Okay...I've been gone for a long time, I know. I'm sorry!! Just hoping I can try to tell another story, hoping you still want to hear them!!
So this one makes assumptions like...Dean coming back and Dean not being so good with coming back.
I love reader input and any concrit you have. I must ask though...if you can't be nice, please don't comment. I do this for fun, not to be, well, picked at.
Now go on and read...I wrote this with a broken left wrist (yep, two fingers on the keyboard) so read it slow and you'll catch my pace! Ha, ha!
He'd spent twenty-some-odd years living his life as a soldier, trained and brainwashed. He held to the rules his father had given to him better than most held to the Ten Commandments. 'Never show your weakness, fight your hardest, win the battle at any cost'.
He was a warrior in the dark. When the curtains were drawn, the doors were locked, and the rest of the world slept, Dean fought. He fought the shadows of doubt that clouded things. He battled the ache in heart that filled the place his mother's love had been once up on a time. He wrestled with the constant urge to take his brother and hide him away somewhere safe where he could protect him for the rest of forever. He struggled with the thought that this was it, all his life would be.
He'd been through too much in such a short length of time. He'd had more than the weight of the world on his shoulders. He'd carried the weight of heaven and hell, and good and evil. He'd lost his father, held his baby brother in his arms as he died, sold his soul, unleashed the fury of hell on humanity, watched Sam change from the bright light he had been into a broken and sorrowful man, then died a horrific death and went to hell only to be brought back by love. It was more than any one person could even try to handle and in a no-tell motel, he'd finally found he couldn't take it anymore.
It was, as Roosevelt had said once, a day that would live in infamy.
They were working a job in a sprawling metropolis. Smog filled air, horns that never stopped honking, people crowding the streets, buses stopping every few feet to pick up more riders, and street vendors everywhere. Sam looking at him that way.
In grand tradition, there had been a girl whom they assumed needed saving. Turns out she was more of a Joan of Arc than a Snow White. The young journalist swooped in in her modest Toyota Corolla and saved the day with a little quick thinking and a lot of heart.
When the salt was poured and the bones were burned, she thanked them. Sam hugged her and she gave Dean a kiss on the cheek, then it was back to the kitschy motel on the far east side of town. Dean went for the shower while his brother went for takeout.
In the bathroom, the water was lukewarm and the soap was cheap. The smell of glycerin and the scratch of the hard water pounded home all of the things that had been playing in Dean's mind. He thought of the journalist and her apartment. He thought of her boyfriend and what a lucky guy he was because not only did he have the girl, but he didn't have a gun under his pillow. He envied the kid who'd sold them burgers for lunch and the obscene simplicity of his existence. He wished for the life of the old guy who'd pumped his gas and talked incessantly about his grandchildren in Florida and his wife at home. He tried so hard not to think about what his life had been and what his life was.
When he got out of the shower Sam was sitting at the cheap particle board table with boxes and boxes of food, flanked by bottles of soda, condensation dripping on the wood. Dean leaned over the table, peering in the cartons, all his favorites were there. He looked at Sam but couldn't see anything but fear and concern. He wished for the Sam that saw past his issues and just wanted to do the job and hang out with his big brother. He remembered that kid that somehow turned into this man. He'd hold onto those memories of the old Sam and Dean and bring them back when he needed the strength to get through whatever he was trying to fight his way through.
Sam didn't say a word as Dean sat down, just piled food on a paper plate and put it in front of his brother. He knew something was going on, but until Dean let him in, this was really the only thing he could do. He popped the top of the soda and put it next to Dean's plate as his brother ripped open a pair of chop sticks. They ate quietly, Dean unsure of how to deal with what was going on inside of him and Sam unwilling to disturb whatever peace Dean was trying to find.
The food was gone and the table had been cleared. Sam sat tapping quietly on his laptop while Dean absently channel surfed. His thumb never stopped moving, skipping from channel to channel without ever stopping. He was restless and couldn't sit still; stretching out then sitting up, leaning against the headboard then sitting at the foot of the bed. He went to the bathroom three times in two hours, drank two more sodas just to be doing something. Sam didn't comment on any of it.
At nine he took a walk across the street to the stop-and-rob where Sam had gotten the sodas and bought a sixer of Bud and a pack of reds. He strolled back in the cool night air and sat on the back of the Impala drinking and smoking, not really sure why he was doing either. Five smokes in, he stowed the pack in the glove box and finished his third beer, then just sat quietly.
Sam watched him through the dirty window, trying to read the slump of his shoulders and measure the weight on his back. But Dean was Dean and gave no tells. Whatever was going on in his brothers head would come out eventually, it was up to Dean to decide when and how, still deep down Sam knew. This was the same thing that had a grip on Dean since he came back.
Around eleven Dean came in and headed for the bathroom. He washed his face and brushed his teeth, then silently crawled into his bed. Sam shut off the lights and got into his own bed. Sleep found Sam quickly but was just past Dean's grasp.
The room was quiet and the night was still, but Dean's fight was getting louder and harder to win.
Sam woke up at two a.m. to a light coming from the bathroom and the sound of his brother pacing. Dean's pacing wasn't like anyone else's. When he paced it was loud, big feet slapping the floor with the full weight of his body, giving the tiles a beating for whatever was going on. Silence was for hunting and working, this was for therapy and release.
Sam sat up straight in the bed and watched Dean for a moment. His shoulders were still slumped, hands clenching a fist and letting go over and over again. He thought maybe he could see his brother's lips moving but there was no sound. Whatever was going on across the room, it was it wasn't good and he couldn't play audience to it anymore.
"Dean?" He mumbled as he stood up.
The older man stopped in his tracks and looked to his brother. "I woke you up. M'sorry. Go back to sleep". He stalked to the bathroom and turned off the light.
"No, no. Its fine", he turned on the lamp between the beds illuminating the room again, "You okay?"
"It's nothin'." He ran a hand over his face, "I'm fine".
"Well get some sleep man, It's been a long week". Sam pointed to the bed and watched as Dean sat on the end.
"I can't. I can't sleep. Stuff won't stop, can't turn it all off". He didn't look at Sam, didn't want to see this different, harder version of him anymore.
"What can't you turn off?" Sam sat next to him on the bed. He expected Dean to jump, flip his masochist self deprecation switch, find a way out of the moment. But he didn't, he just scrubbed his face with an open palm.
"Our life man. Where we're gonna end up in the future. How I fucked up every opportunity in the past."
Sam was quiet, listening carefully, giving his brother his full attention. Dean didn't open up like this much, so when he did, you had better believe it was important.
Dean was breathing hard, his chest heaving up and down, sweat glistening on his brow despite the cool air of the room. Sam watched his knee bobbing, foot tapping a rhythm on the floor, and then as his eyes drifted up, he saw his big brothers hands.
Steady hands that held him as a baby, soothed him as a child, had given life saving first aid, protected him from what he didn't see, held a gun to those things that threatened him, were shaking. They shook so much Dean couldn't stop it. He was wringing his hands, holding one inside the other, trying to stop the movement, trying to hide his weakness.
That wasn't something Sam could just gloss over and look past. So he took a chance, put one of his huge hands over both of Dean's and held them tight. He squeezed, enough to let Dean know he recognized the tremors, and again to let him know he was there to hold him steady if he needed it. He ducked his head around and tried to look Dean in the eye.
"Hey," a call to attention. "What's going on?"
Dean took a deep breath and looked at him before he stood and crossed the room, "Don't want to talk about it Sammy, just go back to bed."
"Remember that day I saved you from hell? Since then I figure there's not a lot that I can't do, Dean." Sam stood and put his hands on his hips, "Not talking about things doesn't work for us. So just tell me what's going on."
Dean slumped against the wall then slid down to the floor. "I have memories. Not much, just little pieces of what it was like. Heat and fear and helplessness. I went down there because that's what it cost to keep you safe. And I don't regret it for a second".
Dean looked up at Sam, hoping against hope that the light would be back in his eyes. It wasn't.
"I would have lost my mind if it weren't for you. I just kept reminding myself that you were okay, that this was the cost of love". He worried the hem of his t-shirt, tears welling in his eyes and brimming over. "But it's different now. I don't know how to be here. I don't know how to be me anymore".
Something in Sam stirred and he wanted to grab Dean and hold him tight, stop the way that not only his hands shook but his whole body shook. But he wouldn't. More than once Sam had tried physical displays of love and affection, and they were never well received. He was broken too, and he couldn't take being shoved away anymore. It hurt too much.
"I don't know how to be strong and I don't know how to be the hero. I just don't know anymore". For such softly spoken words, the message was deafening.
Sam sat on the floor next to his brother, shoulder to shoulder, and said what he'd needed to say for a long time. "You can't keep doing this Dean. I know you're not okay, and I'm not either, but we can't let this take control and ruin our lives".
Dean scoffed. "Ruin our lives? I know this isn't the life you want Sammy…crappy motels and a forty year old car."
"This motel isn't that bad", he mused for his brothers benefit. "Circle K adjacent. The pool is pretty clean, a nice shade of green. Beds don't squeak, soaps still in a wrapper, smells like air freshener and not the last person that stayed here. And the car…I wouldn't let her hear you talking like that".
Dean stood up as fast as Sam had ever seen him move. He was a blur. He slid his jeans on, then his shirt and grabbed his jacket while his feet pushed into his boots.
"What are you doing Dean? Where are you going?"
"I don't know", he yelled as he spun around to look at his little brother. "I just can't be here. I'm not the guy that died and went to hell, I'm someone else and I don't know how to be here, or what you need or how to take that look off of your face". He was breathing hard and fighting for oxygen and words.
Sam stood up and followed him to the door, grabbing his arm as he slipped out. "Dean…don't".
Dean shook the hand off and looked up into his brothers sorrowful eyes. "Just let me go Sammy. I won't be gone long…back by breakfast. I just", he blinked at the tears and looked out into the dark outside their door. "I just need to go look for me".
Sam let him go and let his own tears fall as he heard the impala rumble to life. He drug himself back to bed and somewhere between the fears and the tears, he fell asleep.
Mmmmm, good like cookies and peach pie. So, I think this is the beginning of something. But I'm no expert, so you tell me! I hope you enjoyed it! I will forever have this image of a desperate Dean, hands shaking in his lap, in my head. I think he needs to be in print, ya know...
Okay, done blabbing. Reviews...please??