Dean Winchester
The pie sat on the table, in front of a Dean who was feeling the full effects of sleep deprivation and starvation. He was in a white room, tiled floor to ceiling with white porcelain tiles, and a drain in the center.
Dean knew the drill; if he tried to eat, the food would surely be poisoned with something non-lethal but excruciating, but *shit* he was so hungry and tired… he dipped forward in his chair, passing out from hunger.
When he came to, he was delirious and couldn't resist; he shoved the food into his mouth greedily, unable to resist food any longer, thinking the pain would be worth the end to this hunger.
But as the white-hot feeling of a knife began to drag it's way up his veins…
Dean woke up abruptly for the thousandth time to Sammy banging his palms on the door, shouting for him to wake up. Dean's throat was hoarse and scratchy, and Dean turned to the bedside to drink one of the glasses of water that was sitting at the bedside.
This time, instead of waiting for Sammy to go away, something possessed Dean. He snuck up quietly, creeping toward the door, putting his hand on the lock. Sammy was still banging on the door loudly, unaware that Dean had gotten up so quickly.
Dean turned the lock, making a distinctive clicking noise, then ran back to his bed. He was under the covers again before Sammy got inside. As soon as he was inside Dean regretted what he did, anxiety beating against his ribcage.
"Dean, it's okay," Sammy began, the almost-customary litany of comforts, and the knot of anxiety eased a little in Dean's chest.
Eventually Sammy quieted but didn't leave, falling asleep on the mattress next to Dean. Dean hated that it made him feel better, relief and bitterness settling into his limbs.
Dean Winchester
Sammy started sleeping in the room with Dean from now on, but spent most of the days downstairs leaving Dean to his own devices.
Dean spent most of his time sleeping, except for the dead of night where he would wake up suddenly. Turning to see Sammy peacefully sleeping in the other bed never failed to make him feel better, make him feel like there was something right with the world.
Other nights, Dean would wake screaming, and it was always to Sammy next to him, talking him down. It always helped him feel better, and he was finding it easier and easier to calm down after nightmares with Sammy next to him instead of banging outside the door.
During the day, though, when he was upstairs alone or during the dead of night when he would sit and peer out the window, Dean began to feel more and more alone. They didn't know what he was thinking or feeling, and for once in his life he wished that someone did.
But how could he describe the piercing emptiness in the pit of his chest, that swallowed him whole and made him feel as if he never escaped.
Sam Winchester
Dean had started letting him sleep in the bedroom again, and Sam's aching back was glad of the relief. Their mattresses were big and thick enough to be comfortable even on the floor, and Sam finally had room to stretch his gargantuan body fully instead of being cramped into the small seating cushions.
Sometimes Sam would wake up in the middle of the night and open his eyes to see Dean sitting by the window, looking into the moonlight. His eyes weren't empty and expressionless like usual, but instead reminded him of the thousand-yard stare of WWII veterans he had seen in history textbooks.
Sam would always close his eyes to give Dean his privacy, and try to ignore his heart breaking in his chest into a thousand pieces.
Sam Winchester
They seemed to reach a plateau lately with Dean, where he would come downstairs for an hour a two or day, go upstairs, have his nightmares, doing nothing all the while.
It was one of the days that Dean had wandered downstairs and sat on the couch that Sam could no longer ignore the questions itching in the back of his mind.
"Hey Dean…." Sam started, trailing off… but then Sam gathered his nerves. "Are you able to speak?" Sam suddenly asked, quietly.
The thought had occurred to him that Dean may not have been speaking because, for some reason, he wasn't able. Bobby and Sam had been assuming it was because he did not want to, that he had been... conditioned, not to.
Dean just started back blankly at him, with the empty look he wore so often these days. What was going on with Dean behind that blank mask?
"Or do you just not want to?" Sam asked again, eyebrows pinching.
Dean looked down at his hands, face still empty. Sam wanted to know so badly what was going on behind those empty eyes; was Dean still in there, just hiding behind a façade, or was he really as empty as he looked?
Sam kept looking, but could discern nothing behind Dean's eyes as he looked down, impossibly still.
"I highly doubt the managers of hell wanted him talking," Bobby said as he walked in the room a couple seconds later. He turned his eyes to Dean, pride on his face. "You were probably a pain in the ass when you did."
Sam laughed inside, because he could imagine the first few days, at least, Dean telling them to get bent at every turn. But the reality made his insides turn cold.
Dean looked up, turning his gaze to both of them. His eyes looked between both of them, observing them as one might observe a well-manicured garden in the spring; analytically, almost with disinterest. It was the look he wore so often these days, guarding whatever was going on inside of him.
Suddenly, something changed.
Dean put his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes, which was more emotion than Dean had shown in weeks, the incident with the whiskey long behind them. Sam bodily turned to look at his brother.
He saw a tear leak out from one of his hands, and Sam's body filled with adrenaline. Dean hadn't so much as coughed since they rescued him weeks ago (unless blackout drunk), and if Dean was finally cracking open just a little, he wasn't going to screw it up.
"Hey, Dean, what's wrong?" He asked, as gently and softly as he could. He held his hand out and left it there, asking for Dean's permission to hold him. Dean hadn't let them before, had shirked them off at every turn, but he thought this time was different.
Dean brought his head up from his hands and looked at Sam, tears tracking down his face. Dean was still as inscrutable as ever, so Sam moved his hand ever so slowly towards Dean's shoulder.
The moment his hand touched down, Dean threw his head into his hands again and began crying in earnest. Sam's stomach dropped to his feet.
"Hey, hey, Dean, what's wrong? Talk to me," he said, concern lacing his voice. Whatever was going on with his brother, he wanted to make it better. Dean hadn't done anything but eat and have nightmares since he got home, and now he was suddenly sobbing. Sam wanted to help Dean so badly it hurt.
Dean pitched forward a little more, and grabbed the couch for support, his other arm wrapping around his middle. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he was struggling to breathe evenly from his anxiety. Dean grabbed his stomach and looked up at Sam for the first time with clear, expressive eyes.
It hurts, Sammy, it hurts.
"Dean, are you okay?" Sam asked, as Bobby came around and sat on the other side of Dean, offering him support. It only served to make Dean cry more, but they were glad to see Dean finally beginning to let a tiny little bit of what he was feeling go. He began to suck in air frantically, turning to face both of them, Sam and Bobby hanging on Dean's every movement.
Dean opened his mouth, and Sam's heart leapt into his throat. Sam longed to hear Dean's voice again. He remembered Dean saying his name so slowly, and it broke his heart to think about.
But nothing came out. Dean seemed to struggle, and then clamped his mouth down, the blank look washing over his face again. Please speak, Sam thought desperately. It's okay, we're here for you.
"You can speak, it's all right," Bobby said encouragingly. Dean's mouth set in a line, and pitched forward violently, bringing his arms up to his head, pulling at his own hair, dragging his hands down over his face. The tears had started again, running down Dean's face.
The thought struck him again. "Dean, are you able to speak?" Sam asked tentatively, fearing the worst.
Dean turned to Sam more quickly than a wild animal, his eyes round with fear, lines set in his face. Before Sam could take a breath, Dean was already coiling up and rising from the couch to flee.
"Dean, it's okay!" Sammy called out, stopping Dean in the middle of the living room. "Dean, wait, it's okay," he did his best to soothe. "We'll figure this out," Sam said, trying to calm his brother down. Oh Dean, this isn't your fault, Sam thought brokenly. But you wouldn't listen if I said so.
Sam did his best to be open and encouraging, coaxing his brother back into the room. Dean was standing with his body facing the door, breathing still unsteady and frightened. He hesitated on the balls of his feet.
"I'm not upset with you, Dean." Sam said quietly. He said the words that the old Dean would never consent to hearing. "We love you, and we'll figure this out." Sammy was talking about more than just Dean's voice, and hoped he would pick up on that.
Dean's eyes widened, still staring at the floor, and yet another tear escaped from his eyes, several more chasing them. Dean's hands clenched, and his breathing became more labored. Dean's eyebrows pinched together, a look of consternation on his face. He looked upset, hounded, and yet everything in the room was perfectly still.
Sam realized; Dean was confused. All Dean knew for forty years was pain and suffering and torment, probably didn't know how to handle it not happening.
He hung there in the middle of the room, and Bobby opted to fill the silence.
"You said Sammy's name when you got out, so you do know how to talk," Bobby mused, leaving Dean in the middle of the room to calm down. "I think it's just a part of you adjusting to being free. We shouldn't rush it." He smiled encouragingly. "It'll come in it's own time."
Dean's face seemed to relax, and he unwound slightly in the doorframe. His shoulders dropped slightly from their hunched position. It turned to blankness as per usual as he trudged to the couch.
Bobby got up and went over to his desk, pulled a thick book from the shelf entitled "A Soldier's Field Guide to PTSD," and began looking for a specific chapter.
"Every… one of us, gets it eventually," Bobby said by way of explanation for why he had such a book on hand, careful not to trigger a flashback. Sam couldn't disagree; all hunters had their fair share of less than positive experiences.
He read through the book a little. "This is useless," Bobby said. "Their genius idea to overcome the trauma by talking about it, which…" Bobby trailed off, gesturing to Dean. He leaned back, sighing. "They don't say anything about not talking." Bobby reached over for Sam's laptop.
The thought struck Sam as amusing, and he laughed. "A silent Dean, imagine that." He could remember car rides praying for that very thing. Sam suspected that Bobby intentionally avoided the word mute, so Dean wouldn't feel like an invalid.
"What I woulda given to shut you up just two years ago," Bobby said, joking as well.
Dean sat there, observing them, but he hadn't got up or attempted to run away. Just being in the same room with them was an accomplishment for him, and Sam and Bobby weren't going to look this gift horse in the mouth.
Dean Winchester
"Dean, are you able to speak?" Sammy asked, his eyes turning sad. Dean looked up at Sammy, face blank. Give nothing away. "Or do you just not want to?"
Dean looked down at his hands. He thought he could speak, if he absolutely had to. Could he?
He remembered how difficult it had been to pronounce Sammy's name when he first got topside. Forcing air through his lungs and making everything coordinate correctly was an art he'd forgotten the hang of after so long.
The real issue is that Dean didn't want to speak of it. The idea of it made his mind run in circles, playing back warnings from what would happen if he spoke and they didn't like what he said. They never liked what he said.
"It doesn't matter what you do, I won't break" Dean spat on the floor.
"I don't like it when you talk back, Dean." Allistair stopped what he was doing, grabbed Dean's tongue, and cut it clean off. Dean's mouth filled with blood and he began to choke on it. He then lodged the knife in Dean's neck, just missing his throat so that the blood would stay pooling in Dean's airway.
"You will, though," Allistair purred. "Everyone does. Everyone picks up the knife eventually." Allistair drug his tool of choice that day, a pizza cutter, along the sides of Dean's body, ripping his skin into little strips.
Dean breathed in and out, careful to give nothing to the demon who stood before him. "It's no use, Dean," he said, reading Dean's mind. "Everyone screams eventually, too."
Allistair pressed in deep in Dean's hip, and he felt the blade cut through the bone. Dean tore into his own hands and drew blood from his palms, but Allistair was not rewarded with a scream.
After enough time, Dean had nothing left to say.
"I highly doubt the managers of hell wanted him talking," Bobby said as he walked in the room. He turned his eyes to Dean, pride on his face. "You were probably a pain in the ass when you did."
See, you shouldn't be talking, they don't like it. Dean knew that unbidden thought was wrong. Bobby's statement filled him with happiness - Bobby was proud of him for not giving in.
Dean looked around at the two men in the room. Sammy and he were sitting on the couch, and Bobby was behind his desk. These men were his family, he knew that now. They were never going to hurt him. They loved him, and they would do anything for him. Sammy saved him.
They weren't going to hurt him.
Dean smiled, the first real smile that he'd had since getting out of hell weeks ago. A warmth he didn't know he'd missed filled his chest, reaching all the way up to his eyes. He rubbed his face, trying weakly to hide it from Sammy and Bobby. Dean knew he would have never broken down in front of these two before, but he didn't care. He finally felt safe.
Two more tears chased the first one, and Dean realized his attempts to hide it were in vain when Sammy said "Hey, Dean, what's wrong?" Dean looked up, and Sammy's hand was reaching out to hold him, waiting for permission. Dean looked at the oncoming touch, and finally felt strong enough to try. He didn't stop Sammy as he came closer, and held Dean's shoulder.
The moment he felt the warmth of another human, Dean realized the attempt to keep himself together was also in vain. A sob escaped him, and he buried his face in his hands. At the same time, warmth flowed through his heart and panic coiled in his gut. Don't hurt me, don't hurt me…
"Hey, hey, Dean, what's wrong? Talk to me," Sammy said, concern lacing his voice. Dean looked over, and saw Sammy there, hand on his shoulder, his eyes nothing but concerned. Sammy was here to help, and he could finally let himself believe it now. He took deep breaths, trying to release the tension in his belly. One of his hands grasped at his stomach, in a weak attempt to communicate what he was feeling, and his other arm reached out to steady himself against the couch.
The part of Dean that would have previously threw up at the idea of crying in front of Sam, or crying in general, was notoriously silent. After forty years of continuous torture more horrible than is possible on earth, a man gets a year to recover, and even the macho part of Dean from his twenties knew that.
Dean fought to keep the smile off his face, and he was sure that he looked like a lunatic as he sat sobbing from relief on Bobby's couch. He wasn't sure he'd cried like this since he brought Sammy back from death with the deal, 42 years ago.
"Dean, are you okay?" Sammy asked, more concerned this time, seeing Dean's shift in position. Neither he or Bobby could tell that Dean was smiling with relief. He felt a hand touch his arm as Bobby sat down on the other side of him, and another sob forced it's way out of Dean. The coils of panic reached further up his body. He sucked in air, trying to get control of himself.
He opened his mouth to speak, but the words got tangled in his throat, which was felt like it was tearing from the emotion. It hung there, Dean trying to articulate his thoughts, but he snapped his mouth shut in vain as the panic reached up his chest and into his neck. The relief and fright were too much for Dean, writhing inside of him and making him want to vomit.
"You can speak, it's all right," Bobby said encouragingly. Dean wanted to, but the words got tangled. He wanted to make them happy, to let them know what he was thinking or feeling; but he was too used to being punished for even communicating. His own body was stopping him from acting out, his panic reaching up like a tendril to strangle him, render him mute.
Dean leaned over, no longer crying but sucking in air, curling his arms in around his stomach trying to stop the waves of emotion rolling over him. He wanted to tell them he was happy, tell them he finally knew they weren't going to hurt him, and that would make them happy. Why couldn't he?
"Dean, are you able to speak?" Sammy asked, eyes full of concern as Dean turned to look at him. Dean's eyes widened in fear, and his muscles tensed in his body.
Please don't be mad.
I'm sorry, I tried, I promise.
Dean's breath stilled as he coiled up, his body raising, already halfway across the room before he could stop himself, his voice ringing in his own head, reverberating, increasing in volume.
"Dean, it's okay!" Sammy called out. "Dean, wait, it's okay," he soothed. "We'll figure this out." Sammy smiled encouragingly.
Dean stood there, body turned towards the door, but his eyes fixed on Sammy, his breath hitched and uneven. He wanted to believe Sammy, but everything in his body wanted to run, to escape punishment before it came.
"I'm not upset with you, Dean." Sam said quietly. He said the words that the old Dean would never consent to hearing. "We love you, and we'll figure this out."
We love you
We'll figure it out
Dean hung onto those words like a lifeline, and didn't notice the tears that poured again down his face. His hands clenched without his noticing, the emotions stampeding through his body.
He wanted to be better, he really did. But sometimes he forgot this was family, and that his family loved him. Sometimes he forgot he wasn't going to be punished for being exactly the right way. Most of the times he forgot he was even free, waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under him.
"You said Sammy's name when you got out, so you do know how to talk," Bobby mused after a few minutes, leaving Dean in the middle of the room to calm down. "I think it's just a part of you adjusting to being free. We shouldn't rush it." He smiled encouragingly. "It'll come in it's own time."
Dean smiled with relief. It'll come in it's own time. Nothing hanging on him, his fuck-ups, or his failures.
You're a failure, boy, you know.
Dean's shoulders sagged with the weight of what he heard echoing in his mind as he walked back to the couch. Bobby got up and went over to his desk, pulled a thick book from the shelf entitled "A Soldier's Field Guide to PTSD," and began looking for a specific chapter.
"Every… one of us, gets it eventually," Bobby said gruffly, careful not to trigger a flashback. Dean always appreciated the effort.
He read through the book a little. "This is useless," Bobby said. "Their genius idea to overcome the trauma by talking about it, which…" Bobby trailed off, gesturing to Dean. He leaned back, sighing. "They don't say anything about not talking." Bobby reached over for Sam's laptop.
Because Dean was mute now. The sentence seemed funny in his own ears. It must have to Sammy too, because he laughed. "A silent Dean, imagine that," he said, smiling.
"What I woulda given to shut you up just two years ago," Bobby said, smiling as well.
Two years ago. Dean could barely remember 43 years ago; when Sammy and Dean were undefiled with demon deals, down there, or anything else. It was all so hazy, coming back to him in tiny bits and pieces; coming back without him noticing, fleeting memories returning when reminded of them.
Dean Winchester
Bobby walked in the library and promptly sat down at his desk, flipping open papers and continuing to translate whatever old tome he had been working on.
The normality of the action gave Dean pause. They had been treating him like glass since he returned, and for good reason; the smallest things set Dean on edge, wandering around the Singer residence trapped in shell-shock. He took advantage of the moment, studying his stand-in father.
The amount of liquor at his house had increased dramatically from Dean's recollection, half-open and empty bottles of vodka littering the work area. It was too much for Bobby to have emptied himself, and was suddenly assaulted by the image of Bobby and Sam getting drunk together over Dean's absence. He felt sick.
He must have been staring, because Bobby roughly said "Whaddya want?"
Dean's eyebrows raised in shock.
"Figured you didn't appreciate us treating you like glass all the time now that you're up and about," Bobby said lightly. "You have enough of that to be getting on with your dramatic brother, anyways." His eyes never left his work.
Yes, he quite had, thought Dean. He was glad Bobby noticed. He picked up a liquor bottle, and another, making a big show of doing the recycling.
"It's been tough," Bobby said quietly, as Dean left the room to put the bottles out. Dean felt the urge to scoff, getting angry. Bobby was telling Dean that, when he was the one who climbed out of his grave?
Sam Winchester
Sam wanted to talk to Dean, wanted to ask him, but Bobby seemed to think that they should be treating him like a wounded animal. Sam agreed, at first, but now that Dean seemed comfortable with being downstairs around them, Sam wanted to try and talk to him.
However, Dean didn't talk back. Dean didn't even nod or shake his head. Only his eyes gave any indication of what he was feeling which, once so expressive, now wasn't much.
This is why one day, when Dean was sitting on the couch while Bobby was reading, Sam decided to try and talk to Dean.
"Hey," Sam said, sitting down on the couch next to his brother, holding his whiskey. Dean didn't look up. "I wanted to talk to you." Dean still didn't look up, but Sam saw him begin to twist his fingers. Bobby looked up out of the corner of his eye as well.
"Don't worry, Dean, it's nothing serious," he said, and he saw Dean's hands relax. "I just wanted to see if you could start communicating with us… don't worry, you don't have to talk," Sam said hurriedly as Dean's eyes whipped around to meet his. "Just nodding yes or no, that sort of thing." Dean swallowed nervously, and went back to contemplating his hands. "Could you do that for us? We promise not to annoy the shit out of you with questions," Sam finished, smiling.
Dean set his mouth in a straight line.
Dean nodded, very slightly, but enough.
"Thank you Dean," Sam said, sighing. Bobby smiled, one to match the smile on Sam's face. "You have no idea how good that makes us feel."
Neither of the men saw the small smile that grew on Dean's face as well.
Dean Winchesterr
Dean liked spending time downstairs with Bobby and Sammy. They didn't bother him with questions, and were comfortable just letting him sit still in the same room they were in, listening to their conversation.
What they said usually brought back memories, small moments of time rushing into Dean's mind. He enjoyed remembering his life, enjoyed remembering things about Bobby or Sammy that they shared.
Dean appreciated that when he slipped away from them, got lost, they didn't try and drag him back to reality. They were patient, and told Dean he was safe. He would never get tired of hearing Sammy say he was safe.
Dean still didn't talk, and fear still constricted him at the thought. He didn't need to talk much, anyways; they always knew what food he liked, and he was happy just to listen to their conversations about life.
Dean was doing this one day, sitting on the couch thinking while Bobby read, when Sammy came over to sit down next to him.
"Hey," Sammy said, but Dean didn't look up. He didn't acknowledge either of the men more than he had to, instinct still at work in his body.
Don't give them anything. His own voice rang in his head, an automatic habit.
"I wanted to talk to you," Sammy said seriously.
Did I do something wrong? The panicked thought struck Dean, unbidden, and he felt anger coil in his chest at the thought. He hated that even the slightest thing made him afraid.
"Don't worry, Dean, it's nothing serious," he assured Dean. Dean uncoiled his hands, trusting Sammy's word.
"I just wanted to see if you could start communicating with us…" Sammy began. Did they want him to start talking again?
He couldn't do that, not right now. His eyes turned to meet Sammy's.
Please don't ask it of me, he thought to himself pleadingly.
"Don't worry, you don't have to talk," Sammy assured him again, and Dean's insides uncoiled. "Just nodding yes or no, that sort of thing."
Dean swallowed nervously, and went back to contemplating his hands. He didn't really want to start doing that, but he saw why Sammy would ask. Dean couldn't go through the rest of his life expecting Sammy to always be there, interpreting what he thought.
"Could you do that for us? We promise not to annoy the shit out of you with questions," Sammy finished, smiling.
That's right. They would have a lot of questions, questions he didn't want to answer.
Dean set his mouth in a grim, straight line as anxiety again pooled in his stomach. He didn't have to answer their questions, he knew they wouldn't push if he didn't answer.
He nodded, taking great care with the motion.
"Thank you Dean," Sam said, sighing. Bobby smiled, one to match the smile on Sam's face. "You have no idea how good that makes us feel."
Dean's heart grew warm, and he dipped his head down and smiled. He'd do anything to see his family happy.
Dean Winchester
"Dean, want breakfast?" Bobby called from the kitchen. "Thinking about making omelets or something."
Dean looked up at Bobby, memories of hell flashing through his mind.
The flap of flayed skin, hot and bloody coming off of his body.
It was as if he was seeing Bobby through a long tunnel, his voice muffled and distant. Instead of breakfast, Dean smelled his own boiling flesh. He felt the burning fire crawl up and down his arms.
"You told us you'd start answering questions," Sam called lightheartedly from the other room. Dean knew what he was doing, trying to encourage him gently.
Dean looked back at Bobby, and shook his head no, the entire world shaking with the movement. His stomach lurched uncomfortably, and nausea made him pitch forward slightly.
A knife being dragged along under his skin, exposing his muscles, the hot air in the pit burning him.
"You sure?" Bobby asked, without giving Dean a chance to answer. "All right then. Sam?"
"Sure, breakfast sounds nice," Sam said. He was still tired; he had been up all night helping Dean.
I don't remember ever doing anything to deserve that much help, Dean thought desperately. All he could remember was Allistair.
"You know," Allistair said contemplatively, "I think you deserve this. Oh, I know you sacrificed yourself for your brother, how noble, but you've gotten a lot of people killed," he continued amicably while Dean's skin and blood dripped onto the stone floor, sizzling on contact.
Dean could barely see the house, felt like he was drowning in his own body. His blood was pounding in his own ears and he felt like he wasn't in his body anymore, felt like he was just a passenger.
Dean felt a burning in his veins, like corrosive acid, washing away his insides. He was empty and cold in his chest, the darkness eating away his heart.
He didn't want to be in this house anymore. He stood up abruptly, heading for the door. The cool air hit him instantly, pulling him out of his pounding head and into the nice sensations outside.
He walked out into the sunlight, and appreciated how warm it was on his skin. The air was nice and cool by contrast, and Dean thought that laying in the grass would have been extremely nice. He looked to the field.
His grave, torn up and covered with dirt, stood untouched on the other end.
Being trapped, unable to move, the air dusty and stale as he tried to catch his breath
His hand, breaking the box as dirt and soil rushed into him.
Dean gasped, the memories and claustrophobia rushing over him, making his hands shake. This wasn't the first time he'd been trapped in a space too small. He was hyperventilating, heart pounding behind his ribcage, lungs feeling like there were bands around them and he couldn't catch his breath -
He heard the grass move, and turned around to see Sammy standing right behind him.
He stood stock still; he didn't want Sammy to see him this way. He cleared his face and it went blank.
"Hey Dean, just wanted to know where you were going," Sammy said. Dean looked over to the scrapyard full of cars, anywhere but the torn land in the back.
"Going to see the Impala?" Sammy said. Dean let him believe whatever it was he said. "All right, just come get us if you need anything," he said as he slowly walked back inside.
Dean was glad to be left alone, and ambled over to the scrapyard. He didn't know what he was looking for, but he knew he'd know it when he saw it.
There were so many broken down cars in this lot. He looked from one to another, and found that he knew what was wrong with all of them. This one needs a new engine block, gonna cost a ton, he thought as he walked by an orange truck. And this just needs a new wheel and is good to go, he thought of an F150 near the front.
He saw the black Impala sitting around front of Bobby's house, and jogged over to it. Memories about it rushed over him. He was so happy to see it was clean, his face reflecting off of the hood perfectly. He slid into the front seat and felt the leather with his hands.
His eyes fell on an iPod stand that had been installed in the head unit of the car, and annoyance pooled in his chest.
Sammy put an iPod jack in my baby… He thought indignantly, grabbing the iPod and ripping it out.
Dean marched back in through the front door, forgetting for just a moment his fear and slammed the iPod down in front of Sammy. He opened his mouth to let out a string of frustrated words out of habit, but instead fear reached up his body and stilled his voice.
Dean snapped his mouth shut and his frustration seeped away, turning to anger in his chest. Anger with himself, for being fucking mute and useless.
Sammy didn't say anything for a moment. "I was wondering when you'd find that," he said with guilt.
Dean stalked out of the house again, finding he didn't care about the iPod jack. All of his anger shifted onto himself for being unable to talk, unable to communicate, unable to think without there dogging his every thought. He paced around the scrapyard, dwelling on his predicament.
Dean saw the way Bobby and Sammy looked at each other when they thought Dean couldn't see; the way despair filled their eyes at his condition. He knew he was broken, he was starting to remember what it was like to not be broken.
Dean remembered he loved talking, loved talking about women and popular movies and hunting. He loved talking about cars with Bobby, loved helping him in the scrapyard earning a legitimate living. Bobby worked out here by himself now, Sammy holding down the house and Dean.
Dean may have been too afraid to talk but out here, alone, he knew he could work on cars, with no one to hurt him or tear at him or expect something from him. He went over to Bobby's garage and opened it up, and happily found no cars jacked up on his lift. He put on his mechanics suit and tools, and went to go put a new wheel on the F150. He saw the good wheel lying right next to it, and changing the wheel and tire would only take a little while.
Dean Winchester
Dean wandered in after dark, cold and with grease smudged on his face. He was extremely satisfied with himself, and didn't have any flashbacks while he was changing the wheel. He did forget during parts how to actually do it, but he didn't need to admit that to anyone.
"Were you working on cars?" Sammy asked incredulously as Dean walked inside. Dean nodded, not hiding the motion anymore, and went upstairs to go get a shower.
Sam Winchester
"Dean, want breakfast?" Bobby called from the kitchen. "Thinking about making omelettes or something."
Dean looked up at Bobby, but gave no answer. He seemed to be looking at something past Bobby, the thousand-yard stare.
"You told us you'd start answering questions," Sam said lightheartedly, not wanting to pressure Dean into doing something he didn't want.
Dean glanced over at Sam, then looked back to Bobby as he shook his head no, ever so slightly. Dean's eyes lost their focus, and Sam's heart broke again, doing so all too often these days.
"You sure?" Bobby asked rhetorically. "All right then. Sam?"
"Sure, breakfast sounds nice," Sam said.
Last night's nightmare had been particularly awful, and Sam was up most of the night making sure Dean got an okay night's sleep. He didn't regret a thing, but he did feel bleary-eyed that morning.
Bobby made breakfast, and the two of them ate at the table while Dean continued staring past the wall from his position on the library couch.
"He's not with us, is he," Sam said while he was eating. "Should we try and get his attention?"
Before they could do anything, Dean stood up abruptly and walked out the back door.
"Dean?" Sam called, but of course received no response. He glanced over at Bobby, and followed Dean outside.
He found Dean in the throes of a panic attack, hands on his knees as he fought to catch his breath. His eyes were on the torn up earth he climbed out of, and Sam cursed that they hadn't cleaned that up yet. That was something they absolutely should have been more on top of.
Sam stood there, not wanting to frighten Dean further, and Dean calmed down as he turned and saw Sam. Dean went completely rigid, face blank.
"Hey Dean, just wanted to know where you were going," Sam said, feigning ignorance. Dean looked over to the scrapyard full of cars, and his gaze lingered there.
"Going to see the Impala?" Sam guessed. Dean gave no response. "All right, just come get us if you need anything," he said as he slowly walked back inside. Sam was sad Dean hadn't opened up since the other day, but he knew he couldn't rush this. It just… sucked, to see his brother in so much pain.
Sam Winchester
"This has gotta be a good sign," Sam insisted as Dean went upstairs. "It's the first time he didn't spend hours staring at the wall." They heard the shower turn on and Sam said "He's even getting a shower and changing now!"
"I want to go see what he did," Bobby said, getting up from his desk. He walked outside, and Sam followed him to the garage.
"It took him this long to put on a new wheel?" Bobby asked incredulously, inspecting the work done.
"I'm not inclined to judge at this point," Sam said. "Like you've been saying, the fact that he remembers anything, let alone how to install an F150 wheel, is a miracle."
Bobby inspected Dean's work, fiddling with the car still on the riser. "His work looks good, even if it's slow," Bobby said, appraising. "This is a good sign, if he's remembering insignificant things like car repair."
"Car repair isn't insignificant to Dean," Sam said, smiling as well. Relief was flowing through his veins. Dean really was going to get better.