Snapshots: 7.5. Takes place in early S2, same as Snapshots: 7. While 7 was from Dean's POV, 7.5 is from Sam's. I'm pretty sure the next one will come from S4, unless my mind formulates a great snapshot from another point along the way. Thanks for the responses I've gotten, I appreciate all of you and would love to continue hearing your thoughts, ideas, etc.
Sam watched solemnly as Dean smashed the trunk of his beloved car with a crowbar, pent up rage and pain spilling out in grunts and screams as he repeatedly brought the iron down upon the black metal frame. He was horrified that Dean would do such a thing to his beloved car, but not surprised in the least that Dean had finally reached his breaking point.
He knew he had done nothing to help the situation since they'd arrived at Bobby's a few weeks earlier. Sam was well-aware that he had been pushy and insistent in trying to convince Dean to open up and talk to him. It had been for both of their sakes, really; Dean wasn't doing himself any favors by keeping it all bottled up, and Sam was so consumed with pain that he felt like his heart was going to explode in a million pieces if he didn't let it out. Not only had he lost his father, but he had nearly lost his brother and the whole situation made his guilt and sorrow over Jessica's death return to the surface from where he had buried it deeply inside. He wasn't planning on having a heart-to-heart with Bobby; and face it, it wasn't as if he had his Stanford friends to lean upon in his time of mourning. The only person who would possibly understand was Dean, and Dean hated him at the moment.
He didn't blame Dean in the least, of course. It was all Sam's fault anyway; everything starting with the fire that killed their mother in his nursery at six months old to their father's death was all on Sam. If he hadn't been alive, their mother would still be with them. He could imagine the life Dean would have had, his mother and father raising him in Lawrence in their nice house in their nice neighborhood. Dean could have played baseball and stayed in the same school district for his entire education, perhaps even have done to college. He would have settled down with a beautiful, funny woman and they might even have kids by now. His family would have been much better off if he had never existed in the first place. Too bad there wasn't a magic spell to bring back their father and eradicate Sam and the memory of Sam from the universe.
As if being responsible for their mother's death wasn't enough of a black mark on his soul, things had been rough since he started hunting with Dean again. Hell, over the last year Dean had been given little-to-no hope of survival by doctors twice and Sam couldn't undo the damage either one of those events had caused. If there was a way he could bring his father back and die in his place instead, he'd gladly do it, just so his brother wouldn't hurt so , that was impossible and they just had to figure out how to move forward.
Sam had worked in vain to try to be the good son now, to follow his father's wishes and try to be the person he had fought so hard against being for his entire life. It was the least he could do, after his part in the accident and their father's death. It made things easier, to imagine that he was carrying out his dad's work and doing what his dad would have wanted him to do. It made the shame and guilt he was carrying around for the way they constantly fought, up until the very end, shrink just a tiny bit. At this point, even a tiny bit less pain was a remarkable improvement, so he had been fully intent to set out on a mission to carry out exactly what his father had in mind for him. Of course, Dean wasn't buying the new-Sam, and had called him out on his new attitude, felling him it was 'too little, too late'. That was true, of course, but it had been excruciatingly painful to hear.
He had never been given the chance to know his mother, and while his father had been alive for 23 years of Sam's life, he had never really gotten a chance to know the man behind the hard-eyes and resolve of steel. Dean had known their dad when he was gentle, loving and fatherly. Sam's only memories were of a drill-sergeant attitude and clear concern and care, but nearly impossible to reach behind a wall of vengeance, grief and determination. Sam wished more than anything that he had realized he needed to spend more time amicably with their father, that he had known the last time they had spoken would actually be the last time. There were so many things he could have done differently if he had just known what was going to happen and how soon he'd lose his father.
He had never felt so alone; his parents were both dead, his girlfriend was dead, Dean was alive but light years away hidden behind anger, despair and a profound sense of loss. He slowly made his way up the stairs and through Bobby's door, glancing back at his brother just once more while wishing he could do something to ease Dean's pain and get his brother back.
Sam could smell food in the kitchen, but the thought of food made him feel queasy. He tried to be as quiet as possible to sneak by Bobby; he had business to handle before Dean came in to eat. If all went well, he'd be upstairs and far away before Dean made his appearance and his brother wouldn't have to suffer through his company yet again. He had been convinced that talking it out would help Dean, but now it was clear that Dean wanted nothing to do with him and there was nothing Sam could do to help the situation. He tiredly trudged to his room, pulling out an envelope and heading back downstairs to talk to the older hunter who had been part of their family for as long as he could remember. He could never express how thankful he was for the grisly old hunter; Bobby had gone out of his way to help their family countless times, and this was just one more favor that they owed him.
"Hey, Bobby." Sam greeted, plastering a smile onto his face despite the fact that he had nothing in the world to smile about.
Bobby looked up from the stove, greeting the younger man with a warm smile, "I was hoping you two would be in for dinner soon, it'll be ready in just a few minutes."
"Thanks. I hope you didn't go to too much trouble." Sam looked at the stove and couldn't help but appreciate the work and effort Bobby had put into the meal. It wasn't often that they had home-cooked meals when they lived on the road, but Bobby always strived to put a wholesome meal on the table for them. Sam wondered if the older hunter had any idea of how much they appreciated the gesture and normalcy of it all.
"It's no trouble at all." Bobby replied, and Sam could tell that the older hunter was being 100% honest. Bobby was a great guy, and while Sam was thrilled to have him in their corner, sometimes he felt undeserving. The number of scrapes and situations Bobby had rescued them from since they were young children all the way through now, when they were grown-ass men...Sam wasn't sure if they would have survived certain aspects of their childhood without their surrogate father figure.
Sitting down at the table, Sam laid down the envelope and said, "Dean and I got into an argument earlier. About Dad...me and my inability to give Dean the space he needs..."
"Oh, Sam." Bobby sighed, plating their food before moving to sit across from the youngest Winchester, "I know you two have been through a lot together, but sometimes you just need to give each other the space you need to grieve."
"I know." Sam said quietly, fiddling with the envelope before looking up at Bobby's tired face, "Anyway, he took a crowbar to the trunk of the Impala. It's pretty messed up, it'll have to be replaced." Sam pushed his hair back from his face with one hand and slid the envelope further, "There should be enough here to buy whatever he needs for his trunk. It's my fault that he beat the crap out of it, 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 his mess." Bobby replied, tapping the envelope with his finger. He looked troubled, and Sam looked away, not wanting to even try to decipher what the older man was implying.
To Sam, the situation was pretty cut and dry. He kept pushing Dean, knowing Dean wasn't going to suddenly have a heart-to-heart. Because he wouldn't let the subject drop, Dean took a weapon to his most prized possession. There was no way that this wasn't his fault. Dean couldn't be responsible for those actions when it was Sam who drove him to the breaking point.
"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." Sam insisted. He had to do this, he had to fix what he could, since he couldn't fix the one person he wanted to fix most of all. He had been driving when the accident happened. They were on the road because Dad had beat the crap out of Dean while possessed and Sam hadn't put a bullet into him when he was ordered to do so. Dean almost died because of him. If Dean hadn't been near death, Dad wouldn't have summoned the demon and he'd probably still be alive too. Any way this cake was sliced, it was his fault. He had to own up to that responsibility and take care of business. There wasn't time for Bobby to coddle him and tell him it wasn't his fault, he had to man up and deal with this the way Dad would have wanted him to...if he could only figure out how Dad would have wanted him to deal with this. Coping with his death was not one of the life lessons that John Winchester had been inclined to share with his sons.
"Where are you getting these funds from anyway? You boys win the lottery or something?"
Sam sighed, staring wistfully at the crinkled envelope sitting in front of Bobby. His life was in that envelope. When he had first met Jess, he had started saving up to take her somewhere nice; being a full-time student at an ivy league college left little time for extravagance and his original goal was to save up for a weekend trip. By the time they had a weekend available, he had already known she'd be the woman he'd marry. The savings had transformed into a "ring fund" followed by a "house down payment" fund. He had saved every dime he could spare to add to his savings. His scholarship had provided funds for his tuitions, books, housing and living expenses, so each semester he would put anything not absolutely necessary for life or school into savings, preparing for the day when he could finally pop the question. When the fire occurred, he hadn't quite had enough for a down payment on a house, not even a down payment on a shack with a 3% down loan, but he had acquired enough to show he was well on his way to a picket-fence lifestyle that he had so desperately craved. He had forced the Moore family to take enough to cover her funeral expenses and had set up an account with a local flower shop to keep her gravesite flowers fresh and alive. It had drastically cut down on his funds, but then again they had always been meant for Jess. It worked out perfectly that he still had some left, though, because repairing the Impala hadn't been cheap. Bobby didn't have everything needed so Sam had ordered parts and had them shipped over. Dean hadn't questioned the origin of the supplies and Sam wasn't about to tell him, not when Dean had made a point to reject any help Sam had offered since the accident.
Sam figured he had been lost in his thoughts again, because he was pulled from them by Bobby asking in a completely resigned voice, "What did you do, Sam?"
Sam wanted to laugh, since the question made it sound like Bobby thought he may have robbed a bank or killed a hooker to make off with her night's take. He shook his head, wanting to reassure the older hunter that nothing terrible had taken place, "Nothing, it's just Stanford stuff. 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, thinking of his girlfriend and the life they were now missing out on. He had truly loved her and was looking forward to spending his life with her. Even though it had been over a year since her death, he still missed her terribly every single day. He wished he had been able to propose, to put a down payment on a house, to marry her and have children and raise them to be competent little scholars. Instead, he was sitting in a worn kitchen in Sioux Falls with no father, no girlfriend, a distant brother and an old family friend who was comforting and reminded him of home, but who wasn't his Dad, Jess or Dean. He ran his fingers through his hair, exhausted, and continued, "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, so 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-"
Sam cut him off, not wanting to hear Bobby try and justify his responsibility in the things that had transpired. "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."
Sam fought tears that were threatening to surface, the anxiety in his chest and burning in his eyes warning him that if he didn't reign it in, he was surely to be embarrassed later by falling apart in front of Bobby. There weren't enough words to explain how this was ultimately his fault. He could trace back his guilt to the day he was born. If he had died in the fire, his family would have been happy. If he hadn't left for college, would things be different? If he didn't get back on the road with Dean? If he hadn't constantly butted heads with Dad and followed orders for once? If he had driven a little faster or a little slower, could they have avoided the crash? If he had shot his father, or found a way to exorcise the demon or done anything differently, would they be in this situation right now? Would his dad be with them right now?
"But he'd still be gone. Whether it was the accident or the possession, he'd still be gone."
The words cut like a knife, but Sam still didn't feel like Bobby really understood where he was coming from. Hell, sometimes be barely understood it himself, "It's not the same. 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."
What he wanted to say was 'I wish I could trade places with Dad, because Dean would be better of far away from my and my toxicity', but he knew Bobby wouldn't respond well to that.
"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."
"It is on me. I destroy everyone that loves me." Sam mumbled quietly, staring at the table through damp, red eyes. His mother, Jessica, even his father...he could find evidence to justify his opinion that he had played a large part in their deaths. Dean was right to hate him, Bobby should probably stay away. Just his mere existence was a bad luck omen.
"What was that?"
"It's just…" Sam sighed, trying to group his thoughts and keep his tears at back, 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."
Sam shook his head forcefully; Dean's loss was so much greater than his own. Dean and his father had been closer, they had a better relationship. He had always been at odds with their father, up until the very end. He wasn't a son, he was a giant pain in the ass. Dean had always been the good son, the one who was able to follow directions and look at the end game instead of getting caught up in stupid, unattainable hopes and dreams.
"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." Sam pushed his chair back, suddenly feeling much more exhausted than he had before and unwilling to keep this conversation going before he started to look completely unraveled, "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."
Sam was about to walk out of the room when Dean entered, looking tense and uncomfortable. The expression on his brother's face was enough to drive another spike of pain through Sam's chest, and as soon as Dean excused himself with dinner, Sam started towards the door as well.
"Aren't you going to eat?"
"I'm not really hungry. Sorry, Bobby."
Bobby stood, taking a few steps towards Sam and putting his hands on the younger boy's shoulders, "You boys will get through this. If there's anything I know for certain, it's that you two are unlike any other brothers I've ever met. There's nothing that the two of you can't overcome. Just hang in there until your brother comes around. You don't have to shoulder the blame for this; I know your brother don't blame you."
"Thanks, Bobby." Sam said quietly, not entirely sure that the older man was correct, but not wanting to argue. All he wanted to do was get to his room before the threatening tears reached the surface. Everyone already thought he was the weakest Winchester, he didn't need to proven it by crying like a baby in front of Bobby.
He paused outside of Dean's door, wanting nothing more than to open it and demand his brother return; the brother who always made everything better, the brother who always knew exactly what to do or say to make any situation better. Those days were gone, though, Dean couldn't even stand to breathe the same air as him. He continued walking to the room he'd been staying in and sat on the edge of the bed, his body trembling with emotions he was too afraid to put his finger on. He felt like he was smothering, like the guilt and the sadness and the loss was drowning him and he had no life preserver in sight. The tears that had been threatening erupted and he covered his face with his hands, his entire body shaking as one sob escaped, followed by another, and another until he had no choice but to bury his face into his pillow and give in to the emotions overwhelming his system.
The burst of emotion didn't last long, but it was intense and cathartic. He could imagine that if Dean would allow himself to grieve in the same way, perhaps they'd be able to move forward and begin to heal. He rolled over, looking up at the ceiling as wiped his face, wanting to remove the evidence of his outburst just in case someone came along. It was okay to feel this way and to cry, but it wasn't something he was comfortable doing in front of Dean or Bobby, it was something private that didn't need an audience. The days of crying on the shoulders of those older than him were long gone and he had no plans to revisit them at any point.
He heard a thud coming from Dean's room and he turned his head towards the wall, listening to make sure nothing was wrong. Aside from the time he was at Stanford, he and Dean rarely weren't in the same bedroom. It had been lonely and quiet having a separate living space from his brother and he didn't particularly care for it. He could imagine Dean moving around the room they typically shared, and if he had to guess, he'd say his brother had bumped into the dresser. Hearing another thud, though, had him concerned, especially since he was accustomed to hearing a colorful string of words after bumping into something that hadn't quite come to be.
Sam walked to Dean's room, hesitating as he reached up to knock. He didn't want to invade Dean's space, but there was a small part of him that worried about his brother somehow winding up in the same state he had been in the hospital before he was healed of his injuries. There was no answer to his knock, so he pushed the door open, fully expecting Dean to shout at him for the intrusion. What he didn't expect to see was Dean hyperventilating in the throes of a panic attack. He wasn't surprised; eventually the pain and stress of their father's death would have to make its way out in some way, shape or form. He had expected it to be fits of alcohol-infused rage, but considering they hadn't gone through something this large-scale since Dean was 4 years old, there was no way of knowing how it would finally manifest itself.
"Dean?"
Dean struggled to catch his breath and swayed, causing Sam to leap over one bed to get to his brother's side. He grabbed Dean by the arms, instructing, "Dean, breathe. You're okay, just calm down and try to breathe."
His words fell on deaf ears as Dean tried to pull away. Sam refused to let go, though, thinking it was very possible that if he let go right now, Dean wouldn't be able to support his own weight. Instead, he pulled Dean in for a tight embrace, holding tighter the more Dean tried to pull back.
"In and out, Dean. Just breathe. It's going to be okay, I promise. I've got you, man, it's okay. Just breathe in when I do, then breathe out. You're okay." He felt Dean relax just the slightest amount, and took it as a sign that his words were working, so he continued, "Just breathe, Dean. In and out. Try to copy me, okay? You're okay...you're having a panic attack, but you're okay. Can you hear me?"
Dean stopped fighting and immediately went limp, causing Sam to increase his grip in an effort not to have both of them fall. He half-led, half-dragged Dean to the nearby bed while continuing to soothe to the best of his ability. At least Dean wasn't fighting him anymore; now they could work on getting his older brother calm and settled.
Dean was murmuring into Sam's shirt, but Sam could only catch a few words, two being 'heart attack'. With a slight smile, he replied, "No, you aren't having a heart attack. It's just a panic attack, you just need to breathe. Can you breathe? In and out, come on Dean, if you don't breathe you're going to pass out."
For several minutes they sat completely still, Dean slowly calming while Sam continued to gently try and keep his brother grounded and breathing. After a few minutes, Dean groaned, "I think I'm going to puke. I'm so lightheaded. Do I have a head injury?"
Sam didn't let his brother go, trusting that Dean would, in fact, not puke on him. Even if he did, it would probably be forgiven because at least now Dean was starting to seem calm and coherent enough to understand what was going on.
"No, just a panic attack, I promise. It's getting better. Can you feel it? You're breathing better. Just focus on breathing for a few minutes, okay?" Sam instructed, wondering if this is what it felt like to be the big brother. It was so rare that Dean needed his help, and even more rare still that Dean would accept his help. It was a testament to how bad this was that his brother hadn't pulled away and closed himself off yet. Sam couldn't deny that being in this situation was making him nervous and worried; it was so unlike Dean to be out of control, but he also felt an emotion that felt suspiciously like pride welling in his chest; he was getting to help his brother when Dean had needed him and it felt damn good.
"It's so hot in here. I'm suffocating." Dean moaned, and Sam frowned deeply. If anything, Dean was cold and clammy to the touch, even though his brother was clearly sweating. He could only assume it was a result of the panic attack, and told Dean as much, not really knowing how much Dean was understanding and processing, but knowing that sitting here in an awkward silence would be counterproductive. He continued to murmur soothingly to his brother, encouraging him to breathe, trying to get him to lay down and sleep the rest of this off. He wasn't sure if sleep would help, but he knew from experience that freaking out was exhausting and figured it wouldn't hurt to have Dean escape the conscious world for awhile.
He was floored when Dean asked him to stay. Not quite sure if he could trust his ears or if his brother was lucid enough to know what he was saying, he asked, "You sure?"
Dean's response was instant, his breathing speeding up again and his body twisting slightly like he was unable to get comfortable and starting to panic again. Quickly, to prevent any escalation, Sam agreed, "I'll stay. I promise, I'll stay right here."
Sam couldn't deny that he was more than willing, he'd even go as far as to call it excited, to stay by his brother's side. It had felt like ages since Dean wanted him around and he was so tired of feeling alone and helpless. He made himself comfortable next to Dean, his eyes instantly growing heavy. Sleep had not been in his friend since the accident and being isolated had not helped in the least. Dean's breathing evened out nearly instantly as the older man fell into an exhausted slumber. Sam was only able to resist a few more minutes before drifting off as well. Things always felt better, right, when they were together and not apart. For the first time in weeks, Sam was starting to feel like maybe they'd make it through this, maybe they'd be alright even without Dad, without the Colt, without any leads. They were brothers, Winchester brothers, and there was nothing they couldn't handle as long as they worked together.
