Set S2, Post ELAC. Dean grieves over his father and perhaps can start making peace with the situation
Dean tossed the crowbar to the ground, furious at himself for losing control, for beating up on his already damaged car and undoing hours of work, for pushing away Sam. He was angry, so angry that he didn't know what to do anymore. He was angry with his father for dying, for dying r and leaving the orders to kill Sam if necessary. He was angry with Sam for insisting on making every waking moment an attempt to care and share, when he wanted to bury and forget. Remembering his father was painful and hard, he didn't want to think about the man he'd looked up to for his whole life at all, much less remember how he died. How much it hurt, the look of his father's still body, then his father's burning corpse. The raw pain on Sam's face, the anguish over a man whose last words were an order to kill him if he seemed to be on the path of darkness. How could Sam mourn someone who might have killed him? How could he ever tell Sam what their father had said? How could he live knowing his father was gone and not coming back? During the last year, he had been able to make peace with his father's absence, knowing that the oldest Winchester was alive by the sporadic texts and calls, but to know he was actually gone and would never send him coordinates again? Never call him again? Never show up in their hotel room again? How could he possibly live with that knowledge?
He ran his arm across his forehead to wipe away the sweat that threaten to drip into his eyes and pounded his fist against the trunk of the car, feeling so many intense emotions swirling around inside of him and not knowing how to handle them without hurting someone or losing his sanity. His anger deflated quickly and was replaced by a sense of emptiness, which had been his force and motivation for working on the car as much as he had been able to; if he dwelled on the empty feeling, it turned into sadness and made his whole body ache with grief and pain. If he ignored it and focused on work, it was easier to survive the day, and each day it got a little easier to push forward and ignore the elephant in the room.
He inspected the damage he had done to the car with a grimace, knowing his fit of anger had set him back and he'd have to work even longer now to get his baby back in top shape. It was getting late, though, and he wasn't going to start on it tonight. Instead, he had to make nice with Sam and Bobby and pretend like he wasn't losing his fucking mind. He banged his fist against the trunk once more, trying to banish all negativity before facing his family; blood and not. He could already envision Sam's serious and pitying looks, the suggestions to talk it out, Bobby's looks of concern that he thought he was hiding. Just the idea was overwhelming and exhausting, but he knew he had to make an appearance or they'd just seek him out, which would be even worse because then he wouldn't be able to escape when it was just too much.
Wiping the black grease from his hands onto his pants, Dean trudged slowly towards the house, hoping that Sam had decided to stay away after his little temper tantrum earlier. It was easier to act normal around Bobby, who was concerned but smart enough to keep his distance. It was much harder around Sam, who seemed to be staring into his soul and reaching out every 5 minutes. He knew that Sam needed to talk about things to wrap his mind around them, to process the information and recover. Sam had always been like that, so this was nothing new. But this was the first time that they had gone through a huge loss, a paradigm shift of sorts, together. It was infinitely harder to be strong for Sam when he could barely keep himself together.
Dean knew his brother needed him to be strong; Sam had always been the more emotional and expressive of the siblings and had openly relied on Dean for comfort, support and strength since they were young children. Usually, Dean had little trouble bearing that responsibility and shouldering some of Sam's burden. Now, though, his own grief was weighing him down and threatening to drown him and adding Sam's on top of it was making him slip away faster. He needed a break from everything; from his own thoughts and overwhelming feelings, from his brother, from Bobby, even from fixing the car. He needed to find some peace somewhere, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to escape to. He had responsibilities here and even if he didn't feel like he was strong enough to carry out his duties, he had to. There was no other choice than to be strong and hope it didn't kill him in the process.
He made his way to the first-floor bathroom, washing his hands and listening to see if Sam was downstairs for dinner. He didn't hear any talking, so he took that as a good sign that he was safe. He knew Sam had to have witnessed his outburst on the car, so perhaps his younger brother would keep his mouth shut this time now that it was clear how Dean felt on the issue. He chuckled slightly and shook his head, knowing that would never happen; it wasn't in Sam's nature to let anything go. That was the main reason Sam and Dad had fought so much; neither of them were able to let things drop without a fight, and both had to have the last word.
He dried his hands and slowly walked to the kitchen, smelling the steaks that Bobby had prepared but finding himself not very hungry. He hadn't really had much of an appetite since the accident, which he supposed was usual for someone going through the stress he was going through. Dean stopped just outside of the kitchen when he heard voices. He recognized them as Sam and Bobby, who else would they be?, and paused to listen for just a moment. While some people would respect the others' privacy, Dean knew that sometimes listening in was the only way to know what was going on.
"There should be enough here to buy whatever he needs for the trunk. It's my fault that he beat the crap out if, it's the least I can do."
"He's a grown man, boy, he knew what he was doing. It's not your responsibility to clean up this mess."
"No, it was my fault. All of this is my fault, Bobby. J-just don't tell him it came from me, alright? I don't know if he would accept it if he knew."
"Where are you getting these funds from, anyway?" Bobby questioned, "You boys win the lottery or something?"
Sam was quiet, and when Bobby spoke again he sounded tired and old, "What did you do, Sam?"
"Nothing. It's just Stanford stuff." Sam dismissed, "I had some money saved up with Jessica before the fire; I was going to ask her to marry me, I was going to buy her a house. After she passed away…" Sam sighed, and Dean could imagine his little brother running his fingers through his shaggy hair, "after the fire, I gave a large bit of the money to her parents, for her funeral. It was the least I could do, since it was my fault that she died. There was some left, I have been having flowers delivered to her grave every month. Dean's more important, though. He lost his father, the Impala was practically our home and I didn't want him to lose it too. It was my fault, I need to fix the mess I created."
"Now, boy, this wasn't your fault-"
"Yes, it was! Bobby, I was driving the car when we crashed. Dad told me to shoot him while he was possessed and I refused to. I couldn't do it, I didn't want to kill my father and Dad was pissed at me until the moment he died. He thought I was weak, I was weak. I made wrong decisions over and over again, and people have died because of it. Dad's dead because of me. If I had shot him when he wanted me to, we'd have the demon gone too."
"But he'd still be gone." Bobby said quietly, knowing that shouting would get them nowhere and not really seeing Sam's logic, "Whether it was the accident or the possession, he'd still be gone."
"It's not the same." Sam insisted, his voice quiet but heavy with sorrow, "The accident didn't kill him, it just set into motion the things that caused him to die. I doubt it's a coincidence that Dean made a miraculous recovery shortly before Dad died. It's not a coincidence that the colt is gone, that he had items used for summoning a demon. He did something to bring Dean back, and now he's dead. If I had shot him, it would still be my fault but at least it would be clear where to lay the blame. We don't know what Dad did, but Dean isn't stupid; he can see that it's not a coincidence either. So now he feels guilty on top of sad, and he has no reason to, because this is my fault. So whatever I can do to make it better, I've got to do."
"But it's not your fault, you aren't responsible for a demon plowing into your car and you aren't responsible for anything your dad may have done to help Dean. You don't have to fix this because it's not on you."
Sam's response was too quiet for Dean to hear, and apparently Bobby as well because Bobby said a few seconds later, "What was that?"
"It's just…" Sam sighed again, and when he continued speaking Dean could hear the unshed tears in his voice, "Even if it wasn't my fault, Dean blames me. He won't talk to me, he avoids me whenever possible, he barely even looks at me. He thinks it's my fault that he lost his dad."
"That you both lost your father." Bobby corrected, "He's not the only one here who's going through a loss."
"I don't deserve to feel anything like Dean does. I left and went to college, Dean is the one who stayed. He's Dad's son, he's the one who gets to hurt and grieve. I'm just-I-picked fights and didn't listen and I don't deserve to feel like crap now. Dean was right, it's too little, too late. He'd be better off he had left me at Stanford, everything I touch turns to crap." There was another sigh, and Sam said in a more subdued voice, "I'm really not that hungry, Bobby, I think I'm going to go to bed early."
"Sam, wait-"
"No, Dean will be in soon. He won't want to see me. Just order the parts you need; if you need more money, just let me know."
Dean realized he was about to get busted eavesdropping once Sam left the kitchen, so he decided to make his presence known before he had a chance to be caught. He walked in, his heart immediately twisting when he saw Sam's red and teary eyes. He hated to see his brother hurting, especially since he felt like a lot of his brother's pain was his fault for being a distant prick since they'd been at Bobby's. Even knowing this, it was too hard to look at Sam in pain and feel his own pain at the same time, so he opted for the easier route, "Mind if I take my food upstairs? I'm wiped from working on the car all day."
Sure, it was a pathetic attempt to justify escaping a tense and awkward situation, but he didn't really care at the moment. He just knew he needed to get away before he completely fell apart. Bobby looked at him in concern and Sam looked away, refusing to meet Dean's eyes, clearly taking this as as slight against him when it wasn't that at all. Unfortunately for both of them, Dean wasn't in the mood to placate his brother and play the role of the older sibling at the moment, so there was little to be done other than to take his plate and retreat to the solace of the guest room. Usually he and Sam shared a room even though Bobby had enough space for each to have their own; their upbringing and lifestyle bred co-dependence and it was reassuring to know Sam was feet away instead of separated by a wall, but this time he had secluded himself in a room alone, despite knowing how much it would tear his brother apart. It wasn't that he wanted to hurt Sam, far from it. As much as the distance hurt Sam, it would hurt his little brother much worse if they were in close quarters and Dean completely shut off. At least this way there were no raised hopes or delusions, what Sam saw was what Sam got.
He picked at his food, not particularly hungry and feeling worse now that he had Sam's admissions to Bobby running through his mind. He knew Sam was hurting, but he didn't know Sam thought he was at fault for anything that had happened. It was as far from the truth as possible, and Dean wanted to go to his brother and tell him that repeatedly until Sam believed it, but he couldn't. He didn't have the strength, the energy, the peace of mind, anything necessary to reassure Sam when he was barely able to function himself. He felt bad about it, the guilt weighing on him like an elephant on his chest, but there just wasn't any more of himself to give.
Dean heard the door next to his shut and he knew his brother was now in his room as well. He wondered if Sam had eaten, since not much time had passed, and couldn't keep the worry away. They were falling apart, both of them. He really wanted to fix this; fix himself, fix Sam, fix them but he was at a loss for how to do so. He could barely force himself to get out of bed and perform his necessary life activities without feeling like his chest would explode from the agony of what he had lost, to ask much more of him felt impossible.
He sat on the bed, hunched over and resting his elbows on his knees while he cradled his head. Being alone was like dying slowly and painful, agonizing torture. To be with others felt exactly the same, though with an added sense of guilt for bringing them down as well. Bobby and Sam could see through his fake smiles and his indifferent disposition and he desperately wanted to be somewhere where people wouldn't call him out on his forced and false calmness. What he needed was a drink, so with a heavy sigh he forced himself to sit, bones weary and tired. With any luck, Sam and Bobby would be asleep by the time he got back from the bar and he'd escape another night of stares and concern.
He stood and walked to the dresser to pick up his wallet and jacket. The sound of clinking metal caught his attention and he looked down to see his father's dog tags, which had fallen to the floor. He bent down to retrieve them, then held them tightly in his hands. It was just another painful reminder that they were now alone, that his father was gone and had left the world's largest burden on his shoulders.
Through the bedroom wall, Dean heard a sob,the sound cutting like a knife. How could he comfort Sam knowing that his father's last words were instructions to save or kill him? Who would put that sort of responsibility on their child? Their child that had been ordered to take care and protect his brother since he was four years old? How could he save Sam if he was drowning too? How could he protect Sam from himself, how would he know if Sam was turning dark-side, how would he be able to bring himself to do it if it came to that point? The answer, of course, was that he wouldn't, he couldn't, hurt Sam. It wasn't something he was capable of, it wasn't an option. But to ignore his father's dying wish?
The first sob was followed by a second, and Dean covered his ears like he was suddenly five years old again and wanted to tune out the world. He couldn't listen to this, he didn't want to know Sam was falling apart just feet away on the other side of the wooden barrier separating the two of them. It was easier to pretend like Sam was okay, like he wasn't failing his role as big brother by letting Sam shatter to pieces alone.
Dean sat heavily on the bed, dog tags dangling from his fingers and all thoughts of the bar forgotten, replaced by haunting memories of the last few weeks. His chest ached terribly; grief, sorrow, pain, panic all swirling around like a giant vortex, waiting to suck him in and never let go. He shifted uncomfortably, finding it hard to draw in a breath as deeply as he would like, which only made the unease and panic worse. He gasped for air, feeling like he was choking on the air around him, thick and unpleasant and full of remorse and regret. He felt flushed and hot, and as soon as he realized it, he broke out into a sweat which quickly covered his whole body. He was pretty sure he was going to vomit as emotions and pain tore through his body, twisting his insides like a pretzel. He stood, one hand made into a fist in front of his chest, deciding through a hazy and panicked mind that he needed to splash some water on his face. He only made it a few steps before the room started to tilt and spin wildly around him, his vision and hearing quickly becoming distorted. It was getting increasingly harder to breathe and he was getting downright scared.
The door opened but he paid no mind to the sound, clawing at his chest as he wheezed in another painful breath. He swallowed back a wave of nausea and moaned, the pain growing to a level of intensity that made Dean wish someone would just put him out of his misery. He was vaguely aware of his brother's presence in the room, feeling calmed slightly but still unable to steady himself and breathe. His vision to grey around the edges, and he squeezed his eyes shut, swaying precariously as he tried to orient himself and decide which way he needed to go to get back to the safety of his bed.
Strong arms wrapped around him and held him tightly, and Dean weakly protested, trying to pull away. He wasn't sure if he was going to throw up or pass out, or both, and his voice wasn't working to warn whoever it was, Sam maybe?, that they were flirting with danger being this close at the moment. The person was calmly and quietly talking to him, but he couldn't make out what was being said, and he was finally able to think with certainty that this was his little brother; who else the size of a small giant would be grabbing at him when he was like this? The tight embrace allowed some of the panic to recede, and after a few minutes he was able to piece together what his brother was saying.
"Just breathe, Dean. In and out, try to copy mine, okay?" Sam said firmly, though in a calm voice that urged Dean to comply, "You're okay, you're having a panic attack. Can you hear me?"
Dean stopped resisting, his head falling forward against Sam's chest and his legs giving way beneath him. He thought for sure they'd both go down, but Sam easily supported his weight and all but carried him the few feet distance to the bed. He clung to his brother's shirt, trying to follow Sam's instructions and breathe, but it was so incredibly exhausting and hard to do. He felt like he was floating, disconnected from his body, and it made him feel queasy, as if he'd been riding on a roller coaster upside down too long. His chest still felt tight and he wasn't quite convinced yet that he wasn't about to pass out. Was he having a heart attack? Was he about to die from this elephant sitting on his chest after he had made a miraculous recovery from the accident?
"You aren't having a heart attack." Sam tried to reassure him, leaving Dean to wonder if he was thinking out loud, "You need to breathe, Dean. Slow, controlled breaths or you're going to pass out. Please, Dean, for me, try to calm down. Just breathe in, hold it, and breathe out. You're going to be okay."
Dean wanted to comply, especially since he was now aware of the concern and panic lying just below the surface of Sam's calm and composed demeanor. To an outsider, it wouldn't be visible, but Dean knew his kid brother better than anyone and he could see the fear around the edges that the younger man was trying so hard to hide.
"I feel like I'm going to puke." Dean groaned a few moments later, the room still moving around him even though Sam was holding him steady, "I'm so lightheaded. Do I have a head injury?"
"No, Dean." Sam replied calmly, "Just a panic attack, I promise. It's getting better. Can you feel it? You're breathing better now. Just focus on breathing for a few minutes, okay?"
"It's so hot in here." Dean moaned, wiping a thick layer of sweat from his face and onto his shirt, "I'm suffocating."
"It's not hot. Your skin is cold and clammy, it's just because you're freaking out. Try to calm down, it's okay. You're okay." Sam repeated, and Dean had the feeling that his brother had repeated this more than he had been aware of, since Sam was using the 'I've told you this a billion times' tone. He inhaled deeply, held his breath for a few seconds, then exhaled, realizing that now he was able to do this without feeling like something was clawing at his chest and trying to escape.
"You're doing good, Dean." Sam praised, then gently untangled himself from his brother and pushed him towards the pillow on the bed, "Lay down and breathe. Just try to relax, get some sleep. It'll be better when you wake up."
"No, it won't." Dean mumbled, but he was already feeling disoriented and numb as he was pulled toward sleep and couldn't form anything more coherent or lengthy than that..
There were more soothing words that Dean was too far gone to comprehend, and then the warmth next to him vanished. He moaned, reaching back towards where his brother had been and murmuring, "No, stay."
"You sure?"
Dean felt tears prickle underneath his eyelids at the hesitation in Sam's voice, knowing he had been the one to put it there. He could feel his heart rate increasing and his breath caught in his throat, but he was instantly calmed when the bed dipped and he could feel his brother's warm, reassuring presence beside him, the younger man's voice reassuring, "I'll stay, I promise. I'll stay right here."
Dean fell into an exhausted sleep, the emotional outburst combined with recent events taking a toll on his body and mind. As he gave in to the welcoming darkness, he couldn't help but wonder how on earth his brother, the guy who he had shut out, yelled at, hit and pushed away and still turned up when Dean needed him the most, could possibly be someone that would need to be eliminated one day. In that moment he realized that he was worrying over nothing; he wasn't going to need to worry about putting Sam down because the chances of Sam going dark were slim to none, and as long as Dean was around, he'd make sure the kid never changed.
