I still don't own anything but the mistakes, for what I apologize.
Enjoy
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It's A Trust Kind Of Thing
Silence is the loneliest sound. Especially when you lie on your bed, uncomfortable, but still a bed. Warm and hard. All the people who laid there made dents, that just don't fit you. So you turn and you twist till' you nearly fall off. And still, it's the silence that kills you. Not the dents, not the itchy blanket, not the too soft pillow, not the ache in your muscles…no, it's the silence.
The covers twisted around your legs, left arm stretched beside you, fingers sliding up and down the mattress, right one lying on your chest. Feeling your heart beat, the only thing that's making noise. Still alive. The breathing that comes from the bed next to yours is making you sleepy and somewhat dizzy. Staring at the ceiling brings no new discoveries. All the same, white and dirty. God what is that thing? You truly hope it's a spider or a fly, but you have your doubts.
You turn your head towards the window, huh, raining again. What a shock. You swear to God, if tomorrow rains again, you'll kill yourself. What ever happened to the sun? Has it forgotten to wake up? The curtain is a greenish piece of fabric that just makes you wanna puke. The wallpaper isn't making you fell any better. Why oh why do you always have to stay in such…interesting places.
You stretch your legs, every joint pops, but you wiggle your toes some more, just to hear some sound, other than breathing and, oh great, snoring. You know you should get some sleep, you know that, but you can't. Then the alarm clock goes off. Well, no chance in sleep there. The figure on the bed beside you stirs. A groan is all you get. You turn off the alarm and just keep still. Maybe, just this once, you can stay in bed. But then again, when has that ever happen?
So you untwist yourself from the covers, careful not to wake the creature on the ceiling or the bed. Slowly, painfully slow, you get up and paddle to the bathroom. Closing the door is a problem on its own. They squeak and you think to yourself, WD40, not a bad idea. But somehow you manage. Everyday…you just manage. Wash your face, wash the sleepiness off, wash your tiredness, see how everything goes down the drain. Get dressed. Jeans and a shirt. The usual. Opening the door finally wakes the creature on the ceiling. The one on the bed is still snoring softly. You've listened to that sound your whole life and still, it annoys you. You roll your eyes and walk toward the sound.
"Dean. Hey, man, wake up. We have to go." You wanna shake him, but he just looks so peaceful and still. The only time of the day that he's still.
"Hmm, what?" he digs his hand in his eyes and you're afraid he'll poke an eye out.
"It's time. We have to go. Come on." You linger by his bedside, making sure he'll really get up. Slowly he does. You sit on your bed, sighing. You look at your phone, one o'clock in the morning. God, this is so not normal.
You listen to the sounds your brother does. He's showering. Silence. Brushing his teeth, shaving. Silence. Combing his hair. Silence. Getting dressed. The flush of the toilet. A squeak and he's ready.
"O.K. Let's go then."
He picks up his baby's keys and The Bag. The bag that holds the weaponry. You sheepishly move behind your brother. The lack of sleep and constant fighting…it's doing nothing for your soul and body.
The black door squeak. You would mention it to Dean, but you're afraid you'll have to walk for the rest of your life. So you just sit inside the car, that's always so patiently waiting for you. The engine starts and you barely notice. But the hum of the machine is present. You swear to God, that sometimes, when you actually sleep, you can feel it in your dreams.
"So, do we have a plan or just salt and burn?"
You swear you just heard a humming sound on your left side so you look at that direction. But it's just Dean.
"Huhm, what?"
"Sam? Did you get any sleep tonight?"
How can you answer to that? You could lie, but you know he knows the truth.
"No." You think that'll do it.
"Sam."
It's not an accusation per se, but you feel like it is. But it is spoken with such softness that you just can't believe Dean spoke it. So you look around the car, to see if there's anyone else here. Noup, just the two of you.
"Dean, I'm fine. Let's just go and do this. I'll catch some sleep later, O.K.?"
You know he doesn't believe you, you can see it in the way his mouth turns into a thin line.
The fog in front of the car envelops your mind. The rain doesn't help ease the thoughts. Where is your life taking you? These things that you do…have done…will do. You just wanted normal. Just normal. And this is what you got. And then you start to question who did you piss off to get this kind of life? You give out a small laugh and that draws attention of the person sitting next to you. The light sound of music turns even lighter, when Dean turns the radio off. You panic. You don't wanna talk. Not now. You're on a mission, a job. Everything else must be forgotten or else you can't perform one hundred percent. Not that you can anyway.
"Sam, tell me. What are we…"
You panic. You hope that the sentence won't require a heart to heart conversation coz' right now you just can't.
"…going to waste?"
Thank you Lord, you mutter in your mind and quickly scramble to get answers.
"Hmm, a ghost of a man murdered at his home and he's haunting it. Killing people and stuff."
"Stuff?" he looks at you confused, "O.K. We'll be there soon. You'll be fine?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine." But you know that won't be the case. You know he doesn't believe you but he nods and drives further into the fog.
God you're hungry.
You lean to the cold window, and start sliding your finger up and down it, making traces in the drops of moister gathered there. Just lines of your life. Nothing else. Nothing meaningful. You clench your jaw, teeth collide together, you swear you just chipped a tooth there, at the thought that just flashed before your eyes. Don't show it, just stuff it back in, Dean's suspicious as it is. Just don't show it. But it's too late. The first sign of tears is there. That tight squeeze in the bottom of your throat. Please, please, please, no, no, no. Just stop it. Go back. No crying. Not now. Not on a job. You look sideways, carefully and slowly to your brother. You just wish he didn't see it. His face is emotionless, mouth still in a thin line, eyes fixed on the road. You dare a look at the stirring wheel. Shit, his knuckles are white from the shire force he's gripping the stirring wheel. That only means two things. Either he's extremely angry or extremely worried. You hope it's the latter. You couldn't deal with an angry Dean right now.
And the silence is once again killing you. You start to wonder, doesn't Dean talk more. Like all the friggin' time. What's up with that? When you get tired of the lines on the window and after you sucked the tears back in, you start to fiddle with your shirt. There's a little drop of something on it. You hope it's ketchup but you know it's not. There's no need to even hope that it's ketchup. And you're hungry again.
"Sammy talk to me man." Softly spoken words. Ah, worry, not anger. You relax a little, but the hunger disappears, and the tears are back. And you're so scared to answer that, to break the silence, you've actually become comfortable in. To break the hum of the engine, to speak with your voice that's probably thick with tears. And you caught. Clear your throat, even though you know it won't work. You look straight ahead, on the road, when will this ride end, eyes on the fog. You wish you could loose yourself in it. Maybe if Dean will stop the car, you'll run.
You've been taught to suck it up, be strong, but sometimes everything is just…too…much. You can still breathe, but you know that if Dean speaks again, you'll loose the air. And you're afraid you won't be able to find it again. You feel Dean looking at you, you can actually feel his eyes on you, making little holes in your body, examining you, searching, needing answers.
"Sam!" Scratch that. Demanding answers.
You flinch. You jump slightly on your seat, from the ferocity of the voice…of the name. Sam. It's not Sammy any more. You pray that he won't stop the car coz' you will run. You will run for your life. Yes you wanna talk, yes you need to talk, but how can Dean always find the wrong time to pick the bone, is beyond you. You don't even know what's wrong. I mean, yes you do, but to voice it out loud, it wouldn't make any sense. It's just a thought, nothing really. Well it would be nothing if it wouldn't be eating you alive.
"Sam, goddamit, would you just answer me!" Alright that was anger. Definitely anger. And then you feel it. Strong hands gripping your shoulders, shaking you, your head lolls back and forward, eyes almost roll into your head but you still them. As soon as the shaking stops, you fix them on Dean. He looks at you quizzing, searching, looking, drilling holes again. And it hurts. And you want him to stop. Need him to stop doing that. The greenness of them, how it stands out, unnaturally. Yeah, definitely worry. You hate doing this to your brother, but it's just so hard to be strong.
And the tears are back. Why your body just never listens to you, is a question that should involve some more insight but right now you need to run.
You break from the death grip your big brother has on your shoulders,that's gonna leave a mark, open the squeaking door, really WD40, ever heard of it, and run.
The air hits you before the rain. It's so freaking cold, too cold for the jacket you're wearing. And the rain doesn't help the matters. You're soaking wet even before you make it off the road. You need to run, run away, but where? Where to go? You have no idea where you are, where you're heading, the need is too strong. No time for questions.
The rain drops tickle your face, the wet locks of your hair fall on your eyes, obscuring your view, the fog is relentless, keeping you in the dark. The moon is far from being full, and you thank God, it's not. Werewolves wouldn't be fun right now. Maybe a kill would help. No, no it wouldn't, coz' you're not like Dean. He needs to kill, you don't.
It hurts so much, so much. And you need to keep running. To replace the pain in your mind with the pain in your sides. The floor, slippery and annoyingly full of sound, covered with needles and leaves, making crunching sounds beneath your boots. The cacophony of the noises, rain hitting leaves and the floor and you, and everything is making your head swirl, you just want your brain to stop working, just keep your mind on moving your legs. Faster. Nothing else matters. You would kill for that silence right now. You can barely see the trees, but you don't care. The branches, thought, they're evil. Hitting them is like being whipped, over and over again. In the mix of rain and sweat and tears, you can taste blood in your mouth too. You would keep them shut but then you can't breathe. Maybe you don't wanna breathe.
The knock is forceful, it takes the breath right out of you. You fall on the floor, hit it hard, face forward, into the mud. For a second everything goes black, and it smells of something rotten. Death. As you are being turned around, the rain hits you straight in the face. And it hurts, the drops are strong and they cut like knives being plunged into your cheeks.
You try to close your eyes, trying to avoid the on slaughter of the drops, but you're scared. If you do that, you won't see what knocked you down. You won't be able to see who'll kill you. And then you feel legs trying to keep your lower body still, and you feel hands holding your wrists, coz' you're fighting and throwing punches into the dark. Your hands are being pushed on the floor and they hit the mud and water. And it disgusts you. And the hold on you is strong and a shot of electricity shoots up your hands and down your spine.
Dean.
And you just hope he's not pissed.
"What the hell, Sam?!" Yeah, pissed alright.
You feel tears pooling in the corner of your eyes, you thank the rain for covering up your weakness. You want to wiggle yourself out from beneath Dean, but he's stronger. With your feet you want to kick Dean but he pinned them down on the cold wet ground.
"Talk Sam or I swear…"
Dean's face appears above your own and at that moment you loose the air. There isn't enough of it on the planet to fill your lungs again. You tried, you really did, to be strong, but this is the night to lose everything. Even the sky is with you on that one. You don't hear what Dean's intentions were, you block him out. There's just you, the rain and darkness.
"…mmy…"
Dean?
"..need…brea…mmy…"
Dean?
"Ya…need…t…eathe…Sam…my."
Dean?
"You need to breathe Sammy!"
Dean?
"Hey, Sammy, just breathe. O.K.? Alright? Hey, hey…It's O.K. You'll be alright. Just in and out. Like you've been doing it all your life. Don't tell me you forgot now?! Just take it easy."
You try to open your mouth, to gasp for the air you need so much, waiting for it to come to your lungs, but all you got is mouthful of water.
Dean lowered himself blocking some of the downpour but he didn't get Sam up. He willed for the rain to stop, but with their luck, the hail would start. Or the snow.
You start to cough. Dean blocked most of the rain from your face and you really need to get up. Now. The rain drenched your shirt, pants, brain. It seeped into your skin.
"Let me go." you manage to whiz out.
"So you could run out on me? Again?"
"Please." you whisper with a breath you never knew you had, "Please."
It's a dirty trick, and you know it. You know Dean could never resist your pleading. And you can see it in his eyes that he's pleading back to you. To talk.
The rain drips from Dean's face on your own. The necklace hanging loosely on his neck, almost touching your chin.
Silence. In the middle of the night somewhere in the woods in a god forsaken place. What did you expect?
You know he will never let you go unless you talk. You open your palm and dig your fingers in the cold wet ground. You have nothing else to hold on to, to ground you, so you collect the dead, rotten leaves and squeeze hard. And the sound it makes, like squishing a bug to death, gives you courage to speak.
"Dad. I need him, Dean." a whisper so soft, not even you heard it.
"Sammy…" and you feel Sam's heartbeat beneath your fingers. Fast and unsteady, but there. Alive, not lost, just keep it that way, and everything will be just fine. You want to wipe the blood of his face, but you're afraid to break contact.
"I know we fought a lot, but he's our Dad. I need him." you try to move your hands but Dean's grip is so strong it actually hurts a little. Again, that will leave a mark. The thin bracelet on your right hand digs into your skin, and it burns. You're pretty sure it'll cut off the blood supply.
"Shit, Sammy." and you tighten your grip on Sam's wrist. You know you're hurting the boy, but you have to do it, or else you will loose him. You think that if you let go, Sam will disappear right from beneath you.
"He's our Dad. I want him back and it just," you turn your head to your left, avoiding Dean's probing eyes, "hurts so…much."
"Sammy. I'm so sorry. I am. I never…"
"We're orphans, Dean. We don't have a Dad or a Mom anymore."
And at that moment Dean realized that Sam was just a little boy, terrified and lonely. And the tears, that he could make out from under the rain and the blood, were slowly killing him. Breaking him. Sam needed Dad.
"And you, Dean…"
Your heart stops. You don't wanna know what Sam wants to say. Because you know you're the reason Sam's without his Dad. Shit.
"…I need you more. To just be my brother. You locked yourself and I know that's how you deal with things, but, I need you."
It took Sam ages to say that sentence, between all of the sobs and intakes of fresh, cool night air. But Dean waited. He would wait ages and then some just to get Sam back. And Sam would wait ages and then some just to get Dean back. That was just how things were…are.
"Sammy." You have absolutely no idea what to say next. Here you are, holding your little brother pinned beneath you, trying so damn hard not to break him, rain soaking you to the bone, and you have no idea what to say. And your brother is crying. He hasn't done that in years. Well, not counting all the times he has teary eyes. And Madison.
And then something pops in your mind. And the rain stops. Well, it's about freaking time.
"Sammy, hey. Look at me."
You do. You are so embarrassed, scared and cold, and the last thing you want to do is look at your brother in the eyes, but you do. It's the tone of the voice that attracts you. Like bees on honey.
"Do you trust me?"
Nothing. No reply. Just two of the saddest eyes starring at you. You know that the lack of an answer has nothing to do with Sam thinking about it. It's because Sam isn't there at the moment.
"Sam!" you jostle his arms, "Hey, Sammy."
And you get the right look. The one where Sam looks deep into you and blinks.
"You trust me?" you know you have to repeat the question. You just got Sam back.
"Yeah." Not sounding very convincing, but close enough.
"Yeah of course I do." Now, that's much better.
"O.K. then. Trust me when I say…" you have to risk it. You know Sam said that he doesn't blame you for your fathers death, but you have your doubts, so you risk it, "…I'll always be there."
And the glassy look of wandering mind, Sam always seems to have, turns into a clear look of complete trust. And you feel his heartbeat coming slow and steady, his breathing calm and deep.
But your brain tells you that he can't promise you that, but your heart has an answer. It's a trust kind of thing.
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Next time we're going hunting. Well the boys are. Or will the hunt be hunting them? It's all a trust kind of thing.