All the Empty Spaces, A Supernatural Fanfiction
Title: All the Empty Spaces
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~2500
Characters: Dean, Sam, John
Genre: Gen
Warnings: eating disorders, language
Summary: After writing Rules for Hunting, nytekit requested "a future companion piece to this where the urge comes back or something, but this time Sam is the one that's there (since John is dead), and he doesn't remember Dean ever having this problem before." So...John isn't dead, but the urge has certainly come back (and then some) and Sam knows nothing about it. Yet.
John’s halfway through the bottle of Jack when Dean slips back into the motel room, the smell of desperation and bus station clinging to his clothes. Neither of them says a word as Dean rummages through his duffle, rooting around until he comes up with a two pound bag of peanut M&Ms, and John doesn’t even look up when Dean steps over the salt line and closes the door behind him.
Dean sits in the Impala, ramrod straight, staring through the windshield, knuckles white where he grips the bottom of the steering wheel. He breathes long and slow because there’s too much space in the world. There’s an empty floorboard in the backseat, where his brother’s ginormous backpack should sit, cold motionless air in the passenger seat. There’s an extra half-inch of room between his foot and the gas pedal where he’s always kept the seat pushed back just farther than is comfortable so those stupid gangly legs weren’t cramped. Dean reaches for the lever and slides the bench seat incrementally forward but instead of feeling like he fits again, he just remembers the empty space behind him where he and Sam grew up until they grew apart.
The M&Ms sit where Sam should, neatly in the passenger seat without taking up any real space. He opens the bag and shoves a fistful into his mouth, almost chokes because there isn’t enough space for all of this. As soon as he swallows, he’s pushing more candy into his mouth, jaw aching with the work of all this chewing, and this wasn’t what he wanted at all, but his wallet is empty because he secretly slipped all his cash into Sam’s pocket as he boarded a bus so he could be something other than Dean’s brother.
Hundreds of Technicolor candies don’t fill the Sam-space in Dean any more than they filled the Sam-space in the Impala and he suddenly doesn’t want them to. John doesn’t say anything when Dean drags himself back inside, hand clutching his overfull stomach, but the whiskey is three quarters gone. And when he comes back from the bathroom, face pale, body trembling, hollow once more, and finds his dad staring at an empty bottle, Dean knows Dad knows about empty spaces too.
John meets his eyes. “How ‘bout we go to Bobby’s for a little while?”
In the mornings, he trains, stomach empty and heart pounding between gunshots. In the afternoons, he works on Bobby’s cars, fits every piece where it should go, tightens it down to stay, fixes them up to be perfect so they can drive away. In the evenings, they eat dinner and they all sit together like they’re a real family, two widowers and a bulimic, like some parody of a sitcom, until someone says something about a drink. Dad gets silently wasted, Dean drinks enough to throw up, and Bobby plies them both with aspirin and water because he’s the only one sober enough.
They stay at Bobby’s until Dean hasn’t throw up in three days, from alcohol or anything else, and then Dad says there’s a hunt and the empty spaces start to fill up.
It’s easier after that, until it isn’t. Birthdays. November. The times Sam drunk dials. The first time Dean hunts solo. The first time he gets sick and there’s no one around to throw the bottle of Tylenol at him and call him a stupid jerk. Sometimes it’s easy, and other times the empty spaces get emptier and he fills them again but nothing is ever the right size and he always throws up.
Dean never says anything about it. He hides as much as he can, just hunts and drinks and sleeps and doesn’t really eat until he can do nothing else. Never eats in front of John, never throws up anywhere near, but John always somehow knows. Dean wants to stop, can go weeks, even, but somewhere between weeks and never again his brain short-circuits. Hunters never plan long-term.
John doesn’t say much about it either, and usually it’s only once in a while. If he throws up enough that his knuckles stay abrasion-red, John says something about needing to see Bobby. Then John actually stays around, especially after meals, and Dean fixes his aim and fixes his cars and fixes himself. Sometimes Bobby tries to talk, but they all know what and why and how and there’s not much more to say.
-SPN-
The first time John doesn’t pick up, Dean assumes he’s still hunting. The second time, he figures the same.
Four days and fifteen phone calls later, he’s on his way to Palo Alto, fear filling those empty spaces so tightly he can’t even think about food.
Three days after pulling Sam from a fire, Sam is starting to pull himself together and Dean is starting to fall apart. Because Sam needs him here and Dad needs them to help and Dean hasn’t eaten since a candy bar in Jericho and Sam’s noticed. So they go out and Dean eats the largest burger he can find, a ton of fries, and even though he already feels sick, he eats the other half of Sam’s sandwich, the rest of his fries, finishes off another beer. And then he throws some bills on the table and tells Sam he has to hit the head, meet him by the car.
There are people in the restroom and there’s nothing Dean hates more than that “hey, man, you okay” query from unfamiliar voices, so he uses the back exit of the bar, escapes into the darkest area of the parking lot behind the bar. He rests one hand against the back wall, doubled over, fingers of the other hand firmly down his throat, and tries to be as quiet as possible. But he’s obviously not quiet enough because he doesn’t hear the grate of gravel under sneakers until it’s far too late.
“Dean?”
He drops his hand, rides out the dry heaving, trying to think past the pounding of his pulse and the sinking of his stomach and the newly, cleanly empty spaces filling up with fear. A large hand rests gently on his back and he spits one more time and straightens up, turning to look at his brother.
Sam’s eyebrows are drawn together, his stupid floppy hair in his eyes, his mouth opening and closing like words should be coming out but there’s nothing but silence and empty space between them. Dean walks straight through the space, brushes past Sam and gets into the car. He sits alone for a couple minutes, staring through the windshield, the world pressing in and making him feel small. And it’s only when Sam finally sits next to him that he can breathe at all.
Sam doesn’t say anything and Dean just drives. It’s dark outside, they’ve been driving all day, but there’s an itch under his skin, a darkness behind his eyes, and he needs to get as far away as possible.
“Is this about Dad?” The question is so quiet, under the noise of the road and the hum of blood in his veins and breath in his lungs and he doesn’t say anything back, just shakes his head shortly and looks straight ahead.
Because it isn’t Dad. It isn’t Dad right now any more than it was Sam when Sam was gone. It’s the empty space, the time he should be obeying orders, cleaning guns, running laps so Dad would know he’s ready. It’s the fact that he’s John’s son and Sam’s brother and a monster’s hunter and a civilian’s protector. Because the problem with being a son is that there has to be a father, and when Dad isn’t here, Dean isn’t anything at all, just a brother and a hunter and a protector surrounding the space where “son” should be. Because everything he is depends on how they need him to be, and that makes him need more than they ever could.
Sam is just Sam, he’s shown everyone he doesn't need to be a son or a brother or anything else because he’s smart and strong and capable on his own. And so he doesn’t understand.
“This isn’t the first time, huh?” Sam asks even though it isn’t really a question. Dean’s hands shake enough he has to tighten his grip on the wheel and then the wheel shakes so he pulls over, shuts off the engine.
“Does Dad know?” He asks it loud, aggressive, already angry because there isn’t a right answer. Dean knows what Sam will think, either Dad knew and let it happen, or Dad was oblivious and either way it’s all Dad’s fault.
“It’s not his fault, Sam,” Dean says instead. “He helped as much as he could.”
“Sounds like it’s been going on a while,” Sam finally says and it’s forcefully casual. He finally looks over at Dean and Dean looks away. “Was it when I…While I was gone?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes before that too.”
“What?” Sam shifts in his seat until he’s turned toward Dean, staring at him intently. “How long?”
“Just…a while,” Dean mutters. He stretches his legs, thinks about getting out of the car, thinks about leaving this whole thing behind.
“Dean.”
“You were twelve.” He does get out of the car now, closes the door and leans against it, elbows resting on the top of the car, head in his hands because he doesn’t want to see Sam’s face. He’s got to be planning to leave now, forget finding Dad or helping Dean, because this is exactly why he left. Because their family is fucked up, Dean is fucked up, and Dean can’t even blame him. He’d leave too, if he could.
He hears the creak of the passenger side door and doesn’t even look up to say, “You can take the car if you want. Or I can take you to a bus station. Your choice.”
He hears Sam sigh, loudly, pointedly. “I’m not leaving, Dean.” The grit of gravel under sneakers yet again, and Sam is next to him, leaning against the car and staring out into the black, at all the empty space and Dean thinks maybe Sam understands too.
“Maybe we should take a break for a while,” Sam suggests.
Dean shakes his head. “We need to find Dad.”
“We need to get you better,” Sam counters.
“We get Dad back and I will be better.”
“That’s not a solution,” Sam argues. “You can’t do this every time things aren’t going well!”
Dean straightens up, glares at his brother. “It’s not something I’m doing, okay, Sam? It just happens, and I can’t -” He breaks off, turns away, kicking loosely at a rock, watches as it skitters off the edge of the pavement.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Sam says behind him, voice soft and placating. “I didn’t mean that.”
“I know it’s fucked up, okay? I know.” And the sick thing is that he wants to do it right now, to eat until it hurts and then it throw it up because just for a second it drowns out everything else. He’s shaking again, weak, and he remembers that before tonight he hadn’t eaten for days and he doesn’t have anything left in him now to deal with Sam knowing how fucked up he is.
“Dean. Dean!” Sam is holding him up, reaching to open the door of the car, and then he’s pushing Dean down to sit on the backseat, head between his knees, staring at the pavement between his boots.
“You can’t do this, Dean,” Sam says, and he’s holding onto Dean’s shoulder so hard it almost hurts.
Dean shrugs a little and Sam lets go, lets him sit up, hands him a bottle of water. He takes a couple of sips, breathes deeply through his nose.
“What do you need me to do?” Sam asks, still kneeling in front of him so he’s at Dean’s eye-level. “How do I help you?”
Dean starts to shake his head because he shouldn’t need this, Sam doesn’t need this, and Sam grabs his shoulder again, shakes him. “Don’t give me that. What did Dad do? What do you need?”
Dean swallows hard, makes himself focus on Sam, on breathing and his heart beating and Sam here in front of him, here and real and needing him to say something. “He used to make sure I ate.” His voice is rough, he hears the defeat in it and hates it.
Sam nods. “I noticed you hadn’t been eating. Okay. Make sure you eat. Because…you lose control if you get too hungry? And you don't eat because you're afraid you'll lose control?” Dean nods and Sam’s eyes widen suddenly. “Jesus. All those times when you said you weren’t hungry, when Dad was gone-”
Dean looks away, and Sam’s grip on his shoulder tightens. “Were you…Dean, were you not eating so I could?” Of course Sam would work it out, got himself a fucking full-ride to Stanford, of course he can figure out something as simple as Dean. “And you’d eat when Dad came back and you’d....Fuck.”
Sam stands up, turns away, combing his fingers through his hair, pacing a few feet and then coming back to where Dean is still hunched on the back seat of the Impala, still shaking and so fucking tired, drained, like there’s nothing left to give.
“What else?” Sam says and Dean can hear the quake in his voice, the anger thrumming just under the surface.
“Just…Don’t let me eat too much. Don’t let me throw up.” And if only it were that easy, he thinks, but he knows it isn’t. He looks up at Sam and he can see meal plans and schedules and anger at their father spinning behind his eyes, but he feels the knot in his stomach ease all the same because it’s not just him. Hunting is control his Dad always used to say, but he hadn’t been in control in years. Maybe Sam could be. Maybe he can eat if he knows Sam is watching, because it's Sam. Sam who grew up and grew apart, Sam who left, and then Sam who came back. And Dean was a son, brother, hunter, protector, and then he wasn't a brother anymore, and now he's not a son, but he can still be this.
“Okay,” Sam says finally. “Okay. Just. Just tell me if you’re…you know. Just tell me. We’ll figure it out.”
They’ll figure it out. So they get back in the car and Dean thinks of the empty road and the empty night and the empty space inside. And then glances over, sees the ginormous backpack taking up the floorboard, and Sam folded into the front seat, sees those stupid gangly legs and feels that extra half-inch of stretch to reach the gas pedal and thinks that there are a lot of empty spaces, but there are a lot of full ones too.
On to Part III, Proof of Existence.
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~2500
Characters: Dean, Sam, John
Genre: Gen
Warnings: eating disorders, language
Summary: After writing Rules for Hunting, nytekit requested "a future companion piece to this where the urge comes back or something, but this time Sam is the one that's there (since John is dead), and he doesn't remember Dean ever having this problem before." So...John isn't dead, but the urge has certainly come back (and then some) and Sam knows nothing about it. Yet.
John’s halfway through the bottle of Jack when Dean slips back into the motel room, the smell of desperation and bus station clinging to his clothes. Neither of them says a word as Dean rummages through his duffle, rooting around until he comes up with a two pound bag of peanut M&Ms, and John doesn’t even look up when Dean steps over the salt line and closes the door behind him.
Dean sits in the Impala, ramrod straight, staring through the windshield, knuckles white where he grips the bottom of the steering wheel. He breathes long and slow because there’s too much space in the world. There’s an empty floorboard in the backseat, where his brother’s ginormous backpack should sit, cold motionless air in the passenger seat. There’s an extra half-inch of room between his foot and the gas pedal where he’s always kept the seat pushed back just farther than is comfortable so those stupid gangly legs weren’t cramped. Dean reaches for the lever and slides the bench seat incrementally forward but instead of feeling like he fits again, he just remembers the empty space behind him where he and Sam grew up until they grew apart.
The M&Ms sit where Sam should, neatly in the passenger seat without taking up any real space. He opens the bag and shoves a fistful into his mouth, almost chokes because there isn’t enough space for all of this. As soon as he swallows, he’s pushing more candy into his mouth, jaw aching with the work of all this chewing, and this wasn’t what he wanted at all, but his wallet is empty because he secretly slipped all his cash into Sam’s pocket as he boarded a bus so he could be something other than Dean’s brother.
Hundreds of Technicolor candies don’t fill the Sam-space in Dean any more than they filled the Sam-space in the Impala and he suddenly doesn’t want them to. John doesn’t say anything when Dean drags himself back inside, hand clutching his overfull stomach, but the whiskey is three quarters gone. And when he comes back from the bathroom, face pale, body trembling, hollow once more, and finds his dad staring at an empty bottle, Dean knows Dad knows about empty spaces too.
John meets his eyes. “How ‘bout we go to Bobby’s for a little while?”
In the mornings, he trains, stomach empty and heart pounding between gunshots. In the afternoons, he works on Bobby’s cars, fits every piece where it should go, tightens it down to stay, fixes them up to be perfect so they can drive away. In the evenings, they eat dinner and they all sit together like they’re a real family, two widowers and a bulimic, like some parody of a sitcom, until someone says something about a drink. Dad gets silently wasted, Dean drinks enough to throw up, and Bobby plies them both with aspirin and water because he’s the only one sober enough.
They stay at Bobby’s until Dean hasn’t throw up in three days, from alcohol or anything else, and then Dad says there’s a hunt and the empty spaces start to fill up.
It’s easier after that, until it isn’t. Birthdays. November. The times Sam drunk dials. The first time Dean hunts solo. The first time he gets sick and there’s no one around to throw the bottle of Tylenol at him and call him a stupid jerk. Sometimes it’s easy, and other times the empty spaces get emptier and he fills them again but nothing is ever the right size and he always throws up.
Dean never says anything about it. He hides as much as he can, just hunts and drinks and sleeps and doesn’t really eat until he can do nothing else. Never eats in front of John, never throws up anywhere near, but John always somehow knows. Dean wants to stop, can go weeks, even, but somewhere between weeks and never again his brain short-circuits. Hunters never plan long-term.
John doesn’t say much about it either, and usually it’s only once in a while. If he throws up enough that his knuckles stay abrasion-red, John says something about needing to see Bobby. Then John actually stays around, especially after meals, and Dean fixes his aim and fixes his cars and fixes himself. Sometimes Bobby tries to talk, but they all know what and why and how and there’s not much more to say.
-SPN-
The first time John doesn’t pick up, Dean assumes he’s still hunting. The second time, he figures the same.
Four days and fifteen phone calls later, he’s on his way to Palo Alto, fear filling those empty spaces so tightly he can’t even think about food.
Three days after pulling Sam from a fire, Sam is starting to pull himself together and Dean is starting to fall apart. Because Sam needs him here and Dad needs them to help and Dean hasn’t eaten since a candy bar in Jericho and Sam’s noticed. So they go out and Dean eats the largest burger he can find, a ton of fries, and even though he already feels sick, he eats the other half of Sam’s sandwich, the rest of his fries, finishes off another beer. And then he throws some bills on the table and tells Sam he has to hit the head, meet him by the car.
There are people in the restroom and there’s nothing Dean hates more than that “hey, man, you okay” query from unfamiliar voices, so he uses the back exit of the bar, escapes into the darkest area of the parking lot behind the bar. He rests one hand against the back wall, doubled over, fingers of the other hand firmly down his throat, and tries to be as quiet as possible. But he’s obviously not quiet enough because he doesn’t hear the grate of gravel under sneakers until it’s far too late.
“Dean?”
He drops his hand, rides out the dry heaving, trying to think past the pounding of his pulse and the sinking of his stomach and the newly, cleanly empty spaces filling up with fear. A large hand rests gently on his back and he spits one more time and straightens up, turning to look at his brother.
Sam’s eyebrows are drawn together, his stupid floppy hair in his eyes, his mouth opening and closing like words should be coming out but there’s nothing but silence and empty space between them. Dean walks straight through the space, brushes past Sam and gets into the car. He sits alone for a couple minutes, staring through the windshield, the world pressing in and making him feel small. And it’s only when Sam finally sits next to him that he can breathe at all.
Sam doesn’t say anything and Dean just drives. It’s dark outside, they’ve been driving all day, but there’s an itch under his skin, a darkness behind his eyes, and he needs to get as far away as possible.
“Is this about Dad?” The question is so quiet, under the noise of the road and the hum of blood in his veins and breath in his lungs and he doesn’t say anything back, just shakes his head shortly and looks straight ahead.
Because it isn’t Dad. It isn’t Dad right now any more than it was Sam when Sam was gone. It’s the empty space, the time he should be obeying orders, cleaning guns, running laps so Dad would know he’s ready. It’s the fact that he’s John’s son and Sam’s brother and a monster’s hunter and a civilian’s protector. Because the problem with being a son is that there has to be a father, and when Dad isn’t here, Dean isn’t anything at all, just a brother and a hunter and a protector surrounding the space where “son” should be. Because everything he is depends on how they need him to be, and that makes him need more than they ever could.
Sam is just Sam, he’s shown everyone he doesn't need to be a son or a brother or anything else because he’s smart and strong and capable on his own. And so he doesn’t understand.
“This isn’t the first time, huh?” Sam asks even though it isn’t really a question. Dean’s hands shake enough he has to tighten his grip on the wheel and then the wheel shakes so he pulls over, shuts off the engine.
“Does Dad know?” He asks it loud, aggressive, already angry because there isn’t a right answer. Dean knows what Sam will think, either Dad knew and let it happen, or Dad was oblivious and either way it’s all Dad’s fault.
“It’s not his fault, Sam,” Dean says instead. “He helped as much as he could.”
“Sounds like it’s been going on a while,” Sam finally says and it’s forcefully casual. He finally looks over at Dean and Dean looks away. “Was it when I…While I was gone?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes before that too.”
“What?” Sam shifts in his seat until he’s turned toward Dean, staring at him intently. “How long?”
“Just…a while,” Dean mutters. He stretches his legs, thinks about getting out of the car, thinks about leaving this whole thing behind.
“Dean.”
“You were twelve.” He does get out of the car now, closes the door and leans against it, elbows resting on the top of the car, head in his hands because he doesn’t want to see Sam’s face. He’s got to be planning to leave now, forget finding Dad or helping Dean, because this is exactly why he left. Because their family is fucked up, Dean is fucked up, and Dean can’t even blame him. He’d leave too, if he could.
He hears the creak of the passenger side door and doesn’t even look up to say, “You can take the car if you want. Or I can take you to a bus station. Your choice.”
He hears Sam sigh, loudly, pointedly. “I’m not leaving, Dean.” The grit of gravel under sneakers yet again, and Sam is next to him, leaning against the car and staring out into the black, at all the empty space and Dean thinks maybe Sam understands too.
“Maybe we should take a break for a while,” Sam suggests.
Dean shakes his head. “We need to find Dad.”
“We need to get you better,” Sam counters.
“We get Dad back and I will be better.”
“That’s not a solution,” Sam argues. “You can’t do this every time things aren’t going well!”
Dean straightens up, glares at his brother. “It’s not something I’m doing, okay, Sam? It just happens, and I can’t -” He breaks off, turns away, kicking loosely at a rock, watches as it skitters off the edge of the pavement.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Sam says behind him, voice soft and placating. “I didn’t mean that.”
“I know it’s fucked up, okay? I know.” And the sick thing is that he wants to do it right now, to eat until it hurts and then it throw it up because just for a second it drowns out everything else. He’s shaking again, weak, and he remembers that before tonight he hadn’t eaten for days and he doesn’t have anything left in him now to deal with Sam knowing how fucked up he is.
“Dean. Dean!” Sam is holding him up, reaching to open the door of the car, and then he’s pushing Dean down to sit on the backseat, head between his knees, staring at the pavement between his boots.
“You can’t do this, Dean,” Sam says, and he’s holding onto Dean’s shoulder so hard it almost hurts.
Dean shrugs a little and Sam lets go, lets him sit up, hands him a bottle of water. He takes a couple of sips, breathes deeply through his nose.
“What do you need me to do?” Sam asks, still kneeling in front of him so he’s at Dean’s eye-level. “How do I help you?”
Dean starts to shake his head because he shouldn’t need this, Sam doesn’t need this, and Sam grabs his shoulder again, shakes him. “Don’t give me that. What did Dad do? What do you need?”
Dean swallows hard, makes himself focus on Sam, on breathing and his heart beating and Sam here in front of him, here and real and needing him to say something. “He used to make sure I ate.” His voice is rough, he hears the defeat in it and hates it.
Sam nods. “I noticed you hadn’t been eating. Okay. Make sure you eat. Because…you lose control if you get too hungry? And you don't eat because you're afraid you'll lose control?” Dean nods and Sam’s eyes widen suddenly. “Jesus. All those times when you said you weren’t hungry, when Dad was gone-”
Dean looks away, and Sam’s grip on his shoulder tightens. “Were you…Dean, were you not eating so I could?” Of course Sam would work it out, got himself a fucking full-ride to Stanford, of course he can figure out something as simple as Dean. “And you’d eat when Dad came back and you’d....Fuck.”
Sam stands up, turns away, combing his fingers through his hair, pacing a few feet and then coming back to where Dean is still hunched on the back seat of the Impala, still shaking and so fucking tired, drained, like there’s nothing left to give.
“What else?” Sam says and Dean can hear the quake in his voice, the anger thrumming just under the surface.
“Just…Don’t let me eat too much. Don’t let me throw up.” And if only it were that easy, he thinks, but he knows it isn’t. He looks up at Sam and he can see meal plans and schedules and anger at their father spinning behind his eyes, but he feels the knot in his stomach ease all the same because it’s not just him. Hunting is control his Dad always used to say, but he hadn’t been in control in years. Maybe Sam could be. Maybe he can eat if he knows Sam is watching, because it's Sam. Sam who grew up and grew apart, Sam who left, and then Sam who came back. And Dean was a son, brother, hunter, protector, and then he wasn't a brother anymore, and now he's not a son, but he can still be this.
“Okay,” Sam says finally. “Okay. Just. Just tell me if you’re…you know. Just tell me. We’ll figure it out.”
They’ll figure it out. So they get back in the car and Dean thinks of the empty road and the empty night and the empty space inside. And then glances over, sees the ginormous backpack taking up the floorboard, and Sam folded into the front seat, sees those stupid gangly legs and feels that extra half-inch of stretch to reach the gas pedal and thinks that there are a lot of empty spaces, but there are a lot of full ones too.
On to Part III, Proof of Existence.