Okay. So.
I cannot even begin to apologise. I know it's been literally almost forever since I updated. I suppose my only defence is the massive workload I've been getting recently, and also the writer's block regarding this chapter. It's been a real bitch to write, if I'm being honest, and every time I've sat down to tackle it I've just been completely unable to finish it. But last night, I forced myself to sit down, grit my teeth, and sort it out. I hope it's not too crap!
The next chapter is coming along a lot more easily, and I should be getting it up a lot sooner. Thank you all so much for your patience, here you go!
It's become routine. Every Tuesday morning. Dean can't even imagine life without it anymore. Tuesdays mean getting up at 6.00am sharp, washing every inch of his body, putting on his best clothes, checking that the car's in peak condition, driving to the comic store, picking up the same one he does every week, and then getting back in the car to head to his little brother. Tuesdays are Sam days, and Dean never misses them.
The comic book is Sam's favourite. Every week without fail. And now it's Dean's job to bring it to him, make sure he is absolutely up to date ob everything that's going on. Sam can't buy them himself anymore, and just by glancing at the date Dean know it's been exactly four months since Sam last set foot in that store. A whole year since that phone call to Dean. It seems like a lifetime ago now. Everything's changed.
Dean pulls into his usual parking spot, taking care not to scratch the cars on either side. He's never spoken to their owners, but he knows they visit their relatives at the same time he visits Sam. You notice other visitors here. Everyone comes for the same reason.
Getting out of his car, Dean sets off to find his little brother. He knows the way by now – it's not like they move him, or anything – and sure enough, there he sees him.
He walks straight past the old woman who always comes for her grandson at this time. Dean's used to her tears by now, and the lilies she always brings. They made him feel sick at first, but not any more.
Everyone else always brings flowers, but Dean never has.
A few metres down from the old woman and her grandson, he stops. Here's his brother. He puts down the comic in the usual spot, and says the same thing he always does.
"Hey, Sammy."
The cold grey headstone says nothing in response. But then again. It never does.
Dean squats down next to the heaped ground, which is still plastered in wreaths from his brother's friends. His mother's been here too, those are her trademark roses, and Dean notices the imprints of his father's boots on either side of the grave.
Dean hates that word. If there's one thing his brother was not, in those last few months, it was grave.
Every Tuesday, Dean comes here to remember, because he can't let himself forget. He fills Sam in on his life, too, and adds to the ever-growing pile of ragged, weather-worn comic books. Putting his hand over the spot where Sam's head would be allows the memories to wash over him, and he does so now, needing to remember it all.
Sam. Young and healthy. Sam. Traumatized by Jess's death, but alive. Sam, slowly recovering from his crushing depression. Sam, the first day Dean saw him after the phone call. And Sam, on that last peaceful afternoon in Dean's living room. It hadn't hurt him in the end, Dean knew. Or at least hoped. Watching TV, Sam had simply fallen asleep, and that had been that. Months of pain, treatments, attempted surgery – but in the end, it had been simple. No slow, torturous burning out, just a gentle breeze which had snuffed out Sam's spark in an instant.
Dean had stared at his brother for what must have been hours before the tears started.
And now, he tells his brother everything. Sam always wanted to know, and is Dean's news big today.
"It happened again yesterday, Sammy. God, I wish you could tell me what to do about it. It's driving me insane, do you remember last time?"
Sam knows all about Cas now. Dean has no secrets from his brother anymore.
"It's happening every time we see each other now. But he never wants to talk about it, you know? And I need him to acknowledge it, you know I do. I'm just so paranoid that he still thinks it's comfort, because that might actually kill me."
Dean stretches his legs out and rests back on his elbows. It's so easy to pretend this way that Sam's still living and breathing and listening right next to him.
"I'm sorry that I always go on about him. Every week it's the same crappy monologue, isn't it? But – I think you know how much I need to get it out. You could probably recite it all back to me now, couldn't you, like some teenage romance shit - " Dean pitches his voice higher, going into teenage girl mode "-'I first met Castiel Novak on a cold rainy morning in a run down old café. After what happened to you, things changed. Everything changed, and nothing more than me'." He smirks, and turns his head to where his brother's would be. "Not our sort of thing, right, little bro? Well, maybe yours. You always were way to into your Austen to possibly be normal."
Dean laughs too hard at this, and then suddenly he stops laughing, and feels the first tear of the day slide down his cheek at the memory of Sam's old reading habits. He bats it away impatiently, though, because he's used to the crying and he doesn't let it distract him anymore.
"I think – oh God, I think I might love him, Sammy. And I always thought that getting to kiss the person you loved was supposed to be – well, not this."
For the past year, Castiel has been the most supportive friend Dean could ask for. On days when things are particularly bad, Dean has had to physically force Castiel to go to school instead of coming to help him out. The resultant arguments are fun, but then, one way or another, they always end in a kiss. A kiss followed by a silence which, despite its frequency, Dean's never gotten used to. And then, soon enough, Castiel will be gone. He never acknowledges the kisses, and he never stops coming back the next day.
"I'm just sick of it, Sammy. And I swear to you now, this time I'm going to do it. I'm going to grab him by the shoulders, and I'll shout in his face that I'm not bullshitting him, and he will listen, because I'll make him. So I'll tell him and tell him and tell him, and then when he finally believes me, I'll…"
Dean stops to run an hand over his face, and sighs.
"I won't walk out. I'll fucking kiss him, won't I. Because there's no way I can't."
Sam's headstone is as silent as ever, but Dean can picture his brother's response exactly. Sam's 'bitch-you're-in-deep-shit' face swims before his eyes, clear as day.
"You're right, Sammy. Jesus. This is never getting fucking solved, is it?"
The taste of 'Dean, you're an idiot' is tangible on the air.
Dean grunts and gets to his feet. He tugs his shirt down where it's ridden up, and places his other hand on the polished granite. His fingertips gently trace the crystals.
"I love you, Sammy."
TWO WEEKS LATER
"Sammy, I did a bad thing, shit, help, JesusChristIdon'tknowwhattodoanymore."
Dean staggers to the grave, hands shaking as his head whips around and tears roll of his face.
"I just – I just blew every penny I fucking own on a couple of needles."
He throws a twisted, tearful glance back at the car, where the heroin is hidden. Falling to his knees, his fingers rake the grass, and he rocks backwards and forwards in anguish.
"Shit, I need to shoot up, I need to, fucking stop me Sammy, please, you're the only one who can stop me, fuck, please."
But his veins feel like they are on fire even as he pleads. How the fuck had he been so stupid?
It had been one night. One ridiculous, drunken night. Cas away, on a school trip, Dean had headed down to a bar, and there he'd met none other that Alistair. His old dealer. It had taken one week of loneliness and a bottle of vodka, but soon enough he was putty in Alistair's well practiced hands. The liquid was searing through his bloodstream before he knew it, and his brain had been nothing but chemical ecstasy. Shared needles, unprotected sex – he could have done any of it, and he wouldn't know it. But now the drug's burnt out, and he needs more.
All those months of abstinence, down the drain. He couldn't care less. The only thing that can possible guilt-trip him enough now is Sam, and it isn't working.
Desperately, he thinks of Cas. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pictures that familiar face begging him to stop. But constantly there, lingering, is the knowledge that Cas does not and will never feel the same way about him, and at the thought he rakes his fingernails down his cheeks and screams as loud and as long as he possibly can. He can feel blood mixing with the tears on his face, and all the while he aches with need, his veins shrieking, crying out throughout him.
He can't control his legs anymore. And with the blood in his eyes, he can't see where he's going, either. But his body apparently does.
And the needle's in his arm, as he collapses to the ground, shaking and twitching and crying, riding the most terrible high of his life.
Dean's lying on Sam's grave when Cas arrives. It's the middle of the night, and he's been searching for hours.
To be honest, he thinks he's known where Dean was the whole time. He's just not sure he'd wanted to know what he'd find when he got there.
As he approaches Dean's twitching, unconscious form, he can't stop himself from flinching. Although he's known about Dean's past as long as he's known him, seeing his pale, shaking body amidst the grass sends a vile wave of shock right through him to his bones. Cas kneels down next to Dean and takes his hand, his slim fingers sliding across a limp wrist. The pulse is steady. Good.
Just as he's about to lift Dean towards his car, Cas glances up at Sam's grave, and leans in closer to read the words he already knows by heart.
SAMUEL WINCHESTER
1994-2011
BELOVED SON, BROTHER, AND FRIEND
'For death is no more than a turning of us over from time to eternity'
He wants to cry. But he's done enough of that already.
Although he'd only known Sam for an unfairly short period of time, he'd loved the boy like he was his brother as much as Dean's. When he'd gotten the phone call telling him that Sam had finally slipped away, no matter how peacefully, it had been like getting hit by a freight train in the chest. He remembers screaming at his mother during a particularly awful time, telling her that doctors fix people! FIX HIM! But now, he does what Sam had asked him to, and tries his best to take care of Dean.
Laying a hand on Sam's grave as though it was a shoulder, he whispers,
"Hello, Sam. I'm sorry you had to see this. But I'm here now, and I promise I'll look after him."
Then, getting to his feet, he hooks his hands under Dean's armpits and drags him to the car, before driving them away. Sam's grave sits there, and watches them go.
Well, there you go. I love Sam, and I cried a bit, but I promise I did it for a reason. WHY AM I SUCH A MASOCHIST OMFG.
So, if you're still hanging onto this story (I swear to God I love you forever if you are) then drop me a review? I'll give you a new chapter as a thank you as soon as I can, I PROMISE!
