Good Morning! Here's the first chapter of a short little story filling in some of the missing pieces following their escape from the super-secret government prison. I know I'm not alone in thinking we needed...a LOT more! Hope you'll enjoy!
Setting: Season 12, episode 9, "First Blood"
Drowning
Considering Cas had just killed a reaper, Dean thought they probably had a few things they needed to talk about.
For a moment, it was as if the air had been suctioned right out of his lungs.
His mind was reeling with everything that had just happened. Beyond the reaper, of course, there was also the whole being locked up in a super-secret government facility situation. Plus six weeks of outside world they'd missed. They probably needed to discuss all of that. Getting a hell of a lot further away wouldn't be a bad idea, either.
That was the thought that won out over all the others and spurred Dean to take charge of the situation and get them moving.
He accepted the clothes his mother handed him, and went into the woods a short distance to change. Even though they were miles away, the memories and stench of the place settled heavily over him like a fog. He wanted to rip off the grey jumpsuit and dive into a freezing cold creek to wash the nightmare off his skin. Instead, he shoved the jumpsuit into a garbage bag to be burned when they got back to the Bunker.
Once Sam had changed, too, they rejoined Cas and their mother at the car.
"We should get a motel," Mary said, breaking the uncomfortable, stunned, silence. "You boys need to get some-"
"It's only about seven hours," Sam interrupted her.
Dean didn't need his brother to clarify his statement. The bunker was within reach and he was too keyed up to even think about sleeping right now. A quick glance to his right confirmed that Sam was feeling the same way. Dean looked at their mom.
"We're going home," he said firmly.
"Ok." Mary nodded even though her tone indicated she disagreed.
Cas was silent on the matter.
"I'll drive." Dean held out his hand and his mom tossed him the keys without hesitation.
It was a relief. He needed to drive. Needed to have that sense of control restored. He got behind the wheel as everyone else sorted themselves out. He wasn't surprised when Sam took the passenger seat.
He should have been able to relax. To finally take a deep breath. To allow the relief to fill him as each mile he drove took them further from the nightmare. But he couldn't relax.
Tension was running through every atom in his being and it took a moment for him to tune into the conversation that had picked up around him.
He listened, but kept his mouth shut. He wanted a cheeseburger and he wanted a shower. What he didn't want was to talk. Apparently everyone else did want to talk, though. The peanut gallery in the back seat were asking and answering questions, and Sam was handling most of the conversation.
Dean watched him out of the corner of his eye. Sam looked fine and sounded fine and acted like he was fine, but Dean knew better. Neither of them were fine. Not really. But neither of them had dissolved into a blubbering nervous breakdown (yet) so if Sam was content to pretend all was well, Dean wasn't going to disagree.
For almost an hour, Dean listened to the conversation. Mary and Cas discussed what had been happening over the past six weeks. They asked a few questions about what had happened after he and Sam had been captured, but they didn't get a lot of answers, Dean noted. In fact, now that he was thinking about it, they barely got any answers at all.
Sam skillfully redirected the conversation to other topics on more than one occasion and it didn't take long before everyone in the car got the message.
He didn't want to talk about it.
Conversation petered out quickly and the silence continued for the next two hours. Dean lost himself focusing on the road ahead and trying not to think about the prison.
They stopped for gas, coffee, and some food because it had been hours since they'd eaten. Their mom suggested finding a motel again and Dean opened his mouth, but Sam vetoed the suggestion before he had the chance to. Dean wasn't ready to settle down yet, either. He needed to be on the road, needed the distraction.
They all piled back into the car and Dean floored it. As grateful as he was to Cas and his mother for doing what they had to find them, he wished they weren't in the car right now. He needed time to process what had happened. They weren't pushing, but Dean knew they wanted more answers, more details.
They weren't asking for them anymore, though, so Sam's tactful way of shutting them down seemed to have worked.
Speaking of which, Dean stole a quick peek at his brother from the corner of his eye. Sam was staring out the windshield, expression unreadable. He didn't look particularly tense, but he was good at bluffing. They both were.
If it hadn't been for their backseat company, they'd be talking about it. Maybe. Neither of them wanted to talk, that much was clear. But it had been six weeks. 42 days. 1,008 hours. 60,480 minutes.
A lifetime.
No, Dean didn't want to talk, but he needed something. After that much silence, he needed to hear something that wasn't his own breathing. He was trying to decide if he should turn on the radio or attempt to start a conversation that didn't have anything to do with the prison.
The radio won out and for the next five hours they listened without a single word.
About an hour and a half before they would reach the outskirts of Lebanon, he had to pull off for more gas. There was a small diner next door and when his mom insisted they all needed to eat something, he just nodded. He was starving, but, more importantly, he needed caffeine. The sun was bright in the sky but exhaustion was weighing heavily on him now. He could relinquish the keys to any of his companions, of course, but he didn't.
Dean finished pumping the gas and was a little surprised to find everyone still standing around by the front of the car. He wanted to tell them all to head over to the diner while he parked the car, but he didn't. He didn't say anything, in fact. Just got behind the wheel and started the engine. Cas and Mary started walking toward the diner, but the passenger side door opened.
Waiting until the door closed behind his brother, Dean put the car into drive. It was a thirty second trip to the parking lot of the diner and every single second was silent. Mary and Cas were walking through the door of the diner as Dean parked. Turning the engine off, he stared at the side of the building and waited.
"You alright?"
"Sure," Dean said, rolling his eyes at his brother. He wasn't alright.
Sam's smile was brief. "Yeah."
And that was the sum total of their conversation. They pushed their doors open and silently headed into the diner. Mary and Cas were at a table in the far corner and glanced up. They looked tired and worried and Dean just wanted to turn around and run. Instead, he sat down and ordered a black coffee and an omelette.
The desire for a cheeseburger had long since faded and even the thought of choking down a plate of eggs was unappealing. Dean knew he should be hungry, but he wasn't. In fact, the smells in the diner were making him faintly nauseous.
Mary started trying to make conversation and Cas fumbled along with her. Once again, Sam took up the brunt of the responsibility for talking to them while Dean focused on his coffee. When their meals arrived, it was a relief because everyone stopped talking.
He forced himself to eat and tried to force himself not to remember.
A chair was scraped back along the floor, startling him out of a daze, and he blinked down at his plate. He'd almost eaten half of his meal without even realizing it and couldn't stomach another bite. Shaking himself from his stupor, he glanced around and found both Mary and Cas staring toward the door. He turned in time to see Sam walking outside.
Looking at his brother's plate, he found it barely touched. Apparently he wasn't the only one without an appetite. His mind was dull and he was slow to respond to the situation. It was only when Mary started pushing her own chair back that he was able to get himself in gear.
"I've got it." He met her gaze and stood up before she could.
Concern bright in her eyes, she opened her mouth, but he cut her off before she could speak.
"I've got it, Mom."
She nodded and if she was hurt, oh well. At this moment, Dean didn't care how she felt about anything. He wasn't angry with her, not really. But he also wasn't in the mood to have a conversation with her or try to make her feel better.
So he left his mom and Cas behind, and stepped outside into the chill of the morning air. It was refreshing and helped ease some of the nausea. Also helped ease the trapped feeling that had started smothering him as soon as he'd walked into the diner. Once he was breathing a little easier and his chest wasn't so tight, he turned his attention to the reason he'd come out here in the first place.
Taking a look around the area, he found his brother without any trouble.
Sam was sitting on the trunk of the car, hands in his jacket pockets, staring across the highway. There wasn't any good scenery over there; just a repossessed old factory building. Dean stared at it for a moment, then walked over to his brother. Sam tore his attention from the riveting scene before him and glanced at Dean as he walked over.
"You guys finished?" Sam asked, frowning.
"I am. And apparently you were."
"You'd think I'd be starving but I'm not."
"You actually ate those crap tv dinners they served us?" Dean leaned a hip against the car and crossed his arms over his chest.
Sam snorted, a quick smile brightening his features. "There wasn't really an option, was there? Or did I miss the folder of local delivery services?"
"It was right there next to the big screen tv," Dean said, trying to keep the easy joking going even though the merest thought of that place was tightening his chest again. "Can't believe you missed it. Pizza, burgers, Chinese."
"So that's why you're not hungry?" Sam turned an assessing gaze on him. "You were eating so great in there that you didn't want any breakfast?"
Shaking his head, Dean said, "Hey, you're the one who couldn't choke down a piece of toast. I ate half my breakfast at least."
They fell into an uncomfortable silence. Dean looked away from his brother's gaze. He'd come out here to check on Sam, not to become the object of his analysis.
He stared at the building across the street as if it held answers. He already knew the questions.
How are you doing? How did you hold up in there? How long did it take for you to lose your mind? Did you go as crazy as I did? When did you start climbing the walls? Screaming yourself hoarse? Did you think I was dead? Did you think we were never getting out of there; never going to see each other again?
Did you think we were going to die in there?
The next breath was more difficult to draw in than the last had been. Regardless of how narrow his airways seemed to be, how small his lung capacity suddenly was, he forced himself to remain calm. On the outside at least.
He knew he should be saying something but he couldn't get his mouth to work. Cas and their mom walked out a few minutes later while he was still trying to speak. A conversation started up around him and he ignored it, pulling the keys out of his pocket and getting behind the wheel. After a moment, everyone else got into the car.
Dean started the engine and, thankfully, no one started another conversation the rest of the trip home.
Walking into the bunker, something deep inside Dean relaxed for the first time in over six weeks.
Home.
He managed a smile as they walked down the stairs. Sam was talking softly to Mom, but Dean wasn't paying attention. He just couldn't.
Reaching the foot of the stairs, Dean knew he needed to get himself in gear. Seven plus hours of giving everyone the silent treatment probably hadn't been the nicest thing to do. He'd left Sam to handle all the discussions and that wasn't fair.
Sam was still talking to their mom and Dean watched them walking down the hall out of sight. He sighed but didn't have it in him to follow. Instead, he headed straight for the decanter of whiskey.
"Dean?"
He jumped at the sound of Cas's voice. Trying to calm himself, he focused on pouring a shot of whiskey into the glass. Cas didn't say anything else, but Dean could feel him hovering on the periphery. He didn't want to talk to Cas. Didn't want to be angry with him for killing Billie.
But he was.
After downing the glass of whiskey, he finally spoke up, "Cas? You need something?"
"Are you...how are you doing?"
"I'm fine. Played the get out of jail free card, didn't we?" Still with his back to the angel, Dean poured another shot and tried to ignore how his hand was trembling. "Well, actually, it was a get out of jail with cosmic consequences card, wasn't it?"
"Dean, I did what needed to be done."
Dean spun around and said, "Did you not hear her say cosmic consequences?"
A heavy sigh was Cas's only response. He looked unhappy but he didn't look sorry.
Downing the second shot, Dean said, "I can't do this right now, ok?"
"I understand. I will go...renew my search for Kelly Kline and...give you some time," Cas said, sounding pained. "If you need anything-"
"We'll let you know."
Dean's throat tightened and he hated himself for not saying thank you to the angel. They owed him regardless of how stupid what he'd done had been. And he was grateful that they were both - all - alive. But the thought of what those cosmic consequences might be kept the words stuck in his throat like a rock.
Cas studied him for a long moment, then said, "I will be back in the morning."
Angry as he was, Dean wasn't going to banish him from the Bunker, so he nodded.
He watched Cas walk back up the stairs toward the front door, a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. There was just too much all at once and he didn't know how to unravel six weeks trapped in some freaky super-secret prison, let alone try to guess what cosmic consequences the future might hold now that Billie was dead and gone.
Maybe her death negated the cosmic consequences clause?
Shaking his head, Dean pulled his thoughts back to the present and heard his mom's voice.
"What?" he asked, setting the shot glass down and turning to look at her. "Where's Sam?"
His mom looked down the hall, then back to him, worry clear in her eyes. "He said he was going to take a shower."
Dean nodded. That made sense. That was a good idea. He should do that, too.
"Is he alright?"
Dean fought the urge to roll his eyes or to snap at her that it wasn't any of her business. But she was their mom and, despite having walked out on them a time or three, he knew she was still trying to figure out the whole mom thing. And she was obviously feeling out of her element right now with everything that had just happened.
So he tamped down on his own worry and frustration, and said simply, "No."
She nodded and her gaze went back to the long hallway. A door closed. Softly. Personally, he wanted to slam a few doors, but knew that was going to have to wait.
"Dean?" Mary asked, turning back to him. "What are you going to-"
"I'm gonna take a shower is what I'm gonna do." He tried out a shaky smile.
"I think I should talk-"
"No."
"I'm just going to-"
"You're gonna leave him alone." Leave us alone, he whispered to himself.
"But-"
"No buts, Mom." Dean fought to keep his tone and his emotions even. "Leave him alone. For now? Ok? Just trust me on this."
He didn't know her well enough to be sure if it was anger or pure desperation in her eyes, but she nodded and backed down. Guilt weighed on his shoulders. She was their mom and she wanted to help. For once, she was trying to be there for them. The problem was that she hadn't been their mom for a very long time and she'd never been there for them before so it was a little difficult to adapt to her being here now.
All of a sudden, exhaustion slammed into him. He'd been up for over twenty-four hours - and died somewhere in the middle - but it was the mental exhaustion more than the physical that left him swaying and putting a hand out against the edge of the table as he walked by.
"Dean!" Mary was at his side in a heartbeat, hand on his shoulder.
"I'm ok."
"No. You're not."
She gently pushed him into a chair and he didn't fight it because his legs weren't so steady anymore. Settling back in the chair, Dean took a deep breath and ran his hands down his face. Until now, he hadn't even noticed the headache.
"Honey, stay there, ok? I'm going to get you something to drink and-"
"I'm ok, Mom, really."
He opened his eyes to see the same expression in her eyes as he'd seen that time he'd been running to the park and had wiped out spectacularly on the gravel. He'd hit the ground and been so stunned he hadn't even begun to cry before she was there, arms wrapping around him, pulling him onto her lap as she took in his scraped and bloody knees and hands. It had hurt, yes, but he'd started crying because she'd started crying.
She looked just as worried now and the tears might not be far behind. The last thing he needed right now was for her to start crying. Forcing a smile, he said, "I probably could use a drink."
"Me too." Her smile was as shaky as his was. She squeezed his shoulder. "Stay there."
Dean watched his mother hurry from the room and he was glad she was rushing away. Because his eyes were burning with tears that were going to fall whether he liked it or not.
Suddenly it was all too much.
Six weeks in a box.
Six weeks without knowing if Sam was alive; if he was coping with the imprisonment.
Six weeks of nothing.
Everything hit him at once and he needed to get out.
Now.
Dean shoved himself to his feet, the chair banging into the table as he moved. Pounding up the stairs, that smothering feeling was back. Tightening his chest. Restricting his breathing.
He needed to be outside.
Needed air.
Sun.
The sky.
Freedom.
The Bunker was home, but right now it was too much like that prison cell.
Dean was hyperventilating by the time his boots hit the grass. He kept walking until his breathing eased and his heart rate slowed back to something resembling normal.
Reaching the end of the grassy slope above the Bunker, he eased himself down. Leaning back against a tree, he let his fingers run through the grass as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath of fresh, non-recycled air.
It was like a little bit of heaven.
For a few minutes, he sat there, eyes closed, simply breathing. As he calmed, rational thought returned. He'd run out after his mom had told him to stay put. He'd run out without even checking on his brother. Dean shook his head, opening his eyes and staring at his left hand. It was fisted in the grass; a small indicator of how stressed he felt.
The entire seven hour trip home, he'd said less than fifty words. Hadn't managed to actually ask, even once, how his brother was doing. Guilt and anxiety warred inside him. He'd spent six weeks worrying himself sick and now that he finally had Sam back, he couldn't even ask any of the questions that mattered.
"Dean?"
He didn't look up at the sound of his mother's voice. Wasn't sure he was ready to deal with her; to try to make her feel better.
"Dean, I've got some water."
She was next to him and he found a bottle of water in his hand.
"Take a sip. Then I have some medicine."
Medicine wasn't going to cure what was wrong with him, but he obediently took a sip of water, then swallowed the pills she placed in his hand.
"Talk to me," she said softly, sitting down next to him.
Dean almost laughed but it wasn't funny. It wasn't her fault she didn't know him. Didn't know how asking him to talk was like asking him to voluntarily get on an airplane.
She doesn't know I hate flying and she doesn't know Sam hates clowns.
She didn't know anything about them. Not really.
He forced himself to look at her. To smile. To say, "I'm ok, Mom. Just needed to get some fresh air."
It was a rote, rehearsed speech and she probably knew it. But she didn't press.
"How have you been?" he asked. Anything to change the subject. "Been hunting?"
Mary frowned, but nodded. "A little, yes. Here and there. Cas called me and let me know what happened-"
"Yeah," he interrupted. "Thanks. For helping him out."
"I'm not sure I did much. He pretty much put the plan into action."
"He can be resourceful." Dean smiled a little. "Used to command armies."
"I don't think I'm ever going to get used to having casual conversations with an angel," she said, returning his smile. "He's very nice but...formal."
"You should'a met him eight years ago."
"Worse?" She smiled.
"So much worse." Dean couldn't help but smile at the memory.
"I guess you boys have been a good influence on him."
"Not sure about that."
"He was very concerned about you two." She put her hand on his arm. "So was I."
Time to end this conversation.
"Thanks, Mom," he said, offering another smile. He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring her confused look, and said, "Think I'll go take that shower now."
She smiled, but it looked a little sad.
He offered his hand to pull her to her feet, then said, "Uh, if you need to...if you have somewhere you need to be…"
"I don't." She shook her head and said firmly, "I'm staying here for the time being."
Dean didn't have the heart to tell her he wished she wouldn't.
After his shower, Dean headed to his brother's room.
"Sam?" Dean nudged the door open.
The light from the hall illuminated the room enough for him to see Sam. He was fully dressed, his hair was damp, and he was asleep on top of the covers on his bed. It wasn't ideal, but at least he was sleeping.
Leaning against the door frame, Dean pressed a hand to his head. The exhaustion and stress pulsed through him like a living thing; like he was possessed by them. Weighted down, thoughts and actions slowed, Dean wanted to curl up in a tiny ball under the covers in his room and sleep for a year.
It wasn't like he hadn't slept in the prison. He'd slept a lot, truth be told. Sleep had been his only escape. From the monotony. The silence. The fear. The isolation.
His life had been fraught with an endless supply of moments he could, and had, classified as the worst moment ever. Six weeks in a prison where he received food and wasn't tortured really shouldn't rank very high on the list of his worst moments ever. But it did. It ranked up there pretty damn high actually.
He hadn't been beaten or tortured or starved. The accommodations hadn't been the best, but they hadn't been the worst either. But the monotony. The silence. The fear. The isolation. That was what had gotten to him.
Six weeks of silence. Of shouting till his voice was gone. Six weeks of isolation. Of not knowing what was happening in the wider world. Not knowing for sure if their plan had succeeded. Not knowing if Cas and Kelly were safe. Wondering what his mom was doing. If she even knew, or cared, that they were missing.
Six weeks of pacing a cell that shrank every single day. Six weeks of is this the day they're gonna kill me? Six weeks of hating himself for his stupidity. Hating himself for every mistake that had lead up to standing in that cell.
The silence and monotony and boredom were small potatoes compared to Alistair's tortures or Purgatory's nightmares. But the helplessness, the fear, the lack of control ate away at him until he hadn't been able to take it anymore.
Which was why he'd contacted Billie.
Which was why he was standing in the Bunker now.
Dean took a shaky breath, still pressing his hand to his head where the pulsing stress and adrenaline seemed to have taken up residence. He had to make a conscious effort to push away all thoughts of the Reaper. The outcome hadn't been at all what he'd been expecting. Not at all what he'd planned. But he was having a difficult time caring.
Because they'd both made it out alive. They'd all made it out alive and he really needed to send Cas a fruit basket or something to thank him even though Dean was worried, no, terrified by what Cas had done.
The fear began to redouble and the living thing inside him began to squeeze until his lungs were shrinking just like that prison cell had shrunk.
And then imagining Cas holding a fruit basket, his typical puzzled expression on his face as he asked How does a basket of fruit convey gratitude? flashed through Dean's mind and he found himself laughing. It was funny, but it wasn't that funny, and under the circumstances, it wasn't the right time to be laughing about it.
And, just like that, the humor evaporated and Dean's stomach turned. Nothing was funny anymore and there was a very real possibility he was going to be sick all over Sam's bedroom floor.
Sam.
The possibility seemed more real by the second as he acknowledged the fact that, beyond the torture of the isolation, boredom, silence and helplessness, there had been the never-relenting horror of being separated from his brother. Of not knowing what was happening to him. Consequentially, Dean had spent at least 99% of the time in the prison worrying himself sick over his brother.
Is he eating? Are they hurting him and leaving me alone? Is he doing ok with being trapped in a small space like this? After the cage? After seeing the devil again? Oh, hell! He had to face the devil again and now he's trapped in a cell…
Is he even alive?
Well, he was alive. They both were.
They were alive, but a long way from alright.
Sighing, he pulled the bedroom door closed part way. He walked back to his own room, closed the door all the way, then collapsed on top of the covers on his own bed. It took half a bottle of whiskey before he fell asleep.
He didn't sleep soundly, but at least he did get some rest. When he woke up, it was mid-afternoon and the bunker was silent.
Rolling over, he rubbed his eyes then stared up at the ceiling. He should get up. Should check on his brother. Should catch up on the news from the past six weeks. Should figure out where the hell they went from here.
Should probably eat something.
His stomach was churning uncomfortably; the whiskey proving to have been a very poor choice.
Groaning, he dragged himself out of bed. His head was pounding and it took a lot of concentration to keep his stomach in check. Leaning over the sink, he splashed some cold water on his face a few times and gradually the nausea faded a bit. He ran a hand through his hair, then walked to the door. It took a moment to build up the nerve to open the door and step out into the hall.
He took a deep breath and yanked the door open. There were no worried family members hovering just outside the door. So far so good.
His first stop was his brother's room.
Empty.
The bed was rumpled, but Sam wasn't there. Taking another deep breath, Dean forced his feet to move. He walked toward the kitchen, figuring it was a good place to start.
Especially if he started with a beer.
He was a little hungry now, which was probably a good sign. Maybe there was something left in the freezer. He grimaced. It had been six weeks. There was probably stuff in the refrigerator growing mold. Wonderful. Just what he wanted to do right now. Clean the fridge. A laundry list of other things that probably needed to be dealt with after all this time flashed through his mind. The only consolation he had was that he knew for absolute certain that he had a brand new six-pack sitting in the fridge.
At least that couldn't go bad.
Mood restored somewhat, he walked into the kitchen.
The lights were on, but the kitchen was empty. There was no overpowering stench speaking of rotted food, which was a good sign. Dean went straight for the fridge, steeling himself for what he might find. He held his breath, then opened the door.
Huh.
Nothing reeked. Nothing was growing fluffy spores. In fact, it looked like someone had cleaned out the fridge recently. Mercifully, the six-pack was still there, less two bottles. Dean pondered the state of the fridge and the missing two bottles for a moment, then gave up. He grabbed the rest of the beer, then closed the door.
Setting the beer on the table, he headed to the cupboards. Any leftovers there might have been in the fridge when they'd left to go after Kelly Kline had been disposed of and he wasn't interested in rifling through the freezer for ingredients. He reached for the box of toaster pastries in the back of the pantry. They weren't even the brand name type. They were an off brand of an un-food. They were gross. Artificial tasting and gross.
Of no nutritional value whatsoever, Sam always said.
Never stopped him from eating more than his fair share of them, much to Dean's continual amusement.
It was a brand new box and he ripped it open as he walked back to the table. Sitting down, he tore into a packet of the pastries. All of a sudden, he was starving. Usually he'd toast them so they'd at least sort of taste like more than chemicals and sugar, but right now, he didn't bother to take the time. He ate one in a matter of seconds, the sugar hitting the spot and helping wake his sluggish mind. Once he'd finished the first packet, he popped the top on a bottle of beer.
It wasn't his preferred meal, not by a long shot. Cold toaster pastries and beer made strange bedfellows to say the least. At this moment, he wasn't inclined to be picky.
He was halfway through his second beer and third pack of cardboard-sugar when he heard Sam's footsteps approaching. Relieved that it wasn't his mother, Dean did wonder where she was and what she was doing. Maybe she'd been the one to clean the fridge out while they were gone?
"Hey."
Dean looked up at the sound of Sam's voice and nodded. "Hey."
Sam gave him a half-smile. He motioned at the table and said, "Nutritious meal."
"I'm a healthy guy." He tilted his beer bottle at his brother. "I've seen you eat an entire box of these in one sitting."
"They're addicting." Sam shrugged, his smile widening. He crossed the room and sat down across from Dean. Grabbing a beer, he said, "You were sleeping when I checked on you earlier. Why did you get up?"
"I needed a beer." Dean watched his brother take a long drink of his own beer then frowned. "Have you eaten anything?"
Sam shook his head.
"Drinking on an empty stomach, not smart."
"We drink on empty stomachs all the time. I'm fine."
Dean studied him, wondering where on the scale of I'm fine, Sam really was.
He looked alright. Tired, a little pale. Didn't look particularly traumatized or stressed, though. Didn't look like he was half-starved or half-crazed. He was dressed like he intended to go out for a run and obviously hadn't missed out on any workouts while incarcerated.
"You found time in your busy social calendar to exercise?" Dean asked, nodding at his arm.
Sam smiled and said, "World class gym. How could I skip that?"
"So you were just next door building muscle for six weeks? And here I was feeling sorry for you and thinking you were freaking out."
"Why would I freak out?"
"Because of…"
Lucifer. The Cage. Small cells and no freedom. Isolation. Silence. Fear.
Dean couldn't get the words out.
Sam's expression changed. He looked a little sick, but pulled himself together and said, "I did freak-out. Sometimes."
"Only sometimes?" Dean raised an eyebrow, thinking he wasn't anywhere near buzzed enough to be having this conversation. The whiskey he'd consumed earlier had been a good start, but he wasn't quite there yet so he drained the bottle of beer.
"Yeah. Only sometimes." Sam nodded. "I tried to stay busy."
Dean snorted. "Busy? You got the first-class suite? Because there wasn't much in my cozy cell to keep a flea busy."
Another smile. This one a lot smaller and more hesitant. Sam's gaze drifted toward the far wall.
"How did you stay busy?" Dean prompted. As much as it was making him sick to ask, to remember, he needed to know what it had been like for his brother. "How did you do it?"
How did you keep yourself together? How are you this calm right now? Or are you just that good at hiding things from me?
"I worked out," Sam said, softly, still staring blankly across the kitchen. "That helped. Some. I don't know. I tried to distract myself. Tried not to think too much."
Dean would have teased him about that because he'd never known his brother to not think too much. About everything. But it wasn't funny. Not really. In fact, it was pretty much the exact opposite of funny.
He'd been the one to break. The one to come up with the insane plan to contact Billie and set the whole train-wreck into motion. Sam had agreed, sure, but Dean had been the one who had been desperate enough to do what he'd done. Or maybe Sam just hadn't thought about it.
Maybe he hadn't been thinking about anything.
Dean had spent the time being driven insane by the solitude. The monotony. But Sam had always been better about handling those things then he ever had.
I was kind of a lonely kid, Dean, Sam had said to him not terribly long ago.
At the time, he hadn't understood - or hadn't wanted to understand - but now he kind of did. They'd both been left behind by their dad innumerable times while he'd gone off hunting. Or drinking. But they'd had each other. Once Dean had started hunting, though, he'd had Dad, but Sam hadn't had anyone. All through their adult lives, for the most part, Dean liked going out to bars and Sam preferred to stay in; either with a good book or some research to keep him busy.
Maybe he was just better at being alone than Dean was.
Dean frowned, studying his brother. Maybe Sam was better at being alone, but maybe he was better at other things, too. Things like detachment. Things like dissociation. Dean wasn't an idiot. He knew some fancy, college words, too.
And he knew his brother.
Knew him and had seen him withdraw before. Seen him shut down. Dean still wasn't sure if it was a good thing or not.
"Did it work?" Dean asked, shattering the silence.
Sam frowned, his gaze drawn back to Dean. "Did what work?"
Wishing he hadn't opened his mouth in the first place, Dean said, "The not thinking thing. Did it work?"
"Sometimes." Sam smiled. "What did you do? I know you weren't doing sit-ups."
Dean snorted, reaching for another beer. "Maybe I was."
"No, you weren't."
"I did."
"What three?"
Dean relaxed a little at his brother's easy teasing and obvious amusement. He hid his smile with a glare and said, "I actually did work out. A few times a week. Most weeks."
Sam laughed.
"Oh, shut up. It was better than nothing," Dean muttered, popping the cap off his beer. "There was a lot of nothing."
"Yeah. There was."
And just like that, any and all amusement disappeared.
Taking a drink, Dean found himself still waiting for the pleasant buzz. In all honesty, he was cool with skipping right past buzzed to flat out drunk. Sooner the better, in fact. It had been a really long six weeks without any alcohol to dull the misery.
"How bad was the withdrawal?" Sam asked softly after several silent minutes.
Dean narrowed his eyes.
Sam gave him an all too knowing look and said, "Dude, you're a functional alcoholic. Cold turkey isn't fun."
"You drink, too," Dean shot back, offended.
"Yeah." Sam nodded, staring at his beer. "And guess what? The first week sucked."
The first week had definitely sucked, but Dean wasn't in any particular hurry to discuss with his brother exactly how bad the withdrawal had been. A week of the sweats, headaches, vomiting, tremors and insomnia would have sucked if he'd been withdrawing in the Bunker. Doing it in a crappy prison cell without any medications or creature comforts whatsoever had been a really great start to the next nightmarish five weeks.
"I don't want to talk about this." Dean looked down at the table to avoid seeing the concern in his brother's eyes.
For a moment there was blessed silence, then Sam asked, "Don't want to talk about the withdrawal or the rest of it?"
"Let's go with all of it," Dean snapped, straightening and slamming the bottle on the table. His head spun a little which was the only positive in the situation. It meant he was getting that much closer to fuzzy oblivion.
"Ok."
Dean had been preparing his next verbal blast, but came up short at Sam's too easy agreement. He watched his brother drain the rest of his beer, then get to his feet. Sam stood there for a moment, studying him before speaking again.
"Mom went to get food." Sam glanced at his watch. "I'm going out for a run. If you need anything, I've got my phone."
And then he was halfway to the door.
"So you're just cool with our little vacation in solitary?" Dean blurted out. As soon as he'd said it, he regretted it.
Sam froze in the doorway. Turning around, he said, "Of course I'm not."
"Because you seem pretty calm about all of it."
"You'd rather I wasn't calm?" Sam raised an eyebrow. "I thought you didn't want to talk about this."
Dean didn't want to talk about it and wasn't sure why he was suddenly afflicted with a bad case of word-vomit. But now that he'd opened Pandora's Box, he couldn't stop. He shook his head and said, "I'm just trying to figure out where your head is. This false calm you're projecting is creepy."
Sam snorted, then shook his head. "It's not false calm. I am calm."
"Well, maybe you shouldn't be." Dean drained the bottle of beer, wishing it was something stronger. He slammed the bottle on the table then reached for another one.
"You want me to feel angry about it?" Sam asked, arms crossed over his chest. "Is that what this is about?"
"I don't care what you feel," Dean said, the words coming out louder than he'd intended. "I'm just trying to decide if you feel anything at all."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam's expression darkened and now he did sound angry.
Dean was tired and drinking too fast and having trouble knowing what he was trying to say. He should stop. Should probably stop drinking. Should definitely stop talking. But he didn't.
He popped the top off another bottle and asked, "So you've got nothing to say?"
"What do you want me to say?" Sam stepped closer, expression vacillating between anger and something a whole lot closer to fear. "Did it suck? Yes. It was terrible. But we'd just trapped Lucifer. Knowing that helped. It made it feel a little more meaningful."
"Meaningful?" Dean shouted, pushing himself to his feet. He swayed, one hand on the table, one wrapped around the bottle. "So you sat there the whole time, doing just fine because it was meaningful? I was in there losing my mind."
"Why are you yelling at me?" Sam's tone was subdued. "Look, you said you didn't want to talk about it. I was going to let you deal with this your way while I dealt with it my way."
"By running?" Dean snorted. He took a drink, then shook his head. "But that is the way you deal with stuff, isn't it?"
"You know what? We're done."
Sam turned around but before he could walk out the door, Dean said, "We were in solitary for six weeks. It's not normal to be able to handle that."
There was another long, uncomfortable silence.
"We've never been normal." Sam took a deep breath, glancing back at Dean. "I know you're angry and maybe we do need to talk about this, but not now."
"You're right. I'm angry," Dean spat, glaring at his brother. "Maybe I shouldn't be. Maybe I should be glad you were able to sit back and rationalize it because we'd done something for the greater good. I guess I should be glad you were able to maintain your positive outlook while I was losing my mind. Hey, sorry I got Billie involved. Didn't realize I was messing with your zen mojo next door. If I'd known you were doing just fine I never would have-"
"Sometimes it didn't feel real, ok?" Sam interrupted softly, staring at the ground. His hands were fisted at his sides.
Dean's next words got stuck in his throat like a big, huge, sharp rock.
"Sometimes it felt like it was happening to someone else." Sam still didn't look up. "Sometimes it was easier that way."
"Sam…" Dean's voice trailed off.
He had no idea what to say. The fury burning in his veins was still there, but something else was flooding through him, too. He sat down when his legs refused to hold up any longer. Sam finally looked at him and Dean wished he'd never started this conversation. The alcohol curdled in his gut when Sam spoke again.
"I guess I've just had plenty of practice."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean asked, not sure he wanted to know the answer. There was a lot more going on under the surface than he'd been able to see past his own anger.
"I know what it's like to be in a cage for a long time, Dean." Sam shrugged. He suddenly looked completely drained. "At some point, all you can really do is accept it."
And then he was gone.
Dean was left alone in the kitchen feeling like he'd just been thrown into an ice cold ocean without a life preserver.
tbc...
Thanks for reading! There is more to come!