The Winchester Family Copes: A Guide to Accepting Loss
Drip, drip
The dripping of the bathroom sink permeates his restless sleep, like so many other sounds. Transformed, mutated, monstrous - they writhe and twist into his subconscious. Unwelcome, untrustworthy companions in his overwrought psyche.
The pitter patter of rain infiltrates his dreams.
The drone of neon red '(no) Vacancy' slithers across the carpet and claws inside his mind, buzzing, growling, becoming preternatural and unwelcome.
Drip, drop, lands on his face.
Not the motel bathroom sink.
Familiarity breeds uncertainty, another lifetime of old and worn sounds replace music, kids laughing, a soft warm exhale of breath on his ear.
Familiarity breeds hopelessness, crushed dreams and lost promises.
The pitter patter of rain brings him back to another room in another state.
Pitter patter, runs the shower - rushing down in the all encompassing reassurance of: 'I'm here - just out of sight.'
Drip, drop - the liquid is warm, copper-smelling crimson on his forehead, cheek.
His room is no longer white-washed, red-tinged, standard-issue. It is green, homey, filled with artefacts of another life - another soul.
The buzzing, growling, grows and intensifies. Dread pools in his belly, his heart beats a fitful rhythm in his chest. Dread, like the disease of the heart, mind and soul metastasizes, spreads through his stomach, oesophagus, trachea, bronchiole, aorta, ventricles - stutter-stop, his heart flutters, reminding of a warm night, a dead girl and a promise of I love. . .
This is not that night, and the tug of anxious heart strings is not a pleasant reminder of love won and love lost - it taunts. A fixed stare from above sends prickles of awareness through his neck, spine.
Legs numb, neck frozen, the taunting continues.
Drip, drop again and again; 'Sam, open your eyes,' it implores.
Let it be over, No, please no.
I know what's coming.
'Why Sam?' And then from the corner of his eye he sees her above him - blonde, bloody, beautiful. Imprinted forever in his mind.
Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin my soul. Forever blonde, forever beautiful, forever bloody. Forever young.
Then there is nothing more. Flames pull, lick, suck everything inside. They reach out from within him (light of my life, fire of my loins), and ignite all around her, swallowing life from above and below. They eat and consume with greed until there is nothing left, other than a sudden implosion of awareness - of eyes snapped open and a scream bitten back.
Breathless, spent, he sits up in bed taking in his surroundings. Another room, another state, another lifetime.
Bile rises up in his throat; 'Your fault' the nightmare still echoes.
His guilt is his constant companion these days, one of his only constants in a world turned upside down. Guilt, a brother, never-ending miles of highway and an old muscle car.
His sweat-soaked t-shirt clings to his back as he throws the covers back on his bed. Ignoring the flash of white by the front door, he manoeuvres himself out of the room as quietly as possible. Picking up his trainers and car keys, he tip-toes out the red-stained threshold. Clicking the door silently behind him, he leans against the wall and sighs, willing the (not so fresh) (STATE) air to wisp away the last vestiges of his nightmare and the lingering sense of somebody watching him - just out of eyeshot.
Jamming his feet in the old Pumas, Sam shuffles to the trunk of the Impala with the gait of a 70 year old and the enthusiasm of a 16 year old after his first taste of alcohol. The bottle of Jack, which Sam knows is in the trunk, beckons to him.
Opening the trunk gives his mind - and his eyes - focus. The smouldering gaze being shot at him from the back seat of the Impala is ignored (you're not really here), and the bottle of Jack is sought out eagerly. Hands reaching blindly into the false bottom, he tests by feel for the location of the bottle.
Seeking out safety and comfort in his adulthood, his searching fingers reach out over objects and reminders of safety in his childhood. Dream catchers, rifles, salt - symbols of love and protection until he had been old enough to understand loss, and left to seek ignorance. The knowledge that he'd been loved and cherished so fiercely as a child had escaped him in his teen years, when rifles, salt and dream catchers became nothing more than reminders of blood, danger, horror.
Grasping the bottle of Jack and can of salt, he retreats to the wall under the windowsill. Folding up as small as his body allows, he pulls his knees to his chest and carefully pours a half circle of salt around him, muttering words of protection and apology all the while. The soft brush of hair on his right elbow causes him to start, and he drops the canister.
You're not here, he repeats.
Keeping his head down, he picks up the canister and completes the circle. Closing his eyes against the flicker of white (blonde, bloody, beautiful), he opens the bottle and takes a long pull.
Questions flood his mind; is it real, is she here? And all the while he knows the answer to them all.
The sound of movement from the window above him doesn't so much surprise, as annoy - big brothers awake. The bottle will be taken away, his worries soothed and his hope dashed. Because despite knowing better, he still hopes she is real. Is here. He wants him to be able to see her too.
His name is called out with a slight edge of panic, and Sam reaches up to knock on the window. Seconds later, huffing his annoyance and shoving his feet into his boots, Dean appears at the door. Taking in the view before him, he obviously falters, unsure of the situation and his impending role.
Taking pity on him, Sam returns his forehead to his knee and offers up the bottle. 'It's a drinking party. Everyone's invited,' he muffles into his pyjama bottoms.
As movement stills from doorway, he can feel her gaze on him, circling, assessing.
Dean sighs, 'Sam, what is this?' He moves around him, crouching in front, blocking her view.
Sam looks up. 'Nightmares. Guilt. Grief. Pick your reason,' he offers. Dean searches his eyes for more, reaching in and rooting around for god knows what - Sam's never been sure. Accepting the bottle, he takes a long gulp before moving to Sam's right. Sam's eyes fall closed, and he reaches for the bottle again.
'Sam. . .' Sam turns his head to the side, taking in his brothers ridiculous appearance. Grey t-shirt, black boxers, heavy black boots. He's fingering the carefully poured salt line. 'Sam, what's going on?' And his gaze no longer searches, it beseeches, begging for answers and explanation. Four years is a long time, and both their tells have changed. They've danced this waltz before, but the cue's are different. Sam tries to hold his gaze, signal 'back off' with a look, but a rustle of fabric just out of his eye line forces his eyes closed. He rests his head on his knee, sighs.
An explanation is required, deserved. He locks eyes with his brother, focusing solely on green irises and black lashes. He contemplates his explanation.
He takes in a breath, gulps down the whiskey. 'Jessica is following me,' he starts. 'Haunting me. I see her everywhere, I see her right now.' He looks away. 'Dean, I'm going crazy.'
'Where is she?' he asks. Sam looks up, catches her eye and looks away. 'Sitting on the trunk of the Impala.'
Ever the thorough hunter, Dean gets up, makes his way to the car and reaches in. He returns to sit beside Sam with the EMF metre. 'Switch it on,' he says, offering up the machine. Sam shakes his head, takes a long drink.
'Dean, I know she's not real. I know that.'
'You want her to be.' It's not a question.
'Yes.' He treats it like one anyway.
'When did you first see her?'
'Ohio.'
He can feel his brother shifting beside him, and wonders if he's beginning to think Sam's crazy too. Or at least getting there. He takes another greedy swig. The alcohol is doing its job, he feels lighter and the prickling awareness of another's eyes on him is fading.
The whoosh of air moving in to replace the now empty space beside him jolts him from his reverie. Dean is standing in front of him, hand out. 'Come on bro, we'll take this pity party inside. We look ridiculous.' Sam acquiesces, whiskey-drunk and sleep deprived, he reaches out for his brothers hand. As they reach the front door Dean turns to him.
'We'll lock her outside, okay?'
Sam hesitates, uncertain. He doesn't want her gone, banished. Even if she isn't real. . .
He looks at his brother. Eyes searching. Sam smiles.
'Can we watch the creature feature?'
Dean's relief is palpable as he laughs, claps a hand on his shoulder. 'Anything you want bro, just as long as you share that bottle.' Sam grins back, and thinks that maybe through understanding loss, rejecting loss and finally accepting loss, he forgot to remember what he still had.
End
A/N Thanks for reading guys!
P.S the quote 'Light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul', is from Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov.
P.P.S . . . reviews are awesome, and would make an unwell girl very, very happy. . .