Phantom Load - Part 8
Dean fought him, pushing up with his legs as Sam pushed down with his arms, his weight. Dean's eyes glittered, hard green stones in his white face, and he was shaking.
"Dean, stop it." Sam pushed down, hard. "Just stop." He felt something rush through him, felt sick, his heart aching like it had been punched with a fist. There was no way to take back time and protect Dean from what had happened to him. Everything hurt.
"Sam." That was all Dean said. Sam rolled away, his backside covered in snow, and looked at the papers in the breeze, some sticking to the snow, some catching themselves on the low branches on the fir trees. He felt weak, his muscles all out of power as he reached for one, snow sifting up his sleeve, making him cold all over.
"Don't, Sam. Please-don't."
But he did. There was a piece of paper within easy reach of his fingers. He grabbed it and read what was written in blue ink. In careful longhand.
Dean was bad today. I tried to make it good for him, but he just doesn't understand. Today he fought back. He bit me and he was so much like a wild animal that he scared me. He shouldn’t do that, boys shouldn't be scary like that. It upsets me. He even threw a wrench at me. It didn't hit me, but it dented the covering on the clock. That's not going to get fixed anytime soon, the school board, and even Mr. Mates, have told me that they're not willing to fix up the janitor's office. That makes me angry. My relationship with Dean has been sweet at times, but today, it made me angry, too. I had to punish him. He didn't like that, he-
Sam threw the paper down and put his face in his hands. Just for a minute. Wanting the darkness of not knowing until the cold started to leach up into his bones and he heard Dean moving. He lowered his hands and opened his eyes. Shivering, he watched Dean begin to gather the papers, bending slowly, snow sifting from the length of his body, leaving wet spots behind like black bruises.
All his thoughts ran together like ice melt in a gutter. And the answer to the question, what was Dean's problem this trip out, became as clear to him as a punch in the gut. Not some other man's child, or another boy's brother. Dads' Dean, his Dean. Set upon by this disgusting roach of a man, now only bones soaked with gasoline. That Dean had never intended to tell him was clear. His own reaction was not. He wanted to kill someone-anyone-Dean was closest. Dean who'd not been strong or invincible, the way Sam had always thought. Dean had been vanquished. Taken. Vulnerable. And had lied-
"Why?" he asked into his hands. "Why didn't you tell me?" He couldn't even articulate what it was that he wanted Dean to have told him. Couldn't even begin to imagine what it had been like, to come back to this town, to come back to that school. To think Mr. Gunnarson was alive, only to find out that Mr. Gunnarson was the hunt. To hear Mr. Gunnarson's name on everyone's lips, being described and praised. And all the while only you knew what he was really like.
"Nothing to tell," said Dean. Sam looked up as Dean took another match and lit it and tossed it into the open grave. It caught right away, sending up an oily smoke that curled into the air like black and grey ribbons. When the fat in the body started to burn, Sam could smell it. He made himself get up and started to gather the papers.
"Don't read anything else, Sam," said Dean. "You hear?"
Sam nodded, not looking at his brother. The anger had left, leaving something dark and empty and helpless inside. He was shivering all up and down his body, could barely grasp the pieces of paper, crumpled them in his fist and went on picking them up till he couldn't hold any more. Then he went to the pit and tossed them in. Then went back for more. He was aching and the sun was going down by the time all the pieces of paper had been collected. They had quite a bonfire going by that time, but the flare of flame was thin and quick. Paper burned like that, even snow-damp paper, hot and full of promise but with no stamina.
At the very last, Sam saw the manila folder that had held all the papers. It was open in the snow, and paper clipped to the inside were two photographs. Dean was watching him, eyes wide, but didn't stop him. Sam picked it up. There was one photo of Dean standing on some steps in the sun with no coat and his flannel shirt tied around his waist. The sky was bright and there was no snow on the ground. It looked like it might be at the school because it had the same red bricks in the background, but Sam didn't know for sure. The other picture was of himself and Dean. There was a bus behind them, and in the picture he was looking up at Dean, a fierce, proud smile on his face. Dean was smiling back, but small, as though he were trying not to. Both photos had been taken with a telephoto lens. Sam had no doubt as to the photographer.
He took the photos out of the paperclip and slipped them inside his jacket, into the breast pocket of his shirt. "I'm keeping these," he said. He tossed the folder into the fire.
Dean nodded. "Are we done here?"
Like it was any job. Like it was just any job. Fury rose up in Sam like hot oil, but Dean had turned away and was sprinkling the rest of the salt on the smoking remains. Gunnarson wasn't walking this earth anytime soon or never, and Dean was silent, doing his job, his duty, taking care of responsibilities. But who had taken care of Dean? No one, apparently. Sam suddenly felt sick.
Dean picked up a shovel, and Sam did likewise while the sweat cooled along his back, under his arms. Together they filled in the grave. Sam resisted the urge to spit. Something was building inside of him so ugly and dark that he didn't know what to do with it. He wanted to hurt something, punch Dean, scream at the sky. But Dean was silent and businesslike, so Sam followed suit. When they were done, it was getting dark, and they patted the last mounds of dirt with the shovels, the metal clanging against dark damp stones, the smell of gasoline lurking under the earth.
Then Dean picked up the empty gas can, hoisted the shovel over his shoulder and jerked his chin at Sam. Sam picked up the salt can, gathered the gloves to stuff in his pockets, and curled his fingers around the shovel handle.
As Dean started to walk off, Sam asked, "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I told you already, Sam. There's nothing to tell. We're done here, let's go."
That was so far from the truth, such an obvious lie that Sam could barely contain his shout, the one that came up in his throat like a claw. But Dean was walking ankle-deep in snow down the hill towards the Impala, limping and slipping as the sun went down and Sam realized all at once that this had cost Dean more than either of them knew. Sam could see it now, and realized how many times he'd seen it before: the curl of Dean's shoulders, the unsteady gait, the dip of his head. Sam made himself walk now as Dean opened the trunk and put his shovel and the empty gas can in, tucking them down so they wouldn't rattle around.
Sam came up beside him, silent, putting his shovel next to Dean's, handing Dean the old milk jug they used for salt. Dean put them away, and not looking at Sam, slammed the trunk shut. He got in the car, started the engine, and without waiting for her to warm up, cranked the heat on full. Sam heard the click as he did this and hurried to get in the car. Not that Dean would leave him, but maybe he might forget that Sam was with him.
Once Sam was in, Dean sped the tires through the snow, now turning to ice and bumped them over the little hillock of dirt and onto the blacktop. The car smelled vaguely like gasoline and smoke. Dean was taking them back to the motel, by the feel of the direction, but Sam could barely look at him to ask. He had no idea what to say, now trapped inside the metal confines of the Impala, now barreling down Valmont as if the speed limit or the icy roads were of no consequence. Sam gripped the handle, pulled the gloves out to dump on the floor, and didn't say anything.
By the time Dean pulled up in front of their motel room it was full on dark. Dean turned off the lights and the engine, and they both sat there for a minute while the engine pinged into coolness.
"Dean."
"Sam."
"Dean, you-"
"Sam, we are not talking about this. I mean it."
"But Dean-"
Dean straightened up, hooked his hands on the steering wheel like it was a life preserver. He looked at Sam, eyes dark and very still, not even glinting in the near darkness. "But nothing. I'm not going to discuss it with you, and that's that."
He got out of the Impala and slammed the door behind him, leaving Sam in the dark, fast cooling cab, staring at his brother's silhouette as he unlocked the motel room door. Without glancing back, Dean shut the door behind him. Sam sat there for another minute, feeling blank. He had no idea what to do or to say, and felt the uncomfortable idea spin into his head that there was nothing he could do. Or say, especially not if Dean was unwilling to talk to him. And even if Dean did talk to him, Sam knew what Dean would say: It was years ago, Sam, there's nothing you can do, Sam, give it a rest, Sam.
He had to try anyway.
Once in the motel room, he leaned against the door as if blocking Dean's way out. Dean was already ensconced on his bed, boots off, TV on, perusing a handful of menus as if to determine which Chinese restaurant they would be ordering from that night.
"Can't we just get a pizza?" Sam asked. He heeled off his sneakers and bent to remove his socks, and his feet were instantly grateful to be on their way to a dryer state. A hot shower would feel pretty good right about now as well, but he had a feeling that it was now or never. "Pepperoni?"
Dean looked up at him and rolled his eyes and threw the menus on the bed.
"Order then. Whatever." He turned his attention to the clicker, moving through channels like he was sorting through diamonds.
Sam rubbed his face with one hand, and picked up a menu. Chinese. He tossed it aside. The second one was pizza, and he used his cell phone to order, extra cheese, pepperoni, garlic. Liter of coke. Done. The air was still and dry and except for the blare of the TV, it was quiet. Sam sat on the other bed, facing Dean. Dean kept his attention on the TV.
Sam leaned forward, and rested his elbows on his knees. In a very small voice, he asked, "Why didn't Dad do anything?" He wasn't looking at Dean but could feel the shift on the bed as Dean's body tightened.
"I told you not to start, Sam." This came out as a bark, as he knew it would.
"Well, I'm starting. Get over it," he said, responding in kind.
"And you're blaming Dad?"
Sam looked up. Dean was white, lips a thin line. Sam remembered this look from the time they talked to Dad's old garage partner, Mr. Gunther, and the irony was suddenly not lost on Sam. Gunther had almost called social services on John Winchester; the idea that anyone would think that John had been less than an ideal father always made Dean as prickly as a spiked collar.
"No, I'm not blaming Dad. But he should have noticed; I should have noticed."
There was a long pause while Dean breathed slowly in and out, holding on to his temper, the skin around his eyes tight. He was obviously going into that place where nothing bothered him or ever would. Sam had to catch him before he got there or the conversation was over before it started.
"Should have, would have, Sam, what does it matter, it was years ago."
Dean was also not looking at him, his attention carefully on the TV as if the conversation they were attempting to have, or rather that Sam was attempting to have and that Dean was attempting to avoid having, was quite the interruption to the very interesting commercial now on the screen.
"Well, for you it was years ago, but for me, it's right now," said Sam.
He got a reaction, but it was not the one he hoped. Dean, finally, turned to look at Sam and crossed his arms across his chest. "Get a clue, Sammy, this is not about you."
Sam felt hot all over, like he'd been caught poking around in Dean's private business for the fun of it. He made himself get up to push back the curtains and look through the steam on the windows for the pizza guy. The windowpane had ice along the edges. Sam ran a finger along one ridge; the window only had the one pane and the cold air was seeping through as easily as though the window had been made of cheesecloth. He checked the heater. Then turned around to look at Dean. He was about to open his mouth to apologize, but Dean was shifting on the bed, so he didn't.
"Besides," said Dean, as though he'd been reasonably sharing information all along. "Dad did ask. He asked several times, in fact, if everything was okay, so you can just cross him off your guilty list."
"What did he-how did-"
Dean shifted again, not looking at Sam. "He would just ask. Is-is everything okay. Son." Dean's voice cracked on this and he tightened his jaw. "My geography teacher asked too, so don't you stand there accusing everyone, especially Dad, of not paying attention because they did."
"And you told them everything was fine."
"Yes, Sam, I did."
"But why? Why would you do that?" It was inexplicable to him.
Someone knocked at the door and Sam couldn't move. He stood there and watched as Dean got up and performed the pizza ritual, handing over money for a box of already-cold pizza and warm soda. It would be his job to get the ice, so he reached for the ice bucket, slipped on Dean's unlaced boots and hustled down the walkway to the ice machine. Shivering he filled it up, too much in a hurry to care that he spilled half of it on the way back, his mind racing. Why would someone, with the offer of rescue, turn it down?
Back in the room, Dean was already enveloped in his own silence. Sam poured them both some coke in the plastic motel glasses, with plenty of ice for Dean to chew on. He sat on the edge of his bed and helped himself to pizza that he really didn't want to eat. It already had coagulated grease along the edge. Dean tore his way through three pieces and two glasses of coke, like Sam wasn't just sitting there watching him. Like he wasn't at all aware that he was really eating for the first time in almost a week. He was as impenetrable as a brick wall at that point, and Sam knew he'd been wrong to leave the room and let the moment pass.
"Dean."
He got silence as his answer, and he made himself look at his hands or the floor or anywhere but Dean.
"Why?" Sam asked. "Why when they asked didn't you say anything? When they could have helped you. Anyone."
Dean got up from the bed, crumbs and pizza ends flying. He stalked to the door, hand on the handle, like he wanted to go out. His shoulders made a hard line against the white of the wall, and then he turned to Sam.
"Welcome to my own private hell," he said, the skin around his mouth white. "It's twenty degrees below zero out there, the roads are sheets of ice. There is no where to go, and I'm trapped in a room with you, and you won't just shut the hell up about it."
Sam swallowed against the thickness in his throat. Sometimes, he felt like his brother's worst nightmare. He dipped his head, hair falling in his eyes, and maybe it was better that way. To not look. Maybe that would keep him from feeling, because to be removed from the sickening whirl inside his stomach, as it had been for hours, would have been a saintly relief. He had to curl his tongue against his teeth to keep his mouth still.
"I guess," he heard himself say, shocked at the roughness in his voice, "I don't understand it. Why you wouldn't just tell someone."
He heard Dean sigh. Saw the dip of the other bed out of the corner of his eye and waited. Then he lifted his head. Dean was sitting on the far edge of his bed, back curled, facing away, his hands clasped together.
"I always understood," Dean said, "always have, why women stay with guys who beat them."
He stopped, and Sam opened his mouth to ask what the hell he was talking about but realized that he'd gotten Dean going. That he was actually going to hear what was going on in Dean's head.
"If you're in that-if you got a guy beating on you, if you've got something like-like that, then you think it's you. Or you're-you don't want to admit it's happening. It's your fault. You brought it on. You think you should be able to handle it."
"Dean, you were 12."
"Doesn't matter. I should have handled it."
"You should have told Dad." Sam couldn’t help it. Dad would have split the earth getting to Gunnarson, had he found out.
Dean was still for a moment, so still that Sam thought the conversation was over at that point because Sam had brought up, yet again, the fact that Dad hadn't done anything about it. Then he watched Dean shaking his head, as if he were talking to himself and disagreeing. The heater kicked on at that moment, and Sam thought that he'd missed something Dean had said. He moved closer. Dean looked up, looked at Sam over his shoulder.
"I didn't tell Dad," he said, his eyes a little blank. There was a sudden sweat dappling his hairline, still gritty from the dig. "Even when he asked me, because some days, I just didn't remember what had happened at school."
This almost made sense. It didn't explain everything, but if Dean was blacking out at what had been happening to him, that would make it harder to get help.
"Frankly," said Dean, "sometimes all I remembered was walking home from school with you. Every day. Just you and me. Faces into the wind." Dean shifted and pulled back into himself, looking at the TV like they had not just been talking.
Sam knew he was going to loose it. Either start screaming or bawling or punching. Maybe all three, all at once. He remembered those walks, how Dean had acted like everything was okay. Even when Sam would ask him, like that time Dean had been walking slowly, too slowly for Dean, and Dean had said he was fine. When he was the last thing from fine. Sam felt the blood pound behind his eyes as he watched Dean pull himself back against the headboard, and pick up the remote as if he'd only just casually brushed pizza remains from the bed and was going to watch TV now. Was in fact, watching it, clicking on the remote, spinning through channels as he always did.
Sam stood up, pricks of heat behind his eyes as his blood felt like it was boiling up his spine. "Are you made of stone?" he demanded, almost shouting. "Aren't you angry? Don't you feel anything?"
"Get a grip, Sam," said Dean, his voice dark. "I've had enough."
Sam did. He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. He stripped down to his skin and got in before the water was hot. For a moment he stood there, letting the water rush over him, the steam building up, feeling like his brain was made of nothing but mush. He leaned his forehead against the tile that was inexplicably still cool, beaded with scummy sweat, smelling like cheap cleanser. And the images rose.
When he was a kid, Dean had been the older brother you saw on old TV shows. Bristle haired, freckled, and the perfect hellion with a smile he seemed to save for Sam. There was no one more powerful than Dean; Sam remembered that. Now he knew better. Knew that a 12-year-old boy was made of nothing but bones and hope.
Thunk.
He was rocking, his head tapping the tiles, enough to distract his brain, enough to keep him where he was when his brain wanted nothing more than to take a walk into darkness. Where Gunnarson, features still clear from the photo in the file, with his crew cut and big glasses, pushed Dean around. Scared him into silence. Took off his clothes. Did things to him.
Thunk. Thunk.
The showerhead lurched above him as someone on the floor above flushed a toilet and the water pressure changed. Sam braced himself for a hard dash of cold but didn't move out of the way when it happened. He wanted it to help. Wanted it to shock him enough to make it stop. But it was only a lukewarm shift and then back to hot again. There was never cold water when you needed it.
Thunk. Thunk.
He saw Dean's freckled cheeks and the still round, still young face. Like the one in the photo Sam had found, where Dean regarded the world around him with a kind of stillness that made him seem old. But at 12. At 12 he couldn’t have fought off Gunnarson, not even with Dad's training. A kid shouldn't have to deal with that. Dean Winchester, with everything else he'd been through, would go through, shouldn’t have had to deal with that. Someone should have stopped it. No one did.
Thunk. Thunk.
There was a knock at the door.
"Knock it off, Sammy."
Dean.
"What." Sam snapped this out around a mouthful of water, head down, his eyes shut.
"You're shaking the place down. And either you're punching the walls or doing that thing with your head, but stop it. It won't do any good and it doesn't matter anyway."
Dean's voice echoed against the tiles, and Sam felt something flick on inside of him, a hot roil combing against his ribs, slipping up to encase his heart. He couldn’t turn the shower off fast enough, couldn’t pull dry clothes over wet skin quick enough. The door handle turned too slowly; he pulled hard, something in the doorjamb shattered.
He burst out of the bathroom, hair dripping on his t-shirt that stuck to his skin, feet bare on the greasy carpet.
"Dude," said Dean, getting up from the bed and putting his back to the wall. "What is your problem?"
Sam took a breath, trying to keep a rein on himself. "You were molested, Dean. You hear me? Molested. And no matter how much you try to ignore it, it hasn't gone away. It won't go away." He stopped, heart thumping like it was sucking everything into itself, every ounce of air and blood and feeling. "What happened to you. It's making me crazy."
"Then stop thinking about it. I have."
This made absolutely no sense to Sam. Dean could not truly believe that if you never thought about it, then the bad thing never happened. Could he? Sam shook his head, water droplets flying to hit his arms, his bare feet.
"I'm in that shower, Dean," said Sam. He pointed at the bathroom. His hand shook. "The worst images are coming to my head. They won't let me-if you could just tell me what happened. If I knew, then I could-”
"So you want to know if he fucked me up the ass, is that it?" Dean smirked. "Pervert."
Sam lunged at Dean. Grabbed him by the arms and pushed him hard up against a bare bit of wall. Dean was opened-mouthed, mouth quivering like he was trying not to smile because Sam was acting stupid and emotional, like he always did. As if he hadn't been expecting this, Sam to come barreling out of the bathroom, flinging water, spitting fire.
"Dean, it's not funny." He felt the fury biting at him. Of course, Dean would make a joke of it, like he did everything that became even remotely serious. "I've put up with your weird shit for four days. Four days, Dean. And you never said a word." He dug his fingers into Dean's skin, part of him thinking that if he could force Dean to hear him, if he could just make him listen. "If you had said no, for whatever reason, I wouldn't have taken the job. We could have left it alone, gone after something else. Walked away from it. We could have-"
He stopped and released a little of the pressure on Dean's arms. There were marks there now, turning red and then purple. Dean didn't wince. He was looking at Sam. Watching to see which way he would jump.
"Why didn't you, Dean? Why didn't you stop this, any of this?" He gave Dean a little shake and then let him go. He thought about freshly dug graves and salt. About gasoline and matches. Then all of a sudden, Sam figured it out. "I know why."
Dean's throat moved as he swallowed. His eyes were wide. "Why?" Like Sam was going to tell him something he wanted to know.
Sam worked his jaw, trying to loosen whatever was climbing up from his chest. "Because you wanted me to know. You wanted me to find out."
"No, Sammy." This came out of Dean like a gunshot. "Never, I never wanted you to know."
Sam shook his head and stepped back. "You're not even remotely clever, Dean. You were acting just like you did back then. Cold all the time. Not eating. Instead of nightmares, you never slept. I never saw it when I was little, but it makes sense now." He paused. "And the matches? Dean, if you really didn't want me to find out he had a file on you? You would have waited till I got all the way down the hill before you tried to set it on fire."
In those eyes, in his brother's eyes, something moved, something shifted, and it was Dean who looked away. Tucking his head down to his shoulder, mouth closing.
Sam reached out. Touched him in the middle of his chest. "Don't do that. Tell me." He let his fingers linger. "If our roles were reversed," he began, hardly recognizing his own voice. "If you were me-you'd want the same."
But the truth was, he didn't want any of it. It was too dark and too bizarre, and he could just imagine what Dad would say, were he there. Dad would have a hairy fit, and salting and burning would have been too good for Gunnarson. If he could have turned back the clock and not caught Dean setting that folder on fire, would he? And let Dean continue to carry that weight that he didn't even realize he'd been carrying? No, even to save himself from its ugliness, Sam could not do it.
"Yeah," he said now. "I need to know."
"Okay," said Dean. "But after this, after today, we're not talking about it."
Sam nodded. Of course, Dean could insist on that, and Sam could agree, but even if it was a lie, if it got Dean talking, it would be worth it. He stepped backwards another step. The carpet beneath his feet was soggy.
"Go over-" Dean pointed to one of the chairs on the other side of the room. It wasn't far, it wasn't a big room, but the chair faced the wall. Faced the wall and not Dean. "And don't-"
Dean didn't finish the sentence but Sam knew what he wanted. He was going to talk, because Sam wanted it and because maybe Sam had been right about everything else, but he didn't want to be watched while he did it. Sam went to the table, ducked under the low hanging light fixture with the chain that had collected enough dust to look like a patina, and pulled out the fake wooden chair. Sitting down in it felt like sitting down in a thousand chairs just like it. He planted his elbows on the table and used his hands to press against the side of his forehead. Like he had a headache; not like he was putting blinkers on for his brother. Watched the water drip on the table from his hair in round, silver circles. And waited.
Part 9