More Wishful Thinking
By Swellison
I glanced over at Dean, tucked behind the wheel of the Impala. Seeing Dean there was starting to be familiar again, as was the slight twinge of discomfort from my tightly folded knees. But I much preferred being cramped shotgun to driving solo with all the legroom in the world. We were cruising down I-90, heading east. (God, it's so good to write that—we—again. For too many months it was just me, and I hated it.) Concrete—hell, the entire state of Washington--was long behind us; we were rapidly closing in on Butte, Montana. Uncharacteristically, Dean had foregone any butt jokes and he'd failed to find an acceptable radio station, in the heart of Old West country music territory, so the Chevy's interior remained quiet as the miles rushed by.
I felt a little guilty about that, remembering Dean's dismayed look when I'd sheepishly confessed that I'd thrown out his cassette tapes last July. "I'm sorry, Dean… I was drunk at the time," I admitted, looking anywhere but at my brother. "Lot of that going around," Dean had grunted and surprisingly, he'd dropped the subject. What with one thing and another, neither one of us has gotten around to replacing the cassette tapes yet. I have no intention of reconnecting my iPod to the Impala's dashboard; Dean had made his feelings about that crystal clear.
The long drive was starting to wear on me. We'd left Concrete shortly after ten in the morning, and including breaks for lunch and dinner, had been on the road for close to twelve hours. I began to realize that Dean had no intention of stopping before Billings, which was another three hours past Butte—unless he was just going to drive straight through the night. We weren't in a tearing hurry to get anywhere; the job in Concrete was over and I haven't even started looking for a new hunt yet. So why is Dean hell-bent on driving to--? Oh. He's driving as an alternative to sleeping, to dreaming. I vividly recalled our conversation on the dock, when Dean admitted that he remembered everything that had happened to him in Hell, and he wasn't going to share any of it.I suddenly heard my own words from after the rugaru hunt, thrown back at me. "You don't understand." "You can't understand." "I can't make you understand."
Okay, so maybe I can't get Dean to spill the beans about his time in Hell, but I still have some tricks up my sleeve. I raised my arms in front of me, interlaced my fingers and stretched, keeping my elbows bent so I avoided contact with the windshield. At the same time, I yawned hugely. Then I canted my head toward Dean, catching my brother's unsuccessful effort to hide his own yawn by keeping his mouth as closed as possible.
"I'm tired," I said."Didn't we just pass a sign for a motel in Butte? We should stop for the night."
"Take a nap. It's barely past ten—still plenty of driving to do."
"I can't sleep in here, Dean. My legs are crammed in between the seat and the dashboard, and I don't have enough elbow room. I can't get comfortable."
"You whine like a girl, Samantha. Wuss." Dean's face turned towards me. "What are you, five? I can hear your next words already, 'Are we there yet?'"
I snorted. "Why would I say that? I don't even know where 'there' is—and I don't think you do, either. As far as I can tell, there is no there."
Dean glared at me. "Dude, do you even listen to yourself talk? 'There is no there'. That's a fine bit of vocabulary, college boy."
College boy. Dean's favorite insult. Sometimes I think he'll still be calling me that when I'm ninety—yeah, right, like that's gonna happen. But I'm getting off track, here. I turned in my seat to glare at Dean, and ended up wincing as my right side protested the abrupt change in position.
"You okay?"
"Still a little sore from the lightning," I answered without thinking, rubbing my right arm gingerly.
Dead silence.
Oops. Too late, I remembered my decision to avoid mentioning the whole struck by lightning part of getting Ted to retrieve the Babylonian coin. I knew Dean wouldn't react well to that--or maybe I've just gotten too used to keeping secrets from my brother. It wasn't retaliation for him not telling me about Hell, though, I'm sure of that. Well, pretty sure.
"Wanna clarify that for me, Sam?"
It sounded like a question, but I knew an order when I heard one. "Hope overheard us talking to Ted about the wishing well. She was desperate to keep her love alive, so she hightailed it down to the wishing well and, uh, wished that I'd drop dead or something. I was trying to persuade Ted to do the right thing when I felt this massive jolt of pain and fell to the ground. Ted told me later that I was struck by lightning, and that's when he really understood what he'd done. He removed the coin from the fountain and gave it to me."
Our just-completed hunt had featured a giant bi-polar talking teddy bear and a kid with super-strength. Somehow, I couldn't find a way to add: "Oh, yeah, and I got struck by lightning and died. But don't worry; it was just for a minute—two, tops."
"Struck by lightning? You died?" Dean's voice was raw.
"I'm not sure—I might've just passed out. Lots of people survive being struck by lightning. Remember that forest ranger, he got struck seven times and was still around to talk about it?" I didn't give Dean time to answer, just continued speaking. "Anyway, I woke up on the ground, lying on my right side. It's sore, but that's to be expected. Just another physical manifestation of a rescinded wish—like Audrey's parents being sunburned from their stay in Bali."
Dean's only reply was to swerve the Impala into the exit lane. He didn't stop until we pulled into the parking lot of the Wild West Motel. He jammed the car into park, grabbed the keys and stalked into the office, returning less than five minutes later with the key to our room. A few minutes later, we were settled in the room.
He still hadn't said a word. Huh. Either Dean was being remarkably restrained, waiting to blow his stack in the privacy of our motel room, or he was so mad he didn't trust himself to speak until he'd calmed down. But he made damn sure that I put my duffel on the bed farthest from the door before he stomped off into the bathroom.
Okay, I'm voting for the later. I admit Dean has a proprietary interest in me being alive. I'm only kicking and breathing because he'd died and gone to Hell to save me. And we don't talk about it, but I'm pretty sure that I'm a big part of why Castiel rescued Dean from Hell, too.
I glanced at the closed bathroom door, noting for the first time that it had a batwing saloon door painted on its whitewashed surface. After that, I took a good, long look at our motel room. The motel was trying to carry out its namesake through its furnishings. The wall behind the double beds had a mural on it that strongly reminded me of the town storefronts in Bonanza. At least these beds didn't have those ridiculous and dangerous longhorns above them like that inn in Texas; they were simple iron bedsteads. Some old-fashioned sepia photographs that looked real and several faux WANTED posters served as the room's artwork. If Dean had been in a better mood, he would've rolled his eyes and said "Dude" upon entering.
Speak of the dev—never mind. Dean walked out of the bathroom, stretched out on the bed by the door and flicked the television on via its remote. "Bathroom's free. I even left you some hot water," he said, and then pretended to be absorbed in the TV news.
Well, hey, small talk is at least a start. I decided not to push things and took a long, hot shower. Dean was still supposedly watching TV when I sat down on my bed. "Dean—"
He interrupted me before I could say whatever was on my mind. "Go to sleep, Sammy. It's what you wanted, isn't it? A good night's sleep after a long day on the road."
Suddenly it was all about me, again. Dean will never stop being my big brother. And, yeah, I was tired and a little sore, even after my shower, but Dean needed the rest a hell of a lot more than I did. That was really why I'd whined about getting a room for the night.
I yawned—this one wasn't manufactured—and gave in, sliding under the covers. "G'night, Dean,'" I said softly, reaching over to turn off the bedside lamp. I really was tired, because I drifted off to sleep not long after that.
A noise woke me, some indeterminate time later. I opened my eyes and lay still on the bed, straining to figure out what it was. I heard it again, and it came from Dean's bed—mumbling, or maybe a soft whimper. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on; Dean was having a nightmare. Guess I should say another nightmare, as he's had more than his share, lately. Of course, being only recently returned from hell, he's got an abundance of source material. If the stubborn idiot would just talk to me about it, instead of bottling it all up inside, he wouldn't be having all these freakin' nightmares. He probably thought the same thing about me a few years back…
Well, I wasn't going to sit here and do nothing. I rolled over to the far side of my bed, away from Dean and close to the bathroom. I padded over to the bathroom, opened the door halfway and flipped on the light. This illuminated the room enough for me to see where I was going, and to make out Dean, lying on his bed. I approached cautiously, because Dean was first and foremost a hunter, and it's not wise to awaken a sleeping hunter out of the blue.
I sat gingerly on my bed, reached behind me for a pillow and tossed it. The pillow landed on Dean's feet and he jerked once, from head to toes, but contrary to what I was expecting, he didn't wake up. Other than that one jerk, his arms remained stiffly by his sides, like he was tied up or strapped down. I heard a fresh whimper, too.
Sometimes I can be amazingly obtuse. I knew Dean was having nightmares about Hell, but I never let myself dwell on what exactly that would entail. One look at Dean, and I was determined to end his nightmares. Physically trying to wake him hadn't worked, but Dean has always responded to my voice, no matter what.
"Shh, Dean, relax. It's Sammy. It was a dream, just a dream. You're not there; you're with me, in a crappy motel room in Butte, Montana." I watched in vain for some sign that I was reaching Dean, and then continued. "Butte, by the way, really is one of the ugliest towns I've been in, and that's covering a lot of ground. Hey, maybe you had the right idea, driving through and staying on the road. Guess I should've remembered that big brother is always right, huh?" I kept on in a similar vein, trying to reach Dean and calm him down with my presence and voice, like he did so many times when I was little.
"Dean, hey, wake up. You're safe with me, and you're never going to Hell again."
He actually responded to that, mumbling, "More wishful thinkin'."
I was thrilled that he was awake, until I ran over his words in my mind. "What? Dean, you're not going back—"
"When this is finished. Castiel said he'd throw me back, and I believe him." Dean wasn't quite so rigid on the bed, face mostly hidden in the shadows.
"What--? No, Dean, he can't do that to you…he's an angel, for God's sake."
"He's a dick, Sammy. Keep tryin' to tell you that." Dean sighed. "Besides, I deserve it."
"WHAT?" I felt like a broken record, repeating 'what' all the time, but he really threw me for a loop there.
"If I can't keep you from going Darkside, I'll have failed and I'll deserve anything Castiel can throw at me, and anyplace he throws me into."
"Castiel isn't sending you back to Hell. I won't let him."
"No!" Dean was wide awake now, sitting up in bed. "Sam, you can't fight Castiel, he's an angel. I know you took out Samhain, but… please, Sammy, you'll lose. We'll lose."
"I'm not gonna fight Castiel. I just meant I'd talk to him, iron out a few misperceptions."
Dean really thinks I'd fight an angel? Have we changed that much, grown that far apart? Then I paid attention to his last words: "We'll lose." Even mistakenly thinking that I was going to take on Castiel, Dean was still on my side. That took some of the sting out of the accusations he'd made after his little time-traveling jaunt to Lawrence. Maybe we haven't changed as much as I thought, and there's still hope.
Right now, what we both need is a little shut-eye. I got up, skirted my bed and shut off the bathroom light. "Go back to sleep, Dean," I said as I settled back into bed. "Tomorrow's another long day on the road to wherever it is we're going."
Dean grunted something, undoubtedly relieved that I had ended our late night chat before it got too emo for him.
Momentarily, I regretted not pushing the advantage, and getting him to talk about his nightmares. Even Dean can't keep that kind of experience bottled up forever. Sooner or later, he'll give in and talk to me, like he did after Dad's death. And when he does finally speak, and come to me looking for answers, this time I'll have something meaningful and helpful to say. God, I hope that's not just more wishful thinking.
A/N Sorry I'm so late in updating this. Hope you're continuing to read Sam's diary.
