light, clean, easily happy. Bobby could just suck it. Dean had paid his dues.
He was free of that mess, maybe for good.
-
Except then two weeks later he woke up and he was choking on nothing, couldn't breathe because Sammy was fucking out there with no protection and no family, just all on his own with nothing, and Dean's hands were squeezing the gritty motel sheets and his breath was wheezing out of his lungs and Dad, Dad, he had to wake up Dad so they could go get Sam right the fuck now, bring him back--
Dad wasn't there, Dean remembered. He'd gone overnight to visit a hunter they knew in the area, and Dean was all alone. Dean was all by himself and Sam was all by himself. Anything could be fucking happening and Sammy had no backup--
Dean stumbled out across the parking lot, banging the room door behind him. He huddled into the payphone and picked out Bobby's number with freezing fingers. Some stupid hour of the night, still pretty early; he was only wearing boxers and a t-shirt, and his feet were turning to ice blocks on the cold concrete by the time his call went through.
When Bobby picked up the phone, growled "What?" into it, Dean found he couldn't talk. The thing inside him took up too much space--his tongue was a slug in his mouth and his lips were useless, suddenly.
"Bobby--Sam, I--" he got out, and then he just stood there, shaking like a fucking idiot.
Bobby got it, though. The phoneline crackled silence for a minute, and then Dean heard a slow breath. "Okay, Dean, you got a pen? 'Cause I'm gonna tell you something to write down," Bobby said, oddly gentle.
"No," Dean croaked. "No pen."
"Then remember this," Bobby ordered roughly, and rattled off a phone number. Dean clung to it, shoved it deep inside his brain where he couldn't forget it.
"It's Sam's cell number," Bobby said, and yeah, Dean had kinda figured that one out himself. "Pulled some strings and got it. Knew you'd want it when you came 'round."
"'s he okay?" Dean blurted. "Just--"
"Call him," grunted Bobby. "It's still early enough." Another few seconds, and the line went cold.
-
Dean sat in that phonebooth for maybe fifteen minutes, phone slippery in his sweaty hands and the number running through his head, while his feet went completely numb. Wondering if Sam would pick up.
-
He made his fingers dial, eventually. The change in his pockets felt heavy and the ringing on the other side sounded too loud, but someone picked up.
"Hey," they said, and something in Dean's chest split.
"Hey, Sammy," he breathed out.
"It's Sam," came Sam's grumpy voice through the phone, and Dean sank back against the payphone booth, plastic biting into his hip, breathing through his mouth and holding on to his stomach so he didn't fall apart.
"Sam," he said, clearing his throat. "Yeah. Sorry. How're you doing? Everything--everything good?"
A moment of silence. "Yeah, Dean," Sam said finally, his voice weird and blurry and soft, like he was really far away. He is, Dean reminded himself. "Um--you?" Sam asked. "How're--how're things?"
"Oh, you know," Dean said, cracking a weak grin. "Same old, same old. But you uh. You like it over there?" Scratching his fingers over the metal of the phone cord just to make some noise over the uneven beating of his heart. "Having fun?"
"Yeah," said Sam, "yeah. It's--" words strengthening, voice tightening up until he sounded too big, too old to be Dean's little brother anymore-- "I like it. I like it a lot."
"Good," Dean said, "no, man, that's great. That's great, it really is. I'm, yeah. Just, just thought I'd check up on you. Y'know. Make sure you didn't screw everything up already."
He could just feel Sam rolling his eyes, so familiar it was like one of Dean's own expressions.
"I don't screw things up," Sam said, firm and precise.
"I know," Dean said, and it seemed--real important Sammy got that. "No, man, I get that. Really. I do."
"Yeah," Sam said. Dean held his breath, and Sam cleared his throat. "Um, so. I actually gotta go. I got class."
"At night?" Dean tossed back, laughing too loud. "What are you, a vampire?"
Sam didn't take that bait, just said softly, "Look, I'll uh--talk to you when I talk to you, I guess?"
"Soon," Dean said, telling himself it didn't sound like begging. "I'll call you."
"Okay," said Sam. "Bye."
The line went dead.
Dean shoved the phonebooth door open and walked across the parking lot and almost didn't stop walking. Late and dark as it was, he almost just kept going, barefoot in his boxers and t-shirt.
-
Dean learned a lot of shit that night. Mainly that his brother was never going to need him as much as Dean needed his brother. He was the fucked-up one in this scenario; Sammy was getting off almost scott free. Happiness Dean could have for a little while, yeah, but it'd never be enough without Sammy.
So Dean kept the number in his head but almost never called. Sam had a better chance of making it that way.
-
So yeah, it'd be hard to ignore the deja vu when Castiel asks him if he's happy, even without his brother.
"Especially without my brother," he says. Words like cigarette ash on his tongue, but it's not denial, because somewhere inside him, something is whispering: the worst part is that it's true.
Somewhere inside him, its twin is whispering: the worst part is that it won't be for long.
Wordcount: ~1700
Warnings: Spoilers for 5.03. Self-indulgent, written quickly.
Notes: Gen, but can read as pre-Sam/Dean; pick your poison.
-
Dad never talked about it. Not the day after, when Dean's stomach knotted up so hard he couldn't eat, could barely even breathe--not that night, when Dean almost drove the Impala into a telephone pole. Not that first stretch of days, before missing Sam got hard, when Dean would come home at night bleeding and bruised, his teeth stained red and all his words held up inside himself like a bomb.
Not a month later, when he drove down to Stanford from South Dakota without telling Dean.
Never one word.
-
Dean was staying with Bobby for a couple days while Dad wasted a spirit in some podunk town down in Northern California, helping Bobby fix a '66 Mustang he'd just gotten for cheap. When Dad didn't come back on schedule, Dean asked if Bobby'd heard from him saying he'd be late.
"No," Bobby grunted, up to his elbows in engine. He paused in tightening a valve to stare up at Dean, flatly, from under the hood. "But I'm not surprised."
"Why not?" Dean asked, tossing a wrench from hand to hand, idly wondering if learning to juggle would do him any good.
"Oh, use your head for a minute, boy," Bobby scolded, turning his focus back on the engine. "What reason's your daddy got to be in California?"
"Sam," Dean realized. "Oh. Huh."
"Yeah, huh," Bobby said. "Stupid. You damn Winchesters won't ever say anything--idiots, all'a you--but I know you're both missin' him like you'd miss a rib. Your daddy just went to check on him, I'd bet."
"I'm not," Dean said, shrugging. He put the wrench down and pretended to look for another size in Bobby's toolbox. The setting sun was turning everything too bright, and he hunched his shoulders in tight like a shield against the glare. "Missin' him, I mean," he clarified, clearing his throat.
The words were guilty. It was right that they were guilty, too, 'cause he knew it was wrong that he wasn't missing Sam, but there you had it.
It'd been bad at first, yeah--he'd woken up those first few days feeling like the bottom of the world had dropped out, and wondering how possibly to keep putting one foot in front of another. Dad never talked about it, but that was fine, because Dean knew he couldn't have spoken over the rawness of it anyway. He'd thought he'd never really breathe again, and then--
And then, like any wound, it scabbed over. Dean got the fuck over himself, and realized things were easier than they'd been in years.
He didn't have to worry about Sam, for one, and that was a big one. A lot of his life had been tied up in worrying about Sam, and now that Sammy wasn't here, things were a lot simpler. There was no pulling his brother back by the collar of his jacket out of a hunt or shoving him behind Dean's body so he didn't take the brunt of blow, because Sam wasn't hunting and he wasn't fighting. There were no patented Sam bitchfests about the music, could they change the radio station please for the love of God, because Sam wasn't scrunched up in the backseat with that thunderstorm scowl of his. There was no crafting those careful little moments of humor and sticking them like offerings between Sam and Dad, hoping he could deflect enough of their crazy anger so a fight wouldn't start that night, because Sam wasn't there to needle Dad into one.
There was no trying to keep Sam from leaving, because he'd already gone and done it.
And hey, the world was still going. That was the part that had surprised Dean--that everything wasn't falling apart without Sam. But who was he to look a gift horse in the mouth? Stupid metaphor, but it was true. He'd been stronger than he thought without Sam, and now he and Dad could concentrate on hunting without having to work to keep Sam safe or happy. Things were simple, and Dean was amazed at what a difference that made.
The clanking of the engine stopped, and Bobby was looking up at him. He kept looking for a long, long minute, eyes smooth and dark as a lake, while Dean fidgeted and felt the familiar, sweet rush of guilt over what he knew he should be feeling.
"Uh-huh," Bobby said, finally, and turned his full attention to the car, silence a wall at his back.
Dean rolled his eyes and went back to looking for the wrench. "I'm not," he muttered.
He knew what he was feeling--light, clean, easily happy. Bobby could just suck it. Dean had paid his dues.
He was free of that mess, maybe for good.
-
Except then two weeks later he woke up and he was choking on nothing, couldn't breathe because Sammy was fucking out there with no protection and no family, just all on his own with nothing, and Dean's hands were squeezing the gritty motel sheets and his breath was wheezing out of his lungs and Dad, Dad, he had to wake up Dad so they could go get Sam right the fuck now, bring him back--
Dad wasn't there, Dean remembered. He'd gone overnight to visit a hunter they knew in the area, and Dean was all alone. Dean was all by himself and Sam was all by himself. Anything could be fucking happening and Sammy had no backup--
Dean stumbled out across the parking lot, banging the room door behind him. He huddled into the payphone and picked out Bobby's number with freezing fingers. Some stupid hour of the night, still pretty early; he was only wearing boxers and a t-shirt, and his feet were turning to ice blocks on the cold concrete by the time his call went through.
When Bobby picked up the phone, growled "What?" into it, Dean found he couldn't talk. The thing inside him took up too much space--his tongue was a slug in his mouth and his lips were useless, suddenly.
"Bobby--Sam, I--" he got out, and then he just stood there, shaking like a fucking idiot.
Bobby got it, though. The phoneline crackled silence for a minute, and then Dean heard a slow breath. "Okay, Dean, you got a pen? 'Cause I'm gonna tell you something to write down," Bobby said, oddly gentle.
"No," Dean croaked. "No pen."
"Then remember this," Bobby ordered roughly, and rattled off a phone number. Dean clung to it, shoved it deep inside his brain where he couldn't forget it.
"It's Sam's cell number," Bobby said, and yeah, Dean had kinda figured that one out himself. "Pulled some strings and got it. Knew you'd want it when you came 'round."
"'s he okay?" Dean blurted. "Just--"
"Call him," grunted Bobby. "It's still early enough." Another few seconds, and the line went cold.
-
Dean sat in that phonebooth for maybe fifteen minutes, phone slippery in his sweaty hands and the number running through his head, while his feet went completely numb. Wondering if Sam would pick up.
-
He made his fingers dial, eventually. The change in his pockets felt heavy and the ringing on the other side sounded too loud, but someone picked up.
"Hey," they said, and something in Dean's chest split.
"Hey, Sammy," he breathed out.
"It's Sam," came Sam's grumpy voice through the phone, and Dean sank back against the payphone booth, plastic biting into his hip, breathing through his mouth and holding on to his stomach so he didn't fall apart.
"Sam," he said, clearing his throat. "Yeah. Sorry. How're you doing? Everything--everything good?"
A moment of silence. "Yeah, Dean," Sam said finally, his voice weird and blurry and soft, like he was really far away. He is, Dean reminded himself. "Um--you?" Sam asked. "How're--how're things?"
"Oh, you know," Dean said, cracking a weak grin. "Same old, same old. But you uh. You like it over there?" Scratching his fingers over the metal of the phone cord just to make some noise over the uneven beating of his heart. "Having fun?"
"Yeah," said Sam, "yeah. It's--" words strengthening, voice tightening up until he sounded too big, too old to be Dean's little brother anymore-- "I like it. I like it a lot."
"Good," Dean said, "no, man, that's great. That's great, it really is. I'm, yeah. Just, just thought I'd check up on you. Y'know. Make sure you didn't screw everything up already."
He could just feel Sam rolling his eyes, so familiar it was like one of Dean's own expressions.
"I don't screw things up," Sam said, firm and precise.
"I know," Dean said, and it seemed--real important Sammy got that. "No, man, I get that. Really. I do."
"Yeah," Sam said. Dean held his breath, and Sam cleared his throat. "Um, so. I actually gotta go. I got class."
"At night?" Dean tossed back, laughing too loud. "What are you, a vampire?"
Sam didn't take that bait, just said softly, "Look, I'll uh--talk to you when I talk to you, I guess?"
"Soon," Dean said, telling himself it didn't sound like begging. "I'll call you."
"Okay," said Sam. "Bye."
The line went dead.
Dean shoved the phonebooth door open and walked across the parking lot and almost didn't stop walking. Late and dark as it was, he almost just kept going, barefoot in his boxers and t-shirt.
-
Dean learned a lot of shit that night. Mainly that his brother was never going to need him as much as Dean needed his brother. He was the fucked-up one in this scenario; Sammy was getting off almost scott free. Happiness Dean could have for a little while, yeah, but it'd never be enough without Sammy.
So Dean kept the number in his head but almost never called. Sam had a better chance of making it that way.
-
So yeah, it'd be hard to ignore the deja vu when Castiel asks him if he's happy, even without his brother.
"Especially without my brother," he says. Words like cigarette ash on his tongue, but it's not denial, because somewhere inside him, something is whispering: the worst part is that it's true.
Somewhere inside him, its twin is whispering: the worst part is that it won't be for long.