"I pray for strength and fortitude to climb the rock strewn road."
Chapter 2: Mended, but Broken
Dean acquires a number of vices in the months Sammy is gone. He's made the drinking a habit now, and his father doesn't know, or pretends not to. It doesn't affect his hunting because he's not quite stupid enough for that, but it does affect his cash flow. He trades three-square-meals-a-day for one-and-a-half-and-a-bottle-of-Jack.
He takes up smoking as well, and finds it convenient that the lighters he always carries for the torch-the-bones routine now serve another purpose. The smoke that constantly clings to his clothes drives him crazy, but his nervous, twitching fingers can't let go of the nicotine sticks. So he makes sure not to smoke in the Impala, and does his laundry more frequently.
He gets around a lot more, in between hunts, with waitresses and bartenders and random faces in clubs, and it sometimes helps with the aching he holds inside. The first time a man hits on him and calls him 'pretty boy' (Generic Dark Bar #19, Nebraska), Dean hits him. The second time it happens (Dodgy Diner #45, South Dakota), Dean limps home in shame in the morning, tender and sore in places he didn't realise he could be sore in. The third time it happens (Smoky Loud Club #8, Salt Lake City), Dean is absolutely shit-faced, embracing the pain and begging to feel wanted, and screams his throat raw when he finally comes.
Most days, Dean is proud to say that he is okay. He keeps the hole that Sammy left all wrapped up tight inside, and smiles and jokes and holds the remains of his family in place with the strength of his will. Other days, Dean buckles under the weight and loses himself a little. These are the days he usually spends away from Dad's vaguely disapproving eyes, days when he does nothing but drink and smoke and fuck the memories away (or try to). He is unlucky though, because one such sunny day rolls around, and Dad needs him clean and sober for a black dog later in the evening. He is methodically dismantling and cleaning his weapons (to keep his thoughts lined up straight and true), when he slips while oiling his best hunting knife. The little nick on his palm shocks him into the present, and slows his hurricane thoughts for the few seconds it takes to focus on the stinging. The peaceful calm is too brief, like the lull before a storm; and as the stinging subsides, his thoughts come back in full force. And then it seems that the transition from cleaning-his-knives to stabbing-his-arm isn't so difficult after all. The blood rolls down his arm slowly, serenely, and Dean has found his final vice.
.
Dad and Dean have settled in a routine now, wrapped the weeping wound of Sam's empty place in swathes of bandages and tried their best to forget, the way a body does when it finds itself missing a limb. Dad's found his crutch (Dean) and Dean has made his own (Jack, smokes, sex and the unnameable). Life is manageable, almost pleasant, with hunting and these distractions, and Dean comes home after a really good hunt (easiest son-of-a-bitch ever, eh, Dad?), humming and ready for a night of good food and easy banter at the local pub, when his cell lights up and sings that stupid catchy Bon Jovi song Sammy likes so much.
Dad is in the shower and Dean is just grateful for small mercies. He counts from one to five, before he flips his phone open and says in an undertone, "Sammy?"
It is quiet on the other end for a second, and then just as softly, Sam replies, "Hey, Dean."
Dean sits down on the edge of his bed, because his legs are quivering under him, just like the lime jelly pudding he ate last night, and it's that or collapse into a boneless pile on the floor. He doesn't say anything, just focuses on keeping his breathing even.
"How are you?" Sam's voice is a bit uncertain, and he sounds young again, like the Sammy who was Dean's shadow, like the Sammy who cried when Dad came back bleeding from five different places, like the Sammy who would never have left. "And Dad," he adds, almost like an afterthought.
"Fine, dude. Just peachy. How about you?" Dean makes an effort to inject some lightness in his tone, because he isn't so sure how to deal with this, this thing, yet. "Scored any chicks yet?"
Sam instantly snorts at that, and little echoes come back. Dean wonders if Sam is in his dorm room (his heart does clench a little, here), and if it is the stereotypical sparsely furnished student pads he hears about. "Dude, I'm not here to score, I'm here to study," Sam says petulantly.
"Dude, you're in freaking college in freaking Cali. You probably can't move without whacking a hot chick in the face with your gangly ass limbs, and you haven't scored any?" It almost feels like the old days (when did he start referring to three months ago as the old days?) until his stupid mouth keeps running. "I've been scoring left, right and centre without your goofy ass tagging along."
Sam is silent at that and Dean mouths stupid stupid stupid.
Thankfully, Sam decides not to press his luck tonight, and just says, "Whatever, man, you're just scoring now 'cause there's no competition anymore."
Dean is caught by surprise and makes an I-can't-believe-you-just-said-that-I'm-gonna-kick-your-ass sound, and Sam laughs.
They continue talking about unimportant things, and trade insults, and then Sam surprises him again by suddenly saying, "I miss you." Something twists in Dean's gut at that, and he can tell that tonight is going to be a bad night.
Dad chooses that moment to walk out of the bathroom, and Dean thanks the Lord under his breath. "You wanna talk to Dad, Sammy? He just got out of the shower. Hold on, I'll put him on," he says instead, and then holds the phone out.
Dad stares at him, and there's thunder on his face at the mere mention of Sammy. He shakes his head tightly, and goes back into the bathroom and slams the door.
Dean puts the phone back to his ear. Sam sighs quietly on the other end, and Dean can hear the hurt in his voice when he says, "It's okay, Dean. Don't think Dad's quite forgiven me yet." Irrationally, little waves of malicious pleasure flood Dean at that and he bites his tongue to snap that No, and neither have I.
They talk for a few more minutes before Sam has 'gotta go, Dean, I'll call again', and Dean doesn't ask anything important. He doesn't ask his little brother why he bothers to call after three months of silence, or why he hasn't told them his address. He doesn't ask him if he likes it at Stanford, or if he's made many friends, or how normal feels. He doesn't ask Sam why he left with no thought of what he was leaving behind and why he didn't think to talk to Dean. He doesn't ask Sam whether it was Dean who drove him away. The whole conversation is ripe and heavy with questions that Dean doesn't ask.
Later that night, Dean finds himself in a stinking alleyway, pants around his ankles and struggling to stay upright through the alcohol haze. His fingers scrabble against crumbling brick as he is fucked into a wall by some tall stranger with dark curls and green eyes. He shudders and moans and somewhere, at the back of his head where the rational thoughts usually reside, notes that he is going to be really, really, sore tomorrow; when the stranger grunts and pulls out of him and comes across the small of his back. The feel of liquid hitting his heated skin makes him reach his own climax, and he moans Sam as he comes.
He is horrified as soon as the word tumbles out, and as soon as his pants are safely around his hips again, bolts from the stranger, who shouts after him for his number, and heads for the hotel. His dad is already asleep, tossing fitfully like he always does, and Dean lets himself into the bathroom quietly with his hunting knife and the medical supplies kit.
.
Dad has been sending Dean on more and more solo runs now, and Dean both loves them and hates them. On one hand, he gets motel rooms to himself and whichever flavour-of-the-night (pretty girl, pretty boy, case of alcohol and packs of cigs, sharp hunting knife) he decides to bring back. On the other, he has never felt lonelier than ever.
The silence goes on so long during the first of the many lonely road trips that Dean almost forgets how to speak. He stumbles and stutters over his flirty words at the first stop he's made in six hours, and the pretty caramel-skinned waitress who is all tits and legs gives him a pitying look. Dean is flushed with embarrassment, feeling thirteen again, and orders his meal with his head down. After that, he talks to the empty shotgun seat during the long drives, and pretends he hears Sammy's voice answering to him.
Underneath every crusty thing he layers on top, Dean is a family man. He lives and breathes easier knowing that he is living and breathing for someone else. He loves having physical reminders of what he is living for, right in front of him, because then it makes it so much harder to forget. Back then, he had Dad, and he had Sammy, when Dad disappeared for long hunting trips or visits to Bobby or Pastor Jim or whoever else he had to see. He had Sammy there to ground him, to remind him that each breath he took and each day he lived was not for himself, but for his little brother and for his father and for his dead mother. It was easier, better, and it was natural to Dean.
But this – this is hard. He has no one, now, except for his father for uncertain and increasingly shorter periods of time. He knows he can be strong, so strong, when Dad is back with him and they're eating in companiable silence, and Dean feels less like a branch wavering aimlessly in a gale and more like a tree, rooted in family and firm against almost anything.
Dean really is a family man, and he tries to sear a picture of Dad's departing back in his brain, as they separate ways yet again.