For creative writing class, we had to choose lyrics to a song and write a story based on that song without actually using the lyrics. All I had to do was change the names and a few other things and bam, fan fiction. Hope you like it!
How to Save a Life
He was the type of man you would notice the moment you walked into the room. Not because he had a neon Mohawk or dressed in only black or was in-your-face obnoxious. He was a man of average height with short brown hair and he wore a black leather coat. He sat alone, slowly turning the whiskey in his palm, admiring the sparkle in the liquid as the dim light hit his glass.
While many would feel trapped in a bar as crowded as this, he welcomed the noise. It was easy to get lost in the smoke and the bikers and the music. It felt better than being locked in a room, a prisoner of your own thoughts and emotions. He didn't do emotions; they were too girly.
Suddenly a man, about four inches taller than he was, sat across from him. "Hey." The man's voice was gentle; sad. "Thought I'd find you here."
He suddenly found the other side of the room very interesting and tossed back another shot of his drink.
"Dean." He was firm this time.
The shorter placed his drink down and glanced at the other, raising his eyebrows questioningly.
"When are we going to talk about it?"
"Talk about what?" his voice was low with warning, hand clenching the glass tightly.
"Dad's gone, Dean." His voice caught in his throat and he looked down.
The elder stood abruptly and stalked off, leaving his brother, who quietly unfolded and few dollars, to pay the bill.
He found Dean, sprawled on their 1967 Chevy Impala, rain drenching his clothes and soaking into his pores. "You're gonna get sick." He mumbled. Dean looked up, rolled off the jet black hood, and slipped silently into the car.
The drive back to the motel was a long one; or at least it seemed that way. The rain pounded the windshield and flushed onto the street.
Each 'swish' of the wiper forced Dean deeper into his mind. Not three weeks ago their father had died. Heart failure; a fucking heart attack. It just wasn't right, it didn't fit the Winchester way. How could something so human bring Jon Winchester down, after all they'd been through? It just didn't fit. Dean shook his head fervently; his eyes passing over his brother. He was met immediately by two pleading green eyes. "Take a picture, Sammy" he muttered as they pulled into the parking lot. He switched off the ignition and climbed out, slamming the door as his brother followed sullenly.
Once the door was unlocked, he ducked into the bathroom. Peeling off the sopping leather and tossing it onto the closed toilet, he toweled off his face and hair. He shivered in the dripping clothes and decided to take a shower.
He didn't register the scalding water stinging his back and shoulders. His skin turned bright red but he stood still, lost in his thoughts. He stepped out twenty minutes later and wrapped a towel around his waist. Brushing the steam on the mirror away with his fist, he took a long look at his reflection.
His cheeks were hollow and paled, water dripped onto his face and glistened under his lashes, likes tears he had yet to shed. His eyes were blank, void of any emotion, yet they were open in a deep, green abyss. He watched the water slowly cascade down to his chin and linger there, a metaphor to his life. Since he was four years old he had been rushed from one town to the next, hunting; looking out for his brother. But in just one day, everything had come to a complete stop. He was hanging by a thread and he knew it. But he had to keep it together, he had to be strong for Sam. His bit his trembling lip as a drop fell onto his bare chest.
"Dean?" Sam suddenly called, knocking lightly on the door. "You almost done in there?"
He shook his head, spraying droplets all over the bathroom, before slipping on a pair of boxers and tossing the balled up towel in the corner. He opened the door to find his brother, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot and bouncing slightly. A shadow of a smile hovered on Dean's lips as he stepped aside for his brother. The sounds of Sam relieving himself filled the room so Dean flipped on the TV, and tugged a gray shirt over his spiky hair. He heard the shower turn back on and flopped down on the nearest bed.
Bored, he began playing with his phone. He found a picture of Sam, plastic spoon hanging from his lips, sound asleep. 'Good times.' He muttered reminiscently. As he was going through old text messages, an 'unknown' I.D. appeared with coordinates as the message.
"Same old ex-marine crap." He heard his brother whisper. Dean looked up but Sam was still in the bathroom. His hand shook and his knuckles grew white as he gripped the phone hard. 'Dammit!' his mind screamed and he hurled the cell at the puke-green wall. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and doubled over; elbows against his knees and head bowed in his arms. He took short, shaky breaths as the room closed in around him. He began to feel dizzy as he tried to remember the last time he had eaten anything. "Sam." He called weakly just before everything went black.
As Sam opened the door, clouds of steam rolled around him and fogged up the windows of the small room. He folded his dirty clothes and placed them in his duffel, realizing soon after that his brother wasn't on the bed. "Dean?" he glanced around and saw an arm from the corner of his eye. "Dean!" He pulled the limp body onto his lap and lightly slapped his brother's cheek. "Hey, hey. Come on man, wake up."
Dean groaned as his head lolled and Sam pulled him up to rest against his chest. "Sam?" he whispered.
"Yeah? I'm right here."
"Let me go." Dean tried to stand but his knees buckled and he collapsed into Sam's open arms. Sam set him gently on the bed and stared at him accusingly. "What?"
"When was the last time you ate?" He crossed his arms.
"I dunno, Sam. Probably with you." He leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes.
"No. I ate. You practically force-fed me and didn't eat anything yourself. I can't believe I didn't see it! God, I'm so selfish." He was pacing now, talking to himself. It was what he did best, blamed himself. Everything was his fault.
"Sam…" Dean rose slowly but sat back again as a wave of dizziness hit him. "Can you get me some water or something?" Sam stopped and blinked before rushing to the sink and filling a Styrofoam cup with water and handing it to his brother. He then busied himself with sifting through their duffels in search of some kind of edible substance. Satisfied with a granola bar and a half-eaten strip of beef jerky, he tossed those at Dean as well. Dean chewed and swallowed mechanically but felt his strength creeping back in.
"It's not your fault." Sam said quietly, as if it were to himself.
"Sam-" he warned, voice harsh.
"No, Dean, you need to hear it. You're not taking care of yourself. You're on edge, you're hostile, you're fucking scary, man." He swallowed thickly and blinked back the tears that offensively tried to escape. "I know how you feel, Dean. That hole he left just keeps getting bigger and bigger and you feel empty and lifeless." His voice caught and he took a deep, calming breath.
Dean stood up and fought the dizziness, shaking his head until it subsided. "Shut up!" he took a step towards the younger and grabbed his collar. "Shut the Hell up!" he pushed Sam back, slamming him into the wall and gripping his shoulder tensely. "I spent three years with him while you were fooling around at school. I did everything he ever asked me to do. He knew I cared about him, I acted like his son! So how the fuck can you know how I feel?" He was nose to nose with the younger now, his voice low and menacing. The tears that fell from Sam's hazel eyes didn't even affect him. He was blinded by emotion, something he never let happen.
Sam unconsciously slipped to the floor and wrapped his head in his knees. Dean released his brother and stared at his shaking hands. "Dammit!" he ripped the nearby lamp from the bedside table and launched it at the floor. He punched the wall violently and Sam heard the 'crack' of his knuckles hitting plaster. Dean cradled his hand against his chest and sunk to the floor, releasing a breath that sounded suspiciously like a sob.
Sam dried his eyes and crawled to his brother, draping his long arms around his shaking form and pulling him close. Dean pushed him once but Sam persisted and grasped him tighter. Leading Dean to the crook of his neck, he massaged the tense muscles in his brother's and kept his other arm securely around his back. "Sshh." He murmured near Dean's ear. "You're ok, it's ok."
Dean gulped in air as he tried to calm himself. He hated this, he couldn't break down, not in front of Sam. But God, it hurt so fucking bad. "Sammy," he pleaded inaudibly. He had to get himself together again but he couldn't do it alone. He needed his brother to help rebuild the walls that were quickly capitulating.
Sam pulled Dean closer when Dean's arms found Sam and their limbs became entangled. One began rocking, though it was indistinguishable as to which it was because the action caused them to both do so.
They fell asleep that way, balled together on the floor. The hard part was over, getting Dean to open up. But that in itself had uncovered the new side to their F-ed up lives. They had to reconstruct the walls that had crumbled in the demise of their father.
They would have to save each other. That was the new Winchester way.