No Need to Leave a Message
Summary: Dean always tries to pick up his phone. Because someday, one day, eventually, he knows he won't be able to anymore.
Preseries, Stanford years.
Warnings: Tiny bit of language, nothing bad though.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Nope, not…mine…no claim to 'em in any way, shape, or form. *sob*
A/N: So, wow. I have no idea where this came from. No idea what my muse was thinking, or if it's even any good. I just know it came to me and I looked down at the computer and half a page was written and my fingers just didn't stop. Hope you like whatever on earth I've just imbued into these pages.
Yeah…sorry.
The phone rings, carving through the stillness of the cool night. It's enough to snap Dean out of his stupor, leaning up with a groan and fumbling for his cell with numb fingers. He can see his breath form little puffs in the air in front of him as he huffs, twisting to grab the phone before it goes to voicemail. He always picks up his phone if he can.
He's shocked to see the name on the other line. He debates answering it. It's been a while since they talked, and he isn't sure what's going to happen here. But he wants to answer it, wants to try to repair that fence a little more, so he takes a deep breath and flicks it open.
"Hey, Sam, what's up?" Dean tries to keep his voice steady, one arm wrapped around himself as the other clenches the phone a little tighter.
"Hey, Dean. Wasn't sure if you were gonna pick up." Sam sounds surprised.
"I always pick up, you know that."
"Right, right. Um, well, it's uh, close to Christmas, you know, so I figured I would call, say Merry Christmas."
"Oh, yeah, I musta lost track of the days. Thanks, man, you too."
"Thanks." Silence across the lines as the boys think of things to say to each other. The tension across the airwaves is thick and Dean considers calling the end of the conversation to spare them both the awkward scene, but he's not ready to stop hearing Sam's voice yet. Not now.
"So, uh, how's classes and stuff going?"
He knows it's the right thing to say because Sam immediately perks up. "Great, actually, really well. The professors are all pretty awesome, and they really know how to pitch the good stuff to ya. Finals just finished up so I'm waiting on grades and then that's it for the semester. 'M staying at a friend of mine's over break, so…"
"Cool, cool. You ace them all, geek boy?"
"Shaddap, Dean."
Dean turns his wince into a smile. He spares a glance down at his chest, at the blood still pouring over his fingers, and wonders if picking up the phone for his brother was such a good idea at the moment. But he didn't really have a choice. He always picks up his phone. John doesn't, chooses to listen in on the voicemails instead, but barring complete incapacitation, Dean's always there on the other line. He has to be. Especially now, especially for Sammy.
"How's the parties over there? Please tell me you're going to them and not spending your Saturday nights at the library." He hopes Sam can't hear the tremor that has trickled into his voice.
He hears a small laugh from the other side of the line. "They're pretty cool, actually. Remind me a lot of the one we went to at Tufts back in Mass. Smart students but they know how to party."
"College boy going to parties! Well done, man."
They lapse into silence again, but this time it isn't awkward. It's comfortable, like the times they used to just sit and soak up each other's company in front of the TV, or head out to the park at night and stare up at the stars. Like the time Dean spent two days and a night sitting on Sam's bed, adjusting the cold compress on Sam's head when he had the flu a few years ago. Like the time Sam made himself at home on the chair next to Dean's hospital bed, a light touch on his hand while Dean looked over at him with pain in his eyes and a tube down his throat.
They don't always need words. Right now, though, Dean wants words. He wants to talk to Sam, tell his brother everything he needs to say. Because the blood hasn't stopped running over his fingers and he's colder than he should be right now, and Dad's no where in sight and he isn't sure if he's going to make it to the next phone call.
That's why he picked up this one. That's why he always tries to pick up his phone.
Because of the inevitable time when he won't be able to anymore.
He coughs, painfully, and hides a groan from coming out into the air. He puts the phone a little closer to his ear. "Hey, Sammy?" He doesn't wait for an answer, which is sure to be filled with a chastising remark about using his old nickname. "Look, I, uh, I jus'…wanted to say I'm proud of you, man. You did good going to college, and I know you'll knock 'em dead there."
A pause. Then, hesitantly, "thanks. Are you…is everything okay, Dean?"
Dean huffs out a laugh, feeling the pull against his chest as he does. "What, I can't give my little brother a compliment? Jeez, Sam, I'm not that much of an ass."
"Right, sorry. Thanks, Dean, that means a lot, you know. Look, I should probably get going, but, uh, call me soon, okay? It'd be nice to catch up a little more."
Call me soon. Dean wasn't so sure that was in the cards for him. There was so much more he needed to say, here, now.
"Yeah, Sam, will do. Talk to you soon, Sasquatch."
"Bye, jerk."
Click.
That's it. It's over with a click and beeping from the other side of the line. Dean doesn't mind though. Sammy…he sounds happy, content. Better than what he had been with Dean and John. He's glad. Sam belongs far away from this crap, out of the dangerous world where one wrong step and a hunter finds himself sitting up against a tree in a pile of red snow, his life ebbing away onto the frozen ground.
He leans his head back a little more, till it's resting against the trunk. He closes his eyes and lets his mind wander back to a few years ago, when Sam was still young enough to not resent his family so much. When they could hang out together, the three of them, without Sam and Dad getting into a shouting match over everything and nothing.
There was this one time, around Dean's birthday. Dean never paid much attention to his birthday. It wasn't that important, not in the grand scheme of things. This wasn't a self-sacrificing thing, though, none of their birthdays ever received much attention. Christmas and New Years got small celebrations. Fourth of July sometimes consisted of some stolen fireworks and a lot of beer. Thanksgiving was usually overlooked entirely, since that entire month was cast in a black shroud. But birthdays tended to be a little too much to bother. They gave each other gifts every once in a while, if everyone was around and there was enough extra money sitting in their stockpiles.
But that year, right around Dean's birthday, the three of them had taken up residence in a small apartment in Maine for a hunt. The hunt had ended and they were getting ready to move on to somewhere else, saying goodbye to another makeshift home and makeshift life. The morning they had everything packed, though, Dad made an unexpected stop for the three of them. They headed out to this quiet little lake, isolated from most people. It was completely frozen over, the ice twinkling in the early sun. The three of them sat out by the edge for a while on an old frozen over table, not speaking, just enjoying the serenity for a change. The hunt hadn't been easy and they'd all been left with a little more weight on their consciences. But that lake, that setting, had been perfect. Then Dean had started cracking jokes and Dad had cracked open a few sodas and the three of them sat working off the chills in the air, laughing about nothing and everything, grateful to be alive and together.
Dean thinks back to that stupid little moment of theirs. It was perfect for them, just the thing he had wanted at the time. He misses it. He misses being able to do that with his family.
He misses his family.
He's really cold now, feeling the chills seep into his muscles and his bones and his soul, whittling away at him until he feels like the icicles hanging off the tree branches above him. He thinks maybe, just maybe, he should call Dad, ask for some help now. But Dad doesn't pick up his phone.
Dean does. He always tries to. Sammy doesn't a lot, mostly because he's got his music stuck in his ears and his head stuck in a book and isn't paying attention. Dad doesn't. But Dean does.
When the rock tones begin to blare out of the speakers in the phone once again, a little while later, Dean doesn't pick up.
He wakes up in a bed, cozy, any sensations of cold or pain dulled by the drugs flowing through his battered system. He wakes up to his father's eyes on him, watching like a hawk, never wavering, never straying.
Dean nods, smiles at his dad to let him know he's okay. He takes the offered drink, gulps it down greedily, and leans back in the bed. He knows his dad's probably angry with him for getting hurt, for not calling or answering his phone when he was hurt, but right now Dean's just so shocked to be around that he doesn't really care about any of the other ramifications. His dad's here. His brother's okay. That's enough for him right now.
John doesn't leave for a while. He keeps a close eye on Dean, and it makes Dean wonder how bad it had gotten. No hospital, but that didn't really mean anything since they were out in the middle of nowhere, a backwater town with just one cell tower, just enough to maintain a call from California. The time does seem to have passed, though, so Dean's guessing he was out for a while. And right now, Dean thinks that being out spooked his dad a bit because he hasn't complained, not once, about the recovery time.
He actually enjoys it a bit. Not the pain when he gets weaned off of the painkillers, no, that hurts like hell. Not the annoyance of being unable to stand up on his own without crumbling to the floor like a flaky pastry because apparently his little fiasco with the fugly means his muscles have forgotten how to function. Not the looks his dad gives him like Dean's about to disappear if he turns his head, just once, or the other ones he gives when he thinks Dean isn't looking, the ones that are full of fear and sorrow over what might have happened if John hadn't blindly stumbled across his cold body in the snow. No, Dean could certainly do without all of those. But the other stuff, having his dad sit and eat with him, trading stories and jokes. That he likes. That he's missed.
Dean doesn't mention his phone call to Sam. His little brother has become a taboo subject. The two of them fell apart a bit after Sam left. Kid may have been a pain in John's ass but he was still an integral part of their little group, and in a family of three that's a hell of a lot to lose in a single night. John doesn't bring Sammy up, and Dean doesn't bother to push the topic. He's not sure if his father's aware of his phone calls to his brother, trying to hold on to some small thread of that part of his family even when it lies frayed by all the hurt and resentment and anger.
It being John, though, the guy probably knows. Bastard knows everything.
John heads out a few days later to pick up supplies, and the next store containing anything they could use is quite a ways away. They're holing up for a while longer until Dean can stand long enough to make it to the car under his own steam. John's still worried about his son, so he promises to call in an hour for a check in. Dean's not sure if he'll actually do it, but he keeps his phone close anyway so he can pick up.
And when Sam calls a few days after New Year's, wondering why his brother hasn't called and ready with a whole slew of crazy New Year's Eve party stories to share, Dean's there to pick up too.
End.