Just One Fix (1/?)
This was written for the lovel ephemerall who not only provided the prompt for this story, but also gently nudged me along the writing process. Hope you like it! This is the first of a few parts (I have three written so far!) Title taken from Ministry's song of the same name, particularly the lines:
"Life keeps slipping awa
Fighting in a war with damnatio
Poised, keep cutting awa
I'm looking in through to salvatio
Just one fix ."
Warnings: canon character death, drug use, descriptions of withdrawal, (highlight to read more - spoilers! suicidal ideation/behaviour and overdose.
The thing is, Dean and Sam were best friends as kids. They’d have the occasional squabble over the red truck or the building blocks, but mostly they got along like a house on fire. At family dinners, Mary always laughs as she recalls the two of them, talks about how Sam was Dean’s shadow, a hint of sadness in her eyes when she looks at them across the table.
She regales stories of the mischief that they’d gotten into; the time that little Sammy had eaten an entire King-size chocolate bar and Dean had sworn blind that it was him, even though his brother was wearing the evidence as clear as day. The day that Dean had been slightly over-adventurous and gotten stuck up a tree, so his little brother had constructed a less-than sturdy ladder from fallen branches to get him down. The day that they’d found a kitten in the park and smuggled it into the house, kept it in the garage for two days feeding it scraps of chicken and ham.
The fixings of their childhood were happy; their relationship easy and without fault. They trusted each other completely, would have given their lives in a heartbeat, were best friends as well as brothers.
Dean’s not sure when that changed, really.
Probably around the time that he first started hanging out with Debbie and Jackson and their crew in the later years of High School, stealing draws of Jacks’ cigarettes even though he hated the taste and skipping lessons just to prove that he had the balls.color:#2A2A2A">
Debbie had taken one look at little, twelve-year-old Sammy tagging along behind his brother and sneered, told Dean that it wasn’t cool to have his little brother following around. Sam had blinked up at the older girl, entirely unfazed and expecting Dean to defend him - looking at the small group of teenagers before him, Dean had said nothing. Over time, that distance developed into the kind of relationship where Dean had once blamed his brother for crashing the car when it had been him, saying nothing when his brother carried out his grounding without a word against Dean. He’d even gone as far as to lift his brother’s ATM card and pretty much wiped him clean without feeling a smidgen of regret.color:#2A2A2A">
Actually, the last one was probably the booze.
In Dean’s experience, a good night out has always consisted of three things: loud music, good booze and pretty people. That’s probably why it took him a while to notice the gradual shift from drinking when he went out, to consuming almost the same amount when he was just sat at home watching TV.
In the end, it was Carmen who pointed it out.
She had started out, like countless others before her, as nothing more than a one-night stand. Only, she didn’t take the hint like they did: she kept calling, not pressuring him but insisting that they could at least be friends, and suddenly the two of them are sharing an apartment and spending every night wrapped around each other.
“It’s not healthy,” She’d said one evening, eyeing the beer bottle in Dean’s hand critically before dropping her eyes to the three empties at his feet. “You need to sort it out.”color:#2A2A2A">
He’d laughed her off, not in the habit of really listening to women when it came to the important stuff. The next evening when it got to ten o’clock, he opened the fridge and his hand skipped straight over the beer and picked up a soda.color:#2A2A2A">
Sometimes, Dean has strange dreams.
He dreams that when he was four, a demon fed its blood to his brother and killed his mother - pinned her to the ceiling and gutted her, moments before he set fire to their entire house; he dreams that his father couldn’t cope. That he hit the bottle, hard, and didn’t resurface much for the next fourteen years; that Dean was left to raise his brother, and that his brother loved him for it.
He dreams that he and his brother are hunters (hunting things, saving people), that they drive around in the Impala and hunt down vampires and werewolves. He dreams that their father was killed by a demon, rather than a stroke; that Sam can see the future and that their dad’s best friend is a gruff old man that owns a salvage yard.
He dreams that they spent weekends staying in the home of a Pastor named Jim, and that they were transient - never had a home, and never really wanted one. He dreams of spending nights sprawled on the bonnet of his baby, a beer in one hand and his brother by his side, the stars winking down on them. He dreams of stolen fireworks and the fourth of July, of a much younger Sammy hugging him tight around the waist and holding on.color:#2A2A2A">
Mostly, Dean dreams that he and Sam actually like each other.
At first, he ignores it. It’s just another thing in his life that suddenly doesn’t make sense - another consequence of the mistakes he made in High School. A longing for the relationship that he’d once had with his brother. A relationship that he’d destroyed.
It takes a few months for him to realise that he doesn’t have to ignore those feelings - that he really could have a better relationship, if not the one from his dreams, with his brother.color:#2A2A2A">
They all go to their house in Lawrence for Mary’s birthday, and at the meal Sam and Jess make their announcement. Engagement. Dean feels a little sick, because Sam had never evenmentionedit; by the look of surprise on his face when he sees the hurt on Dean’s, he’d never even considered it.
Carmen’s hand finds his under the table, and he can barely bring himself to squeeze back as he finally makes sense of what he’s done to his family. Realises the different ways that he’s torn them all apart without realizing it, realises how he’s always managed to make every significant moment in Sam’s life about him.
Sleeping with his prom date, skipping his graduation; hell, the day that Sam told his parents that he’d scored a full ride to Stanford, Dean had gone out and gotten so wasted that Mary had panicked and driven him to the ER.
His mother’s eyes are locked on him, concerned despite Dean’s past transgressions, and Sam’s hand finds his elbow.
“You alright, man?” He asks casually, the tone belying the tight grip on Dean’s arm, as if his little brother is preparing to support him any moment, expecting Dean to keel over. He remembers his dad doing just that, the look on Sam’s face when the eighteen-year-old had caught his father’s body and realised that he wasn’t breathing.color:#2A2A2A">
“Not really,” Dean breathes, turning to lock his eyes with his brother. “Just… I’m sorry, dude. For everything - all of the shit that’s happened between us. And congratulations.”color:#2A2A2A">
Sam’s eyes widen, and for a brief second Dean can see that kid that used to worship him, and then his brother’s expression changes to suspicious and he simply nods his head.color:#2A2A2A">
Across the table, Mary sighs.
It’s three o’clock of the next morning when Dean is startled out of slumber by the sound of his phone ringing. Groaning slightly, he fumbles for the device without opening his eyes, flipping it open and bringing it to his ear even as he flops back down onto his pillow - hearing Carmen grumbling under her breath.
“Dean?”color:#2A2A2A">
It’s his mother’s voice, true enough, but the first thing that Dean registers is the fear. He sits upright so fast that his head spins, already twisting his legs over the edge of the bed and stumbling to his feet.
“What’s going on?” He asks, mind desperately whirring - trying to find a possible reason for the late night phone call and the panicked tone. He doesn’t like any of the reasons his mind comes up with.
“You need to come to the hospital,” She tells him, normally rich voice choked with tears and a sob echoes through the phone. “It’s Sam.”
