Moving on from Days Gone and Passed

Created on 4/29/14, 7:22PM

Wednesday, February 15th, 2008.

It was over, all of it. Whatever had even happened in the first place. It was over. They'd beat the Trickster. Dean had seen it with his own eyes just the day before.

But Sam...

"Geez, how many Tuesday did you have?" He demanded, tossing his toothbrush in the direction of his bag and pushing a hand through his hair. Sam was acting weird. Really weird. Weirder than Dean had been expecting.

But his brother didn't answer, didn't even look at him. He was just sitting there, his face slack, staring at the floor, not even bothering to stand up or get out of bed.

Dean turned his back for a moment to grab his bag off the floor.

Just in time to see the radio slam into the wall a few feet from his head with enough force to shatter the plastic and metal and punch a hole the size of his fist into the drywall.

He barely had time to comprehend what had happened before Sam was on his feet, his chest heaving and his hands clenched and his arms trembling, his eyes wide and swinging wildly around the room as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

For a moment, Dean thought that Sam was going to try to bolt from the room-what was he running from?-but then his brothers legs collapsed out from beneath him, and he fell to the floor, not even bothering to try to catch himself before he hit the ground on his side.

"Sammy!" Dean had launched himself forward before he even knew what was happening, and found his brother staring past him with glassy eyes when he turned his head to look at his face. "Sam, what's wrong?" His voice came out louder than he'd intended, but he didn't care.

But Sam wasn't answering him. Sam wasn't even looking at him. Sam was just staring upward, his eyes empty of anything that could be mistaken for emotion.

Dean had never seen his brother like this. He'd never seen anyone like this.

"Sam?" His voice was despe—

Time stopped.

The world spun on its heels.

Realizing the mistake he'd made, a god reached down and plucked a single string of time apart from the others, and flipped it within his hands from end to end, resetting the world to the way it had been just ten minutes before, then placed it back amongst the other threads, as though nothing at all had happened.

A vital part of Sam Winchester had recoiled at the thought of going on after all that had happened, but all it took was a snip here, a bit of psychic duck-tape there, and everything was all better.

For the time being, at least.

Sam Winchester jolted into the waking world on a wave of music. His eyes darted frantically around the small room he suddenly found himself in, his eyes going as wide as saucers when he saw his brother standing with a toothbrush in hand at the open door to the bathroom.

"Dean?" The sound came out as a strangled whisper.

Dean Winchester didn't hear, and gestured with his toothbrush in sorrow at the radio. "I know," he said sympathetically, "No Asia." He turned away before anything more could be said, slipping back into the bathroom he'd just exited to finish brushing his teeth.

Sam Winchester just sat there on the bed for a few moments, his mouth open slightly in disbelief, one hand clutching at the fabric over his heart without even his noticing, the fingers clenched and shaking.

"But..." His voice whispered itself to the uncaring room. "But I..."

The fingers that clutched at his heart loosened, and his hand allowed itself to fall to his side. His eyes, filled with horror and despair and confusion and pain, steeled themselves against the world that was waiting for him to react.

In a moment that was almost visible, Sam Winchester shoved the emotions that wanted to rip him to pieces to the back of his mind, and buried them under the relief—sorrow-that his brother was alive. Dean was alive. Dean was alive. Dean was alive.

He repeated it to himself like a mantra, grinding his teeth together.

Dean is alive. Dean is alive. Dean is alive. Dean is alive.

Sam had learned many things over the years. And by the time his brother—his living, breathing older brother Dean—walked back into the room, his mind was sealed up as tight as a vacuum chamber, and his mouth even managed to form a smile at his brother's banter-filled, "What? Are you planning on sleeping around all day?"

Any emotions that might have strayed him from his current path firmly locked away on his mind—later, he promised himself, I'll deal with it later, I'll deal with it later, I'll deal with it later—he shook his head, still smiling—because Dean was alive, and Dean being alive was a good thing, it was something to smile about, it was a good thing, a good reason to smile and be happy—and got to his feet, and went about the normal Winchester morning routine without pause or question or undue fuss, and, seeing that his brother seemed perfectly ordinary after what had happened—what had even happened?—despite how strange—and frightening—he had acted the day before, Dean Winchester decided that it would be best to just drop the subject entirely, so that they could get back on the road as quickly as possible.

They still needed to track down Bela and the Colt, and they couldn't do that sitting in a motel room decorated with flamingos.

"You ready to head out?" The words were cheerful, normal. Dean was in a hurry to leave, to put the last day behind them and out of his memory. He could still hear the sound of a bullet fired in warning piercing the sky and shaking the windows. Someone had been in their car. Waiting in the back seat. Hidden in the shadows and folding their body so that they were impossibly small. With a knife.

Dean didn't even want to think about how his brother had known the man was in there. He didn't want to think about what it meant that his brother seemed to know his way to the diner he'd only learned about that morning like the back of his hand. He didn't want to think about what the trickster had done this time.

So he didn't.

And the two Winchesters got into their Impala—Dean never noticing, because he didn't want to, and because Sam didn't him want to—the way that Sam's eyes were glassy as he stared out the window, watching the landscape roll by.

Dean didn't notice the way that Sam's hand had crept back to his chest, and was clutching at his heart even through the fabric of his coat. Even though the fabric of his shirt. Dean didn't notice the way his brother's fingers twitched where they rested against his leg, or the way his head was constantly moving from side to side as though trying to spot something at the corner of his eye. Dean didn't notice that anything was different about Sam, because no more time than a single day had passed for his memory, and there was nothing for him to see.

Because it was what was inside his brother that had changed. His mind. His memories. His soul.

But his eyes. His eyes had changed. They were darker. Sadder. But Dean would never notice. Because Sam was going to make sure never to look his brother in the eye again.

Otherwise, he would see how much he hated him.

Finished at 10:27PM