Hope
Title: "Hope."
Genre: Gen, curtain!fic.
Warnings: Language and some violence.
Words: 4,045..
Summary: Posted in response to a delicious prompt by ladybastet92: "Curtain!fic. Sam volunteers at an animals shelter to help keep himself sane, and he always comes home to go on and on to Dean about this stupid dog he's apparently fallen in love with, making him smile more often than he has in years, so yeah, maybe Dean decided to adopt the goddamn dog already for the boy's birthday, sue him. Bonus points for uber-feeling-sensitive dog, licking Sam's hand when he zones out to hell for a minute, cuddling with him after seizures, ect."
A/N: - Didn't really stick completely to the prompt, but I'm not convinced that this isn't going to develop into a nice little 'verse of its own... these comment-fic memes are killing me!
*
Dean Winchester had, honestly, never pegged himself as the settling down type.
When Sam had made him promise to go and live with Lisa and Ben, the thought of it had made his hands tremble, but he'd promised his brother because Sam had looked so peaceful at the idea of Dean having the life that he'd never quite accomplished for himself. It was a selfish reason for turning up on the doorstep of a woman who he'd only ever spent a few weeks with max, and a child that wasn't his and certainly didn't deserve to be tugged around, but Dean had never been able to break a promise to his brother. The thought of Sam one day clawing himself from the pit (and Dean refused to believe that it would never happen, because Sammy always found a way) to find that Dean had been unable to give him his dying wish made him feel physically sick.
So he stayed. He threw a tarp over the Impala, unable to look at his baby without Sam right there beside him, and did everything that was expected of him. He drove Ben to soccer and baseball practice, held Lisa's hand in public and threw barbecues that the whole neighbourhood was invited to. He got a job, went out for drinks with his co-workers, laughed at jokes and smiled in all the right places, but he never really settled.
There was always that notion in his head, that little part of him that reasoned that, it's just until Sammy gets back. It was co-dependent, twisted and everything that high school councillors from fifty states had tried to talk to their father about, and Dean didn't care.
And then, one day, he answered the door to find Sammy stood on his doorstep.
He was skinny, ripped clothes hanging from his frame and his bare feet were scratched to ribbons. He'd been half out of his mind, trapped between memories of the cage and what was really happening, and he'd somehow still managed to drag himself from Stull cemetery to Dean's house. Dean had never been happier in his life, and when Lisa had returned to work that night it had been to the two brothers sitting on the couch, Sam shuddering and sniffling.
Dean had packed his bag and left that very same night, the Impala's engine thrumming as she ate up the blacktop, and his baby brother sat by his side.
*
Their house was a modest, two-storey number in the middle of reasonably sized town. Three bedrooms, a large garden and a spacious garage for Dean to park the Impala in, she fit all of their needs in a way that the long string of motel rooms and run-down properties never quite had. Most importantly, the town was quiet enough for Sam to feel safe, but big enough that no-one really paid much attention to the newcomers beyond welcoming them.
Bobby helped Dean fix it up, driving down from South Dakota and taking in the sight of Sam with tears in his eyes. Perhaps it was selfish that Dean had never taken the time to drive Sam over to see him, and that it had been three weeks of struggling through a daily routine with Sam by his side before he’d even thought to pick up the phone, but Bobby didn’t mention it. Instead, he helped where he could and stepped back when Sam had an episode - let himself blend into the background whilst Sam clung to his brother.
He’d left after two weeks, with a command to phone once a week no matter what, and a letter of recommendation for the auto-repair shop in time that Dean was thinking of applying for work at. Since there was no way that they could go as Winchesters, he’d left it in the name Dean Singer.
After another week of thinking it through, Dean applied for the job. When he was called into the interview, he told the manager - Timmy - in no uncertain terms that if Sammy called, or if something happened at home, he wouldn’t hesitate to leave. If he was honest, he figured there wasn’t much chance of getting the job after that.
Timmy, who had an epileptic son of his own, gave him the job on the spot.
The first day of work, Dean was like an anxious mother leaving her child for the first time; he kept running over things that could go wrong in his head, left his mobile and the number for the shop on the fridge, the coffee table in the longue and on Sam’s bedside table. By the time he was pulling the Impala into his designated parking space and heading inside, he had half a mind to turn back.
“I take it you haven’t left him alone before.” Timmy smiled, gently steering him towards an old Camaro. “No worries. If it gets too much, you’re more than welcome to phone him or just let me know and you can head back and check on him, alright?”
More than a little embarrassed, Dean had just nodded his head.
When he’d gotten home, it was to find that Sam had cut the grass in the back garden and had begun building a slightly wonky birdhouse out of the scraps of wood left over from Dean and Bobby’s renovation job. He seemed content enough, whittling away carefully at a large chunk of wood with one of their father’s old knives to make something faintly resembling a bird.
“There’s dinner in the oven,” He told Dean, tilting his head towards the house. “And I did the laundry. I put yours on your bed.”
“Such a good housewife,” Dean teased, doing his best to hide his relief at the fact that Sam really did seem alright. “Anything interesting happen while I was gone?”
“Everything was fine, Dean,” Sam said knowingly. “Grab your dinner and come eat out here. You can tell me what it was like to be a working man again.”
Dinner was mac and cheese, with little hot dogs cut up into it the way that Dean had always done when they were kids. In his usual OCD manner, Sam hadn’t mixed them in, but instead used them to line Dean’s bowl at regular intervals and then, in the middle, had used them to draw a smiley face.
Dean allowed himself, for the first time, to think to himself that the two of them might just be alright.
*
Erin Hartley was their neighbour to the left. Middle aged and with a friendly smile, her husband - Andrew - worked at the shop with Dean, and she frequently sent him in to work with a plateful of her delicious, homemade brownies for Sam and Dean. The elder of the two was grateful for the fact that she didn’t try and give them to Sam when he wasn’t there; though Sam was getting better, being around other people without Dean there typically led to him becoming overwhelmed and, eventually, tended to trigger an episode.
It seemed that Erin had sense enough to figure that out for herself, though neither she nor Andrew mentioned why she delivered the baked goods through her husband.
Unexpectedly, Dean found that he was actually making friends, and the Hartley’s quickly integrated themselves into his life. Andrew always made a point in inviting him when the guys from work went out for a few beers, though Dean never failed to turn him down in his desire to get back to his brother, and when he ran into Erin around town she always did her best to engage him in conversation.
And then, one day, she turned up at the shop looking a little nervous and headed straight for Dean. Andrew didn’t seem too surprised to see her, so Dean figured that there probably wasn’t something wrong with Sam, and relaxed a little.
“Hi, Erin.” He smiled. “What are you doing here? Bringing some more of those brownies?”
The woman smiled, but shook her head.
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you.” She sounded nervous, and Dean found himself back on full alert, shoulder’s squared and ready for anything that she was going to throw at him. “About Sam.”
“What about him?” Dean said evenly, fully aware that he was being rude, but unable to stop the impulse.
“Well, you know I work at the shelter, right?”
Dean nodded.
“Well, they’re looking for some more volunteers. You just sign up and come whenever but, well… I know things are difficult for him, especially with the PTSD and the seizures, but I thought maybe you could talk to him about maybe applying? Or I could, whatever you think is best.”
Dean frowned. “Erin, look. I really appreciated the gesture; I’m just not sure that it’s a great idea. Sam’s episodes are… unpredictable. We have no idea what could set him off, or how a shelter full of animals would react to one.”
“I understand your concerns, I really do. Just… do me a favour and read over the stuff I printed off for you?”
She sounded earnest enough, rifling through her bag until she came up with a wad of papers, which she placed on the rickety old table a few steps away, to avoid Dean getting car grease on them.
“If Sam doesn’t want to do it, or you think it’s too risky, then I fully understand. There’s no pressure or anything, I just… thought you should have the choice.”
She retreated hastily, carefully navigating her way through the shop and pausing to exchange a few words with Andrew and give him a quick kiss before disappearing from view all together. Dean watched her go, his eyes finally falling on the pile of paper.
He got off work at three, and fifteen minutes later, found himself sitting in the Impala in the garage of their house, reading through the papers. Erin had clearly done her research, and Dean tried his best not to analyse why she would go to all of this trouble too deeply.
The pile of papers contained articles and journals on the effects of working with animals on people with PTSD, print outs of the shelter’s policies and rules, information on what was expected of a volunteer. At the bottom of the pile, neatly stapled together, were the application forms, a name and number scrawled on a piece of paper that had been paper clipped to the front.
Dean shoved them in the glove box and headed inside, tried not to feel like he was betraying Sam by not telling him. The truth was, he just didn’t want to get his brother’s hopes up; he wanted to talk to the manager first, explain the situation and check that everything would be okay before putting Sam in a position where he thought that it might be a done deal.
The woman he spoke to on the phone that evening - after he’d watched Sam retreat to his bedroom, yawning widely - was friendly, and didn’t seem at all fazed by Dean’s questions.
“We understand that it’s an unusual situation,” Shelly informed him carefully. “But I assure you that we’ll all do our best to make it as comfortable for your brother as possible. If Sam has an episode, we’ll contact you immediately, and follow any kind of procedure that you feel necessary. Erin and I have spoken a lot over the past few days, and I truly feel that something like this could be beneficial for him.”
Nodding his head, Dean placed the papers on the kitchen table and retired to bed. The next morning, before he went to work, he went through all of the papers with his brother and made sure he understood exactly what would be expected of him; that he’d be working with strangers, but that he could tell them if at any time he got overwhelmed. That Dean would only ever be a phone call away, and that the shelter was close enough to the auto shop that he could be there in a matter of minutes.
He left Sam to think it over, and when he came home Sam was sitting at the kitchen table, dutifully filling out the paperwork.
He was smiling wider than he had in years.
They planned Sam’s first trip to the shelter so that it was a Saturday. Dean went with him, sitting with him through the induction process and dutifully accompanying him on his jobs throughout the day. The staff were friendly, and Shelly had obviously taken the time to talk to them about Sam, because they kept a respectful distance from him. They didn’t, however, treat him like glass and Dean was grateful for that.
The kennel blocks where Sam had been assigned were loud, and for one heart-stopping moment, Sam had paused in the doorway and Dean had genuinely thought that he’d made the worst decision ever in bringing him. Then Sam had headed slowly forwards, taking the time to peer into each cage as he passed, gently reaching out to stroke the dogs who approached him as best as he could through the bars of their cages.
Shelly, leading the way through the block, met Dean’s eyes and smiled.
*
They fell into a routine. Sam went to the shelter on weekdays, Dean dropping him off on the way to the shop and picking him up on the way home. Sam was always smiling, regaling him with stories about the crazy things that the dogs had gotten up to, or stories about those that had find a home.
And then, one day, Sam got into the car frowning.
“What’s wrong?” Dean asked immediately. “Did something happen?”
Sam shifted uncomfortably.
“It’s stupid,” He warned. “It’s just… someone brought this puppy in today. Just a little thing - the guy said that he’d found her dumped in his trash can. He nearly threw his trash in on top of her. She’s a mess. They were trying to give her shots and check her over and she was whimpering and shaking the whole time.”
Dean frowns, glancing at his brother out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps working in a shelter wasn’t the best thing for him - not if he was going to come home this upset.
“But she’ll be alright now, right?” Dean prompted. “I mean, the guy brought her in, so at least she’s in good hands. She’ll get a nice new home where people will actually take care of her.”
Sam nodded, but he still seemed distracted.
“I don’t get it.” Dean confessed after a few moments. “I mean, you must see this stuff all of the time, right? Why has this one gotten to you so much?”
“I don’t know.” Sam sighed. “I guess… she was watching me, as the guys were fussing around her. I swear to god she never looked away, and when I took her back to her cage she seemed to calm down. It felt like…”
“Like you had a connection?” The words are teasing, but the tone feels off, and Dean instantly regrets making fun of something that so clearly means so much to his brother. Part of him expects Sam to flip out; give him the bitchface or throw a tantrum, but instead, his brother just smiles.
“I told you it’s stupid,” He replied. “It’ll just be nice to see her go to a new home.”
Dean was reluctant to drop Sam off the next morning, worried by the idea that something might have happened to the puppy overnight, and that the news would set Sam off. He dawdled so much that he nearly made both of them late, but eventually Sam’s good mood won out and he dropped him in front of the shelter with a quick, muted prayer to a God that probably wasn’t even listening.
When he came back that afternoon, Sam looked happy again.
“I got to name her,” He told Dean as he climbs into the Impala, and Dean was suddenly struck with memories of a much younger Sam, face covered in childlike excitement and glee. “Mandy says since I work every weekday, I might as well be considered one of the full-week staff, which gets me naming privileges.”
His tone made it clear that it’s a big deal, and Dean felt genuinely happy for him - loved seeing the happy side to Sam that’s remained hidden for far too long. It’s sickening to think that he can’t remember the last time Sam really laughed.
“Congrats, man,” Dean grinned. “I think this calls for a takeout.”
He steered the car away from their house, towards the local chines takeout, with Sam smiling happily in the passenger seat.
It wasn’t until they were settling down at the kitchen table with their food that he remembered to ask Sam what he named the puppy; in all of the excitement he’d almost forgotten.
Sam blushed bright red at the question, eyes falling to his plate, and Dean almost expected him to come out with some ridiculous, fancy name. Instead, hesitated for a few more seconds before reluctantly replying.
“Hope.” He answers after a few moments, tone sincere. “I named her Hope.”
*
Sam raved about Hope. Where he used to regale Dean with tales of successful adoptions or funny mishaps, he now beamed about the progress that Hope was making - no longer quite as afraid of people, responding to her name, playing well with other dogs, and even the new tricks that she’d learnt. Dean listened carefully, but the thing that really struck him was the difference in Sam.
He still had frequent episodes, and they’re certainly not any easier for him to handle - probably never will be, if Dean’s honest - but it was the change in him the rest of the time that was startling. For the first time since his brother leapt headfirst into the pit, Dean caught glimpses of the Sammy he used to know - the same wide grin, the flash of dimples. The happy light in his eyes.
It was amazing, watching as it happened. And then, one day, Dean got a phone call at work.
“It’s Sam.” Shelly told him carefully, and Dean was in the Impala before Timmy can so much as snatch the dirty rag from his shoulder. He made it to the shelter in record time, and Shelly was there waiting for him. She took him to his brother quickly, leading him through the kennel block and to the small room at the end where they go to train the dogs.
Dean went to push the door open, and she stopped him.
“Be careful,” She warned. “Hope hasn’t let anyone near him since he went down. Mandy’s gone to get the catch pole.”
Dean was honest enough to admit that he didn’t care, and he pushed the door open without another thought.
Sam was in the far corner of the room, propped up between the two walls, and he regarded Dean’s entrance with bleary eyes. In front of him, a decent sized dog with dark grey fur was positioned protectively, sides shaking as she growled. Dean headed forwards regardless, unable to resist the big brother instinct in him, screaming at him to go to his brother.
“Sammy?” He called gently. “Hey, Sammy, how are you doing?”
Hope growled louder for a moment, and then stopped all together, stepping back a little to let Dean a little closer. She sniffed delicately at Dean’s hand for a few moments, and then licks it softly and moves completely out of the way - nudging in next to Sam. His arm falls over her back, and Sam almost instantly looks a little steadier.
“Hey there, buddy.” Dean muttered, sliding in on the kid’s other side. “I’m here, alright. Everything’s gonna be okay now.”
There was a few moments of silence where Sam just studied him, eyes a little glassy and his entire body vibrating with the strength of his trembling, and then he tipped sideways into Dean, burying his head into his big brother’s neck.
Dean couldn’t hide his surprise; it normally took a minimum of ten minutes to talk Sam around, particularly after a full-blown seizure. His eyes fell on Hope, on the way that Sam was still holding her pressed against his side, fingers occasionally clenching and unclenching in her fur, and distantly, he wondered.
He wasn’t a stranger to the idea of therapy dogs, after all, that kind of thinking had been the entire reasoning behind Sam volunteering at the shelter, but they were all trained professionals. For a dog like Hope, still just a puppy, to fall so easily into that role? Dean didn’t know if it was possible - even if he had just witnessed the results with his own eyes.
Dean didn’t know, so he settled for what he did know - cradling Sam close to his chest and holding him there until the violent trembles slowed. Only when Sam had come back to himself a little did Dean coax him to his feet and, eventually, towards the Impala. On the drive home, his thoughts drifted more than once to that small dog, left behind to spend the night in a cold kennel, and despite everything, he began to plan.
*
Sam had been reluctant to celebrate his birthday, but Dean had insisted. Hell and angels and demon blood and deals had already taken too much from them, and he refused to let Sam’s birthday be just another thing that they’d lost along the way. They celebrated quietly, just the two of them, and in place of a birthday cake, Dean had Erin bake potentially the world’s biggest ever brownie.
Despite his protests, Sam seemed to enjoy himself. They pigged out on junk food like they had when they were teenagers, and watched movies - laughing and teasing each other. At half five, Dean ordered his brother to put his jacket on, and Sam looked nervous for the first time all day.
“Why?” He asked, tone partly curious and partly concerned. Dean waved him off, leading him to the Impala and ignoring all of his brother’s questions about where they were going as he neatly steering her from their drive and towards the park.
“Dean?” Sam queried upon seeing their destination, looking more than a little relieved that Dean hadn’t dragged him to a diner or bar, or somewhere decidedly quiet, as if his brother would do that to him. “What are we doing here?”
“You’ll see.” Dean grinned, climbing out of the car and waiting for Sam to follow him before heading towards the wooded area. The trail in there was windy, and knowing that sometimes the sensation of not knowing his way set Sam off, Dean had arranged to meet Shelly just inside the fringe of trees.
“Is that…” Sam trailed off, turning to Dean for confirmation as he finally caught a glimpse of the middle-aged woman and, more importantly, the dog sat at her feet. “Hope?”
Dean smiled, watching as his brother dropped to his knees to make a fuss of the dog for a few moments, before turning questioning eyes on his brother.
“I don’t understand.” He confessed.
Dean shrugged. “Everyone deserves a special present on their birthday. Especially you. I talked to Shelly, and she cleared everything up for us. Hope is officially one of us now.”
Sam blinked for a few seconds, turning his eyes to the dog.
“I don’t understand.” Sam repeated, unconsciously bending a little to run his hand through Hope’s fur. The dog appears to almost glow at the contact, arching her back into Sam’s hand to prolong it.
“She’s coming to live with us,” Dean explained again, laughing a little and offering his brother a patient smile. “You wanted her to go to a good home, right? Well, she’s got one now.”
Sam seems almost confused, glancing between Dean and the pup for a few moments as if trying to work it out. It would be funny if it wasn’t so goddamn sad.
Finally, his eyes land on his brother, and he smiles, bright and wide.
“Dean, I don’t…” Dean pretends not to notice when Sam’s eyes fill up, and the younger man takes a moment to collect himself before smiling again.
“Thank you.”
*
For those of you who are interested, this is how I picture Hope.
