A/N I really actually like this one. It was fun to write and I hope it's fun to read.
In the weeks that follow, Dean drinks.
This is no different that the weeks that follow any other hunt, or any of the weeks proceeding one, and since they're always either just before or just after or on a hunt, its not different than any other day ever. But this time it just seems… more. This time it just seems worse.
Sam watches from the other side of the motel room, and says nothing. Dean's never been an angry drunk, but lately he just seems angry, so Sam rolls with the punches, both literal and figurative.
And for all their closeness, for all of the profound bond, Sam never thought Dean would take losing Castiel quite this hard.
Once, when Dean's on the verge of passing out, Sam thinks he hears him mumble, "I should've said."
But Sam doesn't know what that means.
The months and the hunts and time passes, just like they're supposed to. And Dean keeps grieving.
He takes to scribbling on scraps of paper, napkins, the backs of receipts. Sam doesn't know what he writes; its not his place to pry and its not like he'd tell him, anyway. He still wonders, though. What is so important that he has to write it down? What's so unimportant that he leaves it laying there where it falls?
At some point, Sam picks up one of the motel room notepads while Dean's in the shower. Only the top paper has been used. He's only written four words, but they are somehow achingly sad. His scrawl is messy and drunk and still familiar.
You should laugh more.
Sam tears off that top sheet and puts it in his pocket. The next night they're at the gas station when Dean scribbles on the back of the receipt and then shoves it into the ash tray. Sam waits 150 miles until he's taken the wheel and Dean's asleep to read it.
Your eyes are gorgeous.
Sam slips that note into his pocket, too.
That's how it starts. Every time he can manage without Dean seeing, Sam picks up these notes and slips them away. He looks through them when Dean sleeps, or when he's out, although he hardly likes letting him go out alone anymore. It's a constant worry whenever Dean's out of his sigh that he might not come back.
And the notes are increasingly more sad, and increasingly more desperate.
On a gum wrapper in Phoenix:
I like listening to music with you.
On an empty box lid in Spokane:
I like that you think I know everything.
On a diner receipt in San Diego:
You're my favorite thing to wake up to.
And on and on and on, everywhere they go, on every surface that's easily disposable, just like the words he puts on them.
I love your voice saying my name.
You're the only person I can say forever to.
I shouldn't yell at you so much.
I want you to be happy.
I love that you eat mashed potatoes with your fingers.
I want to hold your hand more often.
Landslide is our song.
You have a perfect mouth.
I love that you let me warm you up when you get cold.
I love that you watch romantic comedies.
I love that you let me do Christmas with you.
You make me want to be a better person.
I'll try to do better.
I'm sorry.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
After a while, that's all it is. Three words, over and over and over again. Like he can't think of anything else to say. Or maybe there's nothing else to say.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
It happens one day when Sam's too tired and too out of it and not being careful. He snatches up the post card without thinking about it as Dean turns his back, not after, and out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees him do it. Sam pauses. He's in trouble now.
"You put that back," Dean demands, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "You put that right the fuck back and you walk away."
So Sam does. But when they get out to the car, Dean checks the ash tray. It's empty.
Dean reels back and then punches Sam in the face.
Sam's head snaps back and hits the roof as Dean's fist connects with his jaw. He sees stars and hears ringing, taking almost a full moment to clear his head before he can register that Dean is talking.
"How many?" His face is red, his lip curled up in a terrible sneer, and Sam doesn't think he's ever seen his brother this angry. "How many did you fucking take?"
Sam's voice is almost a whisper. "Dean, I'm sorry-"
"Fuck that!" Dean screams. And for the first time, Sam notices the tears rolling down his cheeks. "Fuck you, that wasn't for you- you had no fucking right to- you shouldn't have- no, don't, don't fucking touch me, Sammy-"
But Sam forgets to be listening to the threats and the pleas, to be feeling the fists pounding on his arms, until Dean gives up and just collapses against his chest, shoulders shaking and face wet and sobbing so hard that he can't catch his breath.
And Sam has never heard his brother whimper, but there's no other word for it when he chokes out, "I didn't get to tell him- I never said-"
Sam will never know how he didn't put it together earlier, but now, it just kind of clicks.
"He knew," Sam says quietly. "Dean, he knew."
But Dean just keeps crying.
It's a week before Sam sees Dean write so much as his name on anything. They're standing against the car, watching the sun go down from the shoulder of a road overlooking a cliff that drops off into the ocean. There is no wind to stir the waves, only the gently push and pull of the tide. The sun drops so it sits on the edge of the horizon, bleeding red out across the water.
Dean ducks into the car and comes back with a takeout menu and a marker. He holds the cap between his teeth and scribbles on the paper, his hand steady and his eyes clear for the first time in a very long time. He caps the marker and tosses it onto the seat through the open window, and resumes his place next to Sam.
He gently nudges Sam with his elbow, holding out the paper to him but not looking at him, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Sam takes it gingerly, having thrown out all the others he'd collected. He looks at it for a long moment before handing it back.
One word. Just one, scribbled in thick black letters and full of more meaning than any of the others put together.
Dean crumples up the paper and throws it as far as he can into the ocean. It bobs on the surface for no more than a second. Then, its gone.
Dean slides into the car and Sam follows. The Impala leaves a trail of dust behind them so thick that it almost looks like ash and smoke. Sam swears he can see the outline of a man in a trench coat in the mist, but he chalks it up to wishful thinking. They roll forward, ever forward, on to the next hunt, just like they've always done.
Goodbye.
A/N Reviews would be much appreciated, I'd love to know what you think.
xRachel