Are You?
A/N:. I remembered Dean's line from ELAC, "I'm dealing with Dad's death, are you?" and I just really started to imagine the different ways Sam, who can't just bottle things up, but wouldn't have Dean to talk to, would really deal with it. I wasn't originally going to write any follow up to "The Instruction Manual," but big thanks is due to all who reviewed it, because it prompted this little ficlet to pop into my head.
Sam Winchester sat in a rickety chair that had seen better days and was obviously built for a gnome. His long legs spilled to either side, and didn't quite fit under the small oak desk in Bobby's spare bedroom. It was early. Sam would bet it was close to 7 am. Pre- dawn light filtered into the room, and he hadn't turned on any artificial light so it was relatively dark.
He wanted to throw up every time he caught a whiff of the wood smoke still permeating his clothes tossed on the floor in the corner of the room. It had been two days since they burned their father's remains. Two days and Dean had gone silent again, losing himself in repairs everyday at dawn, not returning until late in the afternoon, barely looking at the sandwiches Sam made and took out to him.
Sam was sick. Sick of Dean's pointed silence, sick of the car repairs, sick of Bobby feeding into the madness, buying the parts Dean needed, helping with the engine from time to time.
"Sam, he needs this to deal, just let him be," Bobby had said.
Sam wanted to laugh. Of course he knew that; Dean was his brother for fuck's sake. Didn't mean he couldn't be sick of being left alone to deal with his father's death all on his own.
Last night had been particularly rough. He had swallowed his pride, and finally pleaded with his brother.
"Please," he had said once they were settled into their twin beds, "Man, I need you to talk to me." Nothing but Dean's soft breathing and a blank stare. Sam had gotten up from his bed, and pacing, he shouted, "I'm not like you! I can't just not talk and eventually pretend its all gravy that we just burned his body last night!"
Dean looked at him then, his own plea obvious in his eyes, and Sam had relented.
Which had landed them right back at square one, and Sam was really starting to loath square one. At square one he had a deep grief with no one to share it with. At square one he was angry with himself and the world for all that had happened to his family, and at square one that remaining family was tramping out to the yard to begin another day of grueling work on the only home they had ever known.
And as Dean clanked various items around in the yard below, Sam's thoughts clanked and hammered around in his skull until they just wouldn't stay put anymore. He got out a piece of paper and stared down at it for a minute. Then, he began to write.
Dean,
Let me just say, that I'm pretty sure you'll think this is the most girly thing I've ever subjected you to in a long line of things you have dubbed chick-flick, but I
Sam paused. Dean would never take this seriously. In his current state, he may even just throw it out after reading the first line. Tears of frustration pricked the corners of his eyes. He contemplated bunching the paper into a tight ball, tossing it in the trash and going in search of some more of Bobby's volumes on Rituals of the Ancient World, or maybe working on procuring another lap top. But that course of action felt too much like rounding the bend of square one again, and he really wanted to see another square. He tried again.
Listen Dean,
We have to start talking, and if you can't do it aloud, maybe you'd like to write it
Sam groaned in frustration, already scratching out the newly written words. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tried a different tactic.
Hey Dad,
It's Sam. I don't even know why I'm doing this.
First of all, I'm sorry. Sorry that the last time we saw each other we fought. It seems like all the memories I have of you are wrapped up in a fight, and for that I am sorry. I wish it could have been different between us, I really do now. But, hindsight is twenty-twenty, right? So, no sense wishing something that just can't be, huh?
I know if you were here you'd say that, tell me to quit dwelling on it, get my head in the game. But dammit, isn't that what you spent your whole life doing? You spent your whole life chasing after the dream of mom, the memory of her, and dragging us with you. So, how come you're allowed? How come we had to have our head in the game and you got to wallo-
Look at me, you're dead and I can't stop yelling at you. God, Dad, you're dead. How can you be dead? You're John Winchester, for fuck's sake. Sorry about the language, sir, but it really is unbelievable.
Dad, listen (what choice do you have, really?) you gotta help me. Dean, he's…Dean. You know. You know better than me probably, since you were actually able to form conscious memories of how he was after Mom. He's kind of the reason I'm writing this stupid letter. He won't talk. He won't eat much. I don't really know if he's sleeping at night or just pretending like I am.
So, you gotta step in, do something; be a father. You have to have some sort of divine intervention rights, what with all the good you did here. If not, you should seriously have someone look over the fine print of your contract for you. So, anything Dad. Just..anything that might help me get my brother back, would be much appreciated. Sorry to bother you, wherever you are.
Sam.
"Sam!"
"SAM!"
Sam got up from his seat, drained from the ordeal of pleading with his dead father. Bobby was tramping up the stairs.
"Sam?" He called from the hallway.
"Yea," Sam answered. Bobby pushed the door open and entered the tiny spare room. He had a cell phone with himDad's cell phone.
"Found this in his truck," Bobby said, handing the phone to Sam. He took it gingerly, flipped it open and turned it on.
"Thought maybe you'd want it." Sam nodded. Bobby began towards the door, over his shoulder he asked, "You have any idea what your Dad's PIN number would be?"
"No idea," Sam replied. "Why?"
"Says there's a voicemail, might wanna check it." Bobby said from the doorway.
"I'll see what I can do," Sam said, already dialing. This could lead to something. Maybe a lead on the demon, something Dad didn't think they needed to know. Sam just hoped whatever it was; it helped put the Dean back in their Winchester equation.
Between attempts to crack into the voicemail, Sam scribbled on the paper in front of him.
P.S Thank you
Two weeks later…
Hey Dad,
It's me Sam again. Dean's talking now. Not much, but at least he tries to act normal.
We worked a case for Ellen, how come you never told us about her? Anyway, when we were done, Dean just went back to working on the car. Same deal, barely talking. And you know, we got in a pretty big fight over you during the case. I tried talking to him after, and he wasn't having it, told me to leave him alone for the millionth time.
So I did. And then he fucking lost it, Dad. Banging the crap out of the Impala, the Impala of all things, he took a crow bar to her. It all seemed so wrong.
The worst part of it is, I just watched. I couldn't make myself move, Dad. I know I should have gone to him, I know I should have said to hell with all his stupid defenses and just grabbed him 'til it had passed. But I froze. All I could do was watch, scared that if I intervened in anyway he might just take a swing at me, and I really didn't want a jaw- full of crow bar.
I think he's mad at you. Like really, really mad. And you know what, I think I get it. 'Cuz I'm pissed as hell at you too.
I'm angry for the fact that we spent more time yelling than talking with one another. Angry for all the calls you didn't make to see how I was doing at school. Oh, I know you were there, I know you would skulk around for a couple of days out of every year, just passing through, but why couldn't you just pick up the phone for a quick 'hi', Dad?
I'm angry for the way you tried to train me from my earliest memory, making me into a soldier and not your son. I hate the fact that I can't walk into a building or even a fucking restaurant without taking note of the nearest escape route, the available weapons close by. I hate the fact that I spend more money on salt in a year than I do on clothes. And I blame you for it all, just so you know.
But you want to know what I'm the angriest at you for?
Dean.
Of all the things you've screwed up in my life, it's my big brother that you screwed up the most. He's broken without you, Dad. And I can't fix him. He can't have a normal life. He can't have a wife and kids and Labrador puppies. And I know he never wanted any of that in the first place, but to be actually legally dead? It's like he doesn't exist in the real world anymore, has become part of American folklore like the things we hunt. And he only knows how to exist in the world of ghosts and fear and bad dreams come to life.
You made him the perfect soldier. Willing and able to do whatever his commander asked. But now you're dead, and the soldier is gone, Dad, and all that is left is this empty shell. I can't be a commander, and I can't get my brother back, so fuck you. FUCK YOU.
Sam traced the last two words over and over until they were a dark stain on the page. Tears made their way down his cheeks, and he felt like he would shake apart at any second. Not able to write anything more, he shut off the desk lamp with limp, exhausted fingers. He wobbled for a second when he stood up too quickly. His stomach was grumbling, and he realized dinner must have been hours ago.
"Sam?" Dean's voice came from the top of the steps.
Sam quickly tore back his covers, removed his hoodie and got in his bed. He rolled so that his back was facing the door, and wiped furiously at his still wet cheeks.
Pretending to have been startled awake he called out, " 'm sleeping."
Dean's head popped into the little room. He took in the state of his younger brother, "You want something to eat?"
"No," Sam hated his voice for its unsteadiness.
"Hey," Dean said softly, treading into the room. He was wearing sweatpants and a thin cotton t-shirt and was barefoot, "Bobby and me were just getting ready to watch a game, you wanna come pretend to be interested?"
Sam smiled. "Yea, in a minute," he began to sit up. "What'd you guys have for dinner?"
Dean flashed a grin, "Bobby grilled some steak," and when Sam made a face, "And some chicken for you, Samantha."
"Sorry, but I know you and Bobby, that leftover steak probably got up and started grazing again for how much you'd cooked it," Sam started rifling through his pile of laundry.
"I'll be down in a minute, Dean," He pulled out a pair of sweats and another hoodie. For mid-June it had been rather cold the last few nights. "I gotta change," he explained, wagging his clothes back and forth for emphasis when his brother didn't seem to get the picture.
Dean hesitated, studying Sam he said, "Hey look, what I said about you not dealing with Dad's death," he looked at the desk and Sam wondered if Dean had seen one of his stupid notes to Dad. Suddenly embarrassed he crossed to the chair and sat down, blocking Dean's view of the desk top.
"Dean," he said, watching as Dean's eyes began to wander around the room, successfully avoiding eye contact with his brother, "I get it, you don't want to talk about it, we don't have to," he sat, gauging his brother's reaction.
"It's not that," Dean paused, "I mean, yea, I don't want to talk about it, but," He started to fidget and went to sit at the foot of Sam's bed.
"Look, I know you. And I know you're dealing with this in your own way. And yes, I totally do not want to do the cuddly, cry-share-grow version, but if you need to talk to deal, then talk. I'll listen."
Sam never wanted to break the Winchester rule of no-hugging more than in that moment. His brother looked so uncomfortable just sitting there, trying to be ok in a situation he had no emotional background to handle.
"I know," Sam said finally. "But, I think I'm ok now," Dean didn't look convinced, "Come on, I'll meet you down there for the game," Sam said. He got up from the chair and gathered his sweats and hoodie once more.
Accepting the chance at escape, Dean looked relieved as he got up and went to the door, "Ok, I'll heat up your chicken," and somehow he managed to make the word chicken sound like overcooked liver and onions.
Sam laughed, "Alright, and save me a beer too."
Dean was already heading down the stairs, but Sam heard the "you got it," that he tossed over his shoulder on the way down.
Sam quickly changed into his sweats and threw the hoodie over his head as he crossed to the desk once more. Sitting in the chair, he stared at the letter for several seconds before picking up the pen again.
Dad,
For as angry as I still am, I just want to say thanks. He may be fucked up and he may never be quite the same as he was before you died. But he's still my big brother, and he's still looking out for me. I guess I have you to thank for that as well, so just, thanks.
Don't worry about us; I think we're heading towards ok. And I hope that wherever you are, you're able to tell Mom "hi" for me.
Love, Sam.