Title: Call for help
Author: Dinofossil
Summary: Dean looks to Bobby for help to stop him going off the rails.
Author's Notes/Warnings: Warnings for season 2. Story is a little sadder than I would have liked. Not sure why it went that way, it just did. It also contains a punishment that might be considered a bit harsh in later chapters.
I appreciate that there are those who may be offended by this type of fiction, particularly if I have used your favorite or treasured fictional character. If you think this might be you, please do not proceed, and click the back button instead. I have on a number of occasions when accidentally stumbling on things that don't rock my world, and hey, it works!
If this fiction does appeal, then enjoy, and comments are always welcome.
Disclaimer: Don't own any of characters. They belong to Eric Kripke, and the CW, and anyone else I am unaware of. Not making any money from this either.
Dean Winchester lay stretched out on his bed in the empty motel room, his head propped up facing towards the flickering images of the dated television sat opposite. Although his eyes were settled on the screen, the scene playing in his head bore no relation to the show droning away in front of him, as he constantly replayed the argument he'd had with his brother earlier that day.
By the time he'd come to the end of his fourth repeat, he was beginning to annoy himself. 'Come on, stop this' he tried scolding, but he paid as little attention to himself as he had to Sam during their fight, and so the angry words continued on their irritating loop inside his head.
Desperately trying to distract himself, he scrubbed his face roughly with his hands, and stood up to prowl moodily around the claustrophobic room. Switching off the television, he suddenly became aware of the items lying on the floor, left scattered by his brother before he'd stormed out of the room like a mini tornado.
Feeling a need to remove the evidence of their dispute, he began the task of clearing up. A single sock and pair of trainers, looking as though they had scurried for cover during the worst of the argument, were retrieved from under the table and thrown hastily into a bag.
He knew the books sprawled on the floor were important to Sam, so he handled these with a little more respect, arranging them into an orderly pile, before carefully replacing them on the night-stand nearest his bed.
Stopping for a moment, he caught sight of Sam's sweatshirt messily crumpled on the floor at the base of a chair. Frowning, he remembered his brother having to grab the chair for support after he'd been punched. It was this violent act that had been the final punctuation mark at the end of their discussion, signalling the argument was over.
Picking the sweatshirt up, he gently squeezed the softly worn material in his fists. He knew he'd overstepped the mark this time and should be feeling some emotion, guilt at the very least, but now the initial anger had gone, he felt nothing but the familiar gnawing at the dad shaped hole inside him.
The argument had been about his handling, or more accurately, his inability to handle their dad's death. 'Weren't they always these days?' He was sick and tired of Sam steering every damn conversation round to the subject in an effort to get him to open up. Even the choice of breakfast that morning had turned into a "Dean, do you remember when dad…?" moment, for Christsakes.
Absentmindedly, he sat down at the small table and looked accusingly at the lap-top, still left open from his brother's frantic search for pictures of their dad. That was how the whole pointless argument had started in the first place.
Indulging himself in the memory of happier times, he recalled Sam accusing their dad of being a believer in the myth that cameras somehow captured the soul, as they possessed so few photos of him. Trying to rectify this, Sam had taken to grabbing sneaky pictures of him with his camera phone, whenever he thought he could get away with it.
In consequence, most of the images held were badly composed or poorly lit, but there were a few diamonds nestled amongst the collection. Sam's favourite was one where he'd adopted his usual pretence of using the phone, but had been caught in the act of snapping a picture. Greatly amused by his youngest son's poorly concealed deception, his dad had rewarded him with a warm and tender smile that Sam had managed to capture.
During the long months that followed their dad's death, he'd guessed Sam had been unable to bring himself to look at the treasured images, but he'd always known that the day would eventually come, and he would be left to sort through the emotional wreckage to salvage the broken pieces of his brother.
On the day of the fight, Sam had taken advantage of some unexpected free time at the end of their hunt to re-charge his depleted batteries. Within seconds of luxuriously sprawling out on the soft bed, he had fallen into a deep sleep.
For the past few months, Sam had been suffering from terrible nightmares that disturbed his sleeping hours, and today was no exception. Within an hour of falling asleep, and despite being completely exhausted, the haunting images returned with an annoying frequency, invading his mind once more.
Only this nightmare had one difference to his previous dreams. While the scene was the all too familiar imaginings of his dad's demise, the man had morphed into a faceless person that Sam could barely recognise.
Prematurely woken by the shock of this image, Sam had sat bolt upright in a complete panic, his breaths coming out in short hard gasps, tears starting to fill his sleepy eyes. His distress had been obvious, as he took a moment to desperately rifle through his memory, trying unsuccessfully to find saved images of his dad.
Sending the pile of books next to him skimming across the floor, he'd leapt off his bed and moved to the table, giving his startled brother a running commentary of his troubled thoughts.
"Dean, I can't remember what dad looked like. Why can't I remember? What's wrong with me?"
The last thing Dean had wanted was another emotional confrontation. "Dude, you need to calm down, you've just had a bad dream that's all."
"No…, I'm not dreaming now, and I still can't remember."
Sitting opposite his brother at the table, Sam had powered up his lap-top, his face a mixture of concentration and upset, frantically tapping away at the keyboard.
Knowing exactly what his brother was searching for, and predicting it would end badly; Dean had tried to distract him. "Sammy…, SAM!"
He was too late. The drooping shoulders and deep sob signalled that Sam had already hit the jackpot, and found the pictures he'd been looking for. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Dean had dramatically rolled his eyes at him, "Okay, this is not awkward."
Their exchanges had quickly deteriorated into a full blown argument, following the same worn track as previous fights, as though being read from a well rehearsed script. Accusations flew from both sides and were forcibly denied, and tempers started to flare to new heights. Finally, through frustration and anger, Sam had accused his brother of not caring that their dad had died.
Stopping for the briefest of moments, Dean had almost looked as though he was going to let the comment pass, but instinct kicked in, and he'd drawn back his fist and thrown it violently into his brother's jaw. Unprepared for the blow, Sam had lost his balance, grabbing the chair for support in an effort to stop himself from tumbling to the floor.
With large betrayed eyes, Sam had stood rubbing his painful jaw, searching for something to say. He couldn't bring himself to blame his brother, because he understood where the raw anger had come from. But with Dean still angry, he'd decided that it would be best to remove himself for a while, giving them the space they both needed to calm down.
Grabbing his jacket, he'd wordlessly walked out of the room.
Now left alone with his thoughts, Dean wondered how he was going to repair the widening rift that was so destructively tearing them apart. While he still felt no guilt for his actions, his escalating violence troubled him, and he knew it needed dealing with, and quick.
He realised he was in no fit state to offer the comfort that his little brother desperately needed. But thinking back, he recalled the time they'd spent recovering at Bobby's after the car accident and losing their dad. While he had predictably closed himself off by working on the Impala, he was aware that Sam had leant heavily on the older man, being comforted by his presence and fatherly support.
Hoping this was the answer; Dean flipped his phone open and searched for the number. For once, it seemed that luck was on his side, when he heard the familiar gruff tones responding at the other end of the phone. Explaining some of the reasons for calling, he tentatively asked if it was okay for them to drop by for a few days, and was relieved to hear Bobby confirm that he would be pleased to see them.
By the time Sam returned to the motel, there was no time for the awkwardness that he'd been expecting. Outside their room, he found Dean busily putting the last of their bags into the trunk of the car, and was reassured to hear him absentmindedly humming away to a song floating through the open car windows.
Sensing a presence behind him, Dean glanced up, noticing immediately the dark red mark that had formed on his brother's jaw. Attempting to regain his trust, he smiled at him and made sure he softened his voice.
"Sammy! Back just in time, I thought we might take a run over to Bobby's for a few days. What do you think?"
"And we're going to Bobby's why?" Although Sam sounded cautious, he was secretly pleased by this sudden change to their plans. An unscheduled break would be just what they both needed to recover, and maybe re-build the broken bridges between them.
"Look, I know I've been acting like a hard ass lately, and the last thing I want is to push you away, so I'm going to get us some help. I can't give you what you need right now, and you definitely can't give me what I need, but I think I know a man who can.
Seemingly satisfied with this response, Sam nodded thoughtfully and climbed into the passenger seat, settling himself down for the long drive ahead.
They were both relieved when they eventually reached Bobby's. Dean's earlier attempts at being pleasant seemed to have been left by the roadside back at the motel, and the journey had been completed in the customary silence that Sam had come to expect.
Bobby was outside working on a car when they pulled up. Smearing his oily hands on an even dirtier rag, he flashed them a genuine smile and casually sauntered over to greet them.
Climbing out of the car, Sam stretched before embracing him warmly; wrinkling his nose at the overpowering smell of engine oil. When they eventually separated, Bobby held him at arms length, taking in the withdrawn looking face and bruised jaw.
He looked over accusingly at Dean, who caught the look, and shifted uncomfortably under the older mans intense gaze. But any thoughts that Bobby had were quickly dispelled by the worrying sight of the empty deeply sunken eyes and grey pallor. 'What the hell were these boys doing to themselves?' He wondered.
Moving towards him, Bobby made as much contact as he thought Dean would allow, and placed a cautious hand on his shoulder. As he led him into the house, he was shocked at how thin the shoulders had become in the few months since he had last seen him, and it strengthened his resolve to help them both.