#5 - Veteran.
#5 - Veteran.
It’s not the first time that Grayson’s ended up in the drunk tank.
It’s a small town, true enough - really nothing more than a small blip on the map, close enough to the highway for a motel, but far enough away that strangers aren’t too common - but that doesn’t mean that you can’t find trouble and, well, Gray seems to have a knack for that. He’s fifty-two now, and his wife tells him he’s still got the heart of a rebellious teen; she’ll be frowning when she comes to get him in the morning, no doubt, but she’ll have pancakes laid out on the table for when he gets in.
He’s a lucky man, having a woman like Marge, and he knows it.
“Don’t worry about it,” Sherriff Wilson’s voice comes from outside the door, and Grayson sighs. There goes his hope that he’ll have the place to himself tonight. “I’ll just drop these boys off and head right out. Keep an eye, alright? According to Shelley, they’re drifters, and she swears blind that the older one was trying to hustle pool before the fight. As if they even could - the two of them are fallin’ down drunk, I’m surprised they even remember their own names.”
Grayson can’t blame him for not paying much attention to what Shelley said - the lady, for all that she means well, is without doubt the town’s biggest gossip.
The door clanked open and, not for the first time, Grayson wondered why it was thick steel with a viewing plate rather than the normal bars of a jail cell. It’d be nice to be able to get a look at the people he was gonna be sharing a cell with for the night before they were all thrown in together like fish in a barrel. Wilson nodded at Gray, offering him a slight smile and an eye roll as he nudged one guy into the room and tugged another by his arm; Gray offered him a slight wave, turning his attention to the boys whilst the door swung shut.
The two of them had staggered impressively as the sheriff had thrown them into the cell, but they didn’t move after they’d caught themselves, just swayed slightly. They were slightly to the left of the door, nearly in the middle of the room, and their eyes were trained on Wilson as he shut the door. Gray could smell the alcohol on them (and himself, now that he’d spent four hours in this godforsaken place and was decidedly more sober) but - dramatic entrance aside - they sure as hell didn’t seem drunk enough for the tank. Gray’s guess was that they were more like bloody good actors - maybe good old Shelley hadn’t missed the mark on these boys.
The shorter one had been the first in, the shaggy-haired one trailing a few steps behind, and they were stood close together, shifting their weight with the same synchronised movements. Brothers, Gray decided, or lovers.
“Stupid fuckin’ dickhead,” The shorter one groused, kicking the bed opposite Gray’s (the only other bed). “If I’d known he was gonna kick up that much fuss, I’d have had more than a lousy five-hundred bucks from him. Doubled it, at least.”
The taller one shrugged vaguely, his eyes roaming in a circle around the room - skipping straight over Gray as if he wasn’t there, and it wasn’t like he was easy to miss, y’know?
“How you holdin’ up, Sammy?” It was the shorter one again, following his brother’s vision to where it had locked on to a corner, and he sighed, tapping his companion on the face. “Hey, eyes up here, bro. This party is invite only, and Luci didn’t make the cut, alright?”
Brothers, then. Sammy jolts as if he’s been burnt, and his eyes fly back to his brother’s before flitting to Gray once more. He looks hesitant for a moment, before he finally speaks.
“Dean. Is he… He’s not…” His voice is hoarse and cracks, but Dean’s face softens, and Gray pegs him as the older brother in that very same moment - a good one, too, by the looks of things. Just like his oldest, Martin.
“Nah, that guy? He’s like, VIP, ain’t that right?” He turns his head to Gray, and for a second the old man falters, and then gives a confused nod. Dean flashes him a quick grin, telling him that he’d answered correctly, and Sammy seems to relax a little, his shoulders dropping dramatically and a sigh breaking free from his chest.
“I thought…”
“I know, Buddy,” Dean answers reassuringly, dipping his head towards the bed and slipping his leather jacket off. “How about you take a seat?”
Sammy nods, seeming a little more coherent than before, and slumps onto the thin bed, causing it to rattle a little. Dean smiles at him reassuringly, wrapping his jacket around the younger man’s shoulders - looking at the height difference, it doesn’t seem like it should fit, but the black leather encompasses him completely, making him look half as big as he had only seconds before and decidedly much younger.
“He alright?” Gray finds himself asking, surprising all three of them, by the looks of things.
“He’s fine.” Dean snaps, and Grayson blinks, holding his hands up in defence. He’s heard that tone before - knows that if the kid was a dog, his hackles would be well and truly up.
“Just checkin’, kid. We’re cellmates for the night, after all.” He offers with his best innocent smile - the one that always makes his Marge forget that she’s angry - watching as the older of the two boys gently tips his brother onto his side, supporting his head until it rests on the pillow and rubbing his shoulder soothingly. “Here, you boys want my pillow?”
Dean hesitates for a brief second, before shaking his head with a much more welcoming smile. “Thanks, but I doubt we’ll be sleeping much.”
Gray nods, but tosses over the pillow regardless.
“Just in case.” He smiles. “I’m too old to even think about sleeping in this dump.”
Sammy mumbles something foreign sounding, twisting his head further towards his brother, and Dean’s face tightens - the hand resting on his leg clenching white-knuckled.
“English, Sammy.” He prompts, tapping the younger man’s ankle.
“Trapped.” The kid whispers. “I’m always trapped - and it’s so cold down here. Why is it so cold? It should be hot… hot, hot, hot. Burning off all my skin just to hear me scream.”
There’s true terror on his face, side-by-side with a haunted resignation that has sickness stirring in the pit of Gray’s stomach, and everything clicks into place - he’s surprised that it took that long, if he’s honest. There’s plenty of veterans in their small town, some of them suffering like Sammy here, some of them trying their best to hide the haunted look in their eyes and some of them lying in the graveyard - nothing more than a pile of decomposing flesh and a slab of stone.
“Hey, no, you’re alright Sammy.” Dean’s telling him, that same soothing whisper that Marge used to use when little Milly had a nightmare, hand rubbing gently over a trembling shoulder. “We got you out, Sam, you hear me? We got you out. He’s not here - you’re safe.”
Sam grabs his brother’s hand, and Dean sighs but settles back against the concrete wall, hauling his brother up and tucking him under one arm. The kid’s six-four easy, but in the shelter of his brother’s arms he looks like nothing more than a broken little boy.
Gray doesn’t think he’s ever hated his country more.
The kid clings to his brother, buries his face in his neck, and Dean’s face tightens - not anger at his brother, Gray thinks, but anger at whoever did this to him. Whoever broke him.
Dean’s eyes flicker to him briefly, before dropping back down to his brother, still muttering incoherently.
“Come on, kiddo. Deep breaths for me now,” His hand slides down, gripping his brother’s and squeezes sharply. Gray recognises the technique - not something that’s ever encouraged by professionals, but one that works nonetheless, using a sharp pain to break someone out of their memories.
It seems to work for Sam, and he pulls his head back to meet his brother’s eyes.
“He said that you and dad were burning,” He confesses with a whisper. “That if I screamed pretty enough he’d let me be with you, just for a while. I didn’t… you wouldn’t have screamed, Dean, but I… I needed you.”
Grayson shifts uncomfortably, his eyes flitting everywhere but those broken boys, but the room’s too small and he can’t escape from words he’s not supposed to hear.
“I did more than scream, remember?” Dean whispers. “I did a lot worse than scream… you; you were beyond brave down there, Sammy. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. You put yourself in that position to save everyone, and that makes you a hero, regardless of how loud you screamed. There’s worse things. Much worse things.”
Sammy nods, tucking his face back down and truly relaxing for the first time. For a long while there’s silence, save for all of their breathing - Sammy’s gradually growing slow and even.
Grayson hesitates a few times before he speaks.
“Kid’s had it rough, huh? Army?”
The kid blinks in surprise, tearing his gaze from his brother as if he’d forgotten that he was there. Gray things that he probably had.
“Marines.” He answers after a long pause, something nostalgic in his inscrutable green eyes. “Same as our dad.”
“All three of you?” Another pause, and then another nod. “My brothers were, too. Did their service and got out clean… for what it’s worth, I wish it could have been the same for you guys.”
Dean shrugs. “Part of the job. It’s not like we’re the only people to go through shit.”
“True enough,” Grayson acknowledges. “But I like to acknowledge heroes when I see them, and you two look pretty damn heroic to me.”
“You don’t know us.” Dean frowns, arm tightening around his brother. Grayson looks at the two of them, really looks, taking in the worn clothing and the scars, the depth to their eyes and the sense of awareness about them, and he shrugs.
“I know enough.”
#4 - Bound. | #6 - Penance.