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Thanksgiving, Winchester Style or, The Importance of Pie
The Stanford Years: The First, The Wayfarer Inn
It was the first Thanksgiving without Sam, and that was how Dean measured everything now…the first hunt without Sam, the first Halloween without Sam—not that they'd ever really celebrated anyway, the first hospital stay without Sam…it was all strangely new without his brother there to share it, and it left Dean feeling unbearably old.
He watched in resignation as his dad left the room they were sharing, presumably heading out to seek relief from the burden his son's company had become. Dean knew it wore on his father, the way he moped around whenever they had downtime, and supposed that was why his dad had been pushing them so hard, going from hunt to hunt with little to no respite between. Truth be told, he was surprised his dad was still around at all, now that Sam was gone. But even his father couldn't deny that Dean was a valuable asset on the job—focused, steady, lethal. After that first screw-up right after Sam had left, Dean had made sure to be all of those things—even more so than usual. If he could just prove to his dad that he wouldn't let him down again—that he could see the mission through, do his job—then maybe his dad would stay. Wouldn't up and take off on him one day like Sam had done.
So he never protested when John went out, disappearing for long hours at a time, and he never asked to go along. He understood that what his dad needed an escape from was him. And he could live with that—so long as he came back. Dean tried hard not to think of the looming day when his dad might not return, of the growing probability that one day he would just disappear from Dean's life as quickly as his brother had, as quickly as his mom had so many years before. What would he do then? He would have no one. Dean had never prided himself on introspection—avoided it, when possible—but one thing he did know about himself was that he didn't do alone well.
From the window, he watched as the Impala turned out of the lot and pulled away, his eyes dry as bones and throat burning from all the words he hadn't been saying. Words like How could you? and This is your fault! and I just want my brother back…please and Don't leave me. Sometimes he thought the words would build up till he choked on them. But he could never give them voice, because the risk was just too great. His dad was all he had left now, and without him Dean would be all alone. Forgotten, discarded…abandoned.
So he gathered everything he needed to pack and dropped down wearily onto the bed. Out of long habit, he fashioned his clothes into the tight rolls his dad had always insisted on before placing them into his open duffel. He was determined to be ready to go when his dad got back.
John had said they'd leave early in the morning for the next town, next hunt. Didn't have anything yet, but they would. They always found something. It was one of the few constants in Dean's life—the persistence of evil that needed killing. There used to be another constant too, but Dean tried hard not to think about that. Sometimes he thought his head would explode from all the things he didn't think about—Mom dying, Dad constantly taking off, Sam…no, he was not going to go there, even in his thoughts. Wasn't going to pull out his box of memories and wallow in self-pity, however tempting the thought might be. Wasn't going to take out the paper in his wallet and re-read it, reassure himself of his brother's love and affection, like he'd done so many times over the past months. Wasn't going to stare at the photo in there of him and Sam together, laughing—happy—like some emo schoolgirl.
No, Dean Winchester didn't do emo. He would soldier on. It was what he did, and what did it matter if he felt hollowed out inside, if he had to concentrate on dragging himself out of bed every morning, if he had to push himself well beyond his limits so that when he fell into bed at night he wouldn't lie awake, thinking about how silent it was without Sam's nighttime movements and quiet exhalations and how big the room seemed without his ginormous brother taking up all the space in it—no, none of that mattered.
And he sure didn't need to look at some friggin' picture to remind himself of all he'd lost—he saw his brother's face every freakin' day. When the gangly kid at the coffee shop tripped over his own two feet while stacking display boxes…when the gap-toothed toddler in the diner dimpled up at him…when the gas station attendant rolled his eyes at something a customer said…when the kid he rescued looked up at him with trusting hazel eyes…when the professor he interviewed used the word "anthropomorphism" in regular conversation…all Dean could see was Sammy.
They were all Sammy, every last friggin' one of 'em, and yet none of them could give him what he needed. Didn't stop him from seeing Sammy everywhere he turned though, or from hearing his kid brother's voice in his head during a hunt, urging him toward caution and safety and reason. Dean sometimes felt like a man haunted, only the person ghosting him wasn't dead and had chosen to go, leaving nothing behind but some tattered too-small sweatpants, his favorite handgun, and a big brother who suddenly had no one to be a big brother to.
He hadn't heard from Sam in months. Eighty-nine days, to be exact, but who was counting? He knew the kid was okay though—they'd driven out a couple of times already to check Stanford over, make sure Sam was safe and getting settled. Those trips were hard on both of them. Aside from feeling slightly stalkerish, Dean could almost feel his heart ripping as he watched Sam talking with other kids, studying at the library, loping up the steps to the caf. It was beyond painful to be so close to his brother without talking to him. But Sam had made his choice, and Dean had to respect that. And much as it hurt, he also breathed easier after those trips, gut unclenching as he saw with his own eyes that Sammy was okay, living the apple pie life he'd always wanted, normal…happy. In the end, that trumped Dean's desire to drag him home where he belonged.
But he hadn't been able to resist contacting him a couple of times since he'd taken off, hoping against hope that Sam would relent, would rebuild the bridge he'd burned…would give some indication that he missed his big brother as much as Dean missed him.
He'd really hoped Sam would call after getting to school and having a little time to cool off. He'd even called and left him a message, just the once, the night Sam had left for Stanford. He'd deliberately waited until the time difference told him Sam would be asleep, knowing the call would go right to voicemail. It was cowardly maybe, but he hadn't known if his brother would answer the phone if he saw it was Dean calling, and he hadn't wanted to test it. So he'd waited until he was sure Sam would be asleep to leave his message. He'd held his breath for days afterward, hoping it would make Sam see that Dean wasn't their dad, that he didn't need to cut all ties to his family. Hoping beyond hope that Sam would still want to be brothers, would call him back. He hadn't. Sometimes Dean was sure that hope, not the supernatural, would be the death of him.
Dean had told himself that would be it. Sam knew his number, knew how to reach him if he needed to, and clearly the kid didn't want to be bothered with any reminders of the life he'd left behind. But as the holiday approached, Dean hadn't been able to stop himself from reaching out one more time. He knew Sam would likely spend Thanksgiving surrounded by his college buddies, chowing down on all the traditional holiday dishes—his first normal Thanksgiving. Kid would be in heaven—watching football, stuffing his face, doing whatever it was college geekboys did in their spare time. And even though it hurt that Sam wouldn't be there with him and Dad, Dean could take comfort in the fact that he would be happy. He sure wouldn't be sitting around moping because he missed his pain-in-the-butt brother.
But he hadn't been able to resist contacting him, just the same. So he'd sent him a piece of the pie they'd gotten after the Georgia poltergeist gig. Pecan pie was Sammy's favorite and the old lady had been so eager to do something for them after they'd saved her that Dean hadn't had the heart to turn it down. He'd managed to choke down a couple of bites for her anxious eyes and make appropriate sounds of delight so her feelings wouldn't be hurt. He'd even managed to keep it down until he'd gotten out onto the old country road leading away from her house and had to pull the car over to be sick. He'd been glad he was out of sight of the house by then—how could he have explained that the pie was good, it was the memories that choked?
Later that night, he'd boxed up a piece of the pie to send to Sam and had taken the rest down to the shaggy-haired night clerk at the motel they'd been staying in. He'd known he wasn't going to be eating any pie this Thanksgiving—the very thought of pie made his stomach hurt. But he'd wanted to make sure Sam had some; that Sam knew his brother was thinking of him.
He'd even sent a note with the pie, another overture, hoping this one would elicit some kind of response. He'd torn a page from his journal to scribble it on while standing in line at the post office—he rarely used protection charms anymore anyway. What was the point? There was no one left to protect—his dad could take care of himself.
So Dean sat all by himself on Thanksgiving, getting ready for another hunt in another anonymous town where no one would know him or miss him when he moved on. This was his life now. Empty motel rooms, a mostly-absent father, a too-silent phone. Alone. He was always alone. Even when his dad was there, he was mostly by himself. It left him feeling unbalanced, disoriented. He was like a man who'd turned to find that his shadow—faithful, dependable, always at his back—was gone. Forever and inexplicably gone. It left him feeling strangely adrift, without anchor in a turbulent world…vulnerable.
Duffel packed, Dean sat looking at his cell phone for a long time, overcome with the need to hear his little brother's voice. It felt like if he didn't hear it now, on Thanksgiving, it would sever some final tie; would be the loss of something he couldn't imagine living without, even though he cursed his weakness for needing it. But it was Sam. So he eyed the speed dial button he'd been playing with for the last few days—letting his finger linger a little longer on it each time, apply a little more pressure, testing…testing to see how it would feel to call. This night he hit it quickly, before he could lose his nerve or change his mind. And then listened, nervous like he never was before a hunt, waiting as the phone rang and rang and rang.
Finally it went to voicemail, and at the sound of his brother's voice there was an almost painful rush of relief, like he was coming home after a long hard hunt that he hadn't been sure he'd survive. An intense pressure built behind his eyes until they began to sting and burn, as if he'd eaten something too spicy or gotten too near a fire. He didn't dare leave a message because he knew his voice wouldn't come out right, so he listened for long moments, savoring the rhythm of his brother's words, before he gently hung up the phone. He sat holding it in his hand, replaying the message in his mind over and over, listening intently for any sound that Sam wasn't out there happy, healthy, living the life he'd always dreamed of. There wasn't any, so he put his phone away, scrubbed his face with one hand, and pulled out the weapons duffel. Everything needed to be cleaned before they left for the next hunt, and there was no time like the present.
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That first Thanksgiving without Sam, John made an effort. He was a hunter, a trained observer, and it sure hadn't escaped his notice that his oldest son had been a bit…off…the past couple of months, since Sam had walked out. They both knew he wasn't coming back. Dean had gotten worse as the holiday approached, though he never said anything—just got more and more morose, glancing at his cell phone more often, looking hopeful every time it rang and defeated every time he hung up.
It was more than John could bear, so he'd taken to finding them more and more jobs, hoping to give Dean something to focus on that would keep him from thinking so much. Working a job, Dean was determined, purposeful, solid, and John could fool himself into thinking his boy was okay. That first hunt after Sam had left had been bad—very bad and nearly disastrous—but after that Dean had pulled himself together, and now he attacked each hunt as if it might be his last. Granted, he was a little more reckless than usual, and his single-minded intensity and determination to save everyone he encountered made John's heart ache and left him weary to the bone. But the aftermath of the hunt—the downtime—was so much worse. John had started going out for hours at a time, unable to bear the oppressive weight of Dean's grief and silence any longer. Dean was paying the price for John's mistake and he hated himself for that as much as anything. But he didn't know how to help either of them, and he couldn't stand to see his boy drowning and lost, so he did what he did best—he focused on the hunt, on keeping them all alive, and told himself that it would all be over soon, that this would be the year they caught up to Mary's killer.
But sometimes he felt like he was drowning himself, trapped in a storm of emotions he wasn't equipped to deal with. The guilt and regret were suffocating, because he knew this whole situation was his own fault. He'd panicked at the idea of Sammy leaving, scared out of his mind at the idea of his baby boy out there alone in the world—vulnerable, defenseless—and he'd let his fear push him into intimidation and ultimatums that he should've known would never work. Sam was his son, after all, and just as stubborn and unwilling to be intimidated as John himself. But what was done was done, and there was no undoing it. Sam had left for the life he wanted, forcing his family to carry on without him, and however much it hurt, however much John missed his youngest son, however much he might wish he could redo that day, he knew it wasn't possible, so he didn't bother to try.
But Dean…Dean had already lost so much, and his behavior since Sam had left reminded John uneasily of those first few months after Mary had passed. Dean was too quiet and he barely ate and his eyes held too much loss for John to fool himself that Sam might grow out of this, might come back to them. Dean was in mourning. And John felt helpless to comfort him, and angry at Sam for deserting, and disgusted with himself for pushing, and betrayed that his son could cut them out of his life so easily, and furious that Sam just couldn't do what he was told, and achingly regretful at the way he'd handled things, and devastated as his small family seemed to dwindle even further, and a little scared that he was going to lose Dean too if he didn't snap out of this funk he was in.
So, much as John hated to celebrate Thanksgiving, he found he couldn't turn a blind eye to his son's pain today, couldn't pretend everything was okay. Not today. Dean rarely asked for anything for himself, and John was powerless to give him the one thing he really wanted—his brother back—but the Thanksgiving thing? That he could manage.
He cut his night of pool sharking short, just playing long enough to get them funds to move on to the next town, and headed back early to the motel. On the way, he made a point to stop by the mini-mart down the street and pick up some frozen turkey pot pies. It was the best he could do on such short notice. He splurged and bought a huge bag of peanut M&M's for dessert.
Dean looked so surprised when he returned with the holiday fare that John felt guilt rise up and gnaw at his gut once more. He determinedly put it behind him and set about making the holiday slightly-less-depressing for his son. He couldn't make up for Sammy not being there, he knew that, but he could show Dean that they were still a family, that he mattered to someone other than just Sam. It was something John didn't show his boy often enough, but he would today.
While the dinners cooked in the microwave, John helped Dean finish cleaning the weapons and re-pack everything in the duffel. They didn't talk much—Dean still didn't seem to have much to say—but he seemed to draw comfort from the familiar task and it soothed the silence between them into one of easy familiarity, instead of the strained silence that exists when there's too much to say and not enough words to say it with.
Later, John watched in satisfaction as his son ate the whole frozen dinner he'd fixed—the most he'd seen him eat in weeks—though John got the distinct feeling Dean was doing it more for him than out of an actual desire for food or pleasure in the taste. Still, it was something.
After dinner, they broke out the peanut M&M's and watched Ernest Goes to Camp on the old TV set in the room. It was a movie that the boys, at least, had seen dozens of times over the years, and John could well remember the huge guffaws that had always accompanied such viewings. He'd never taken the time to sit down and watch it with them, though he'd always meant to. There had always been something more pressing to do, some clue to follow up on, some hunt to research. He wished now that he'd taken the time to do it sooner, when both of his boys had been there to share it with, and worried that it might raise memories for Dean that would just make this day harder than it already was.
But Dean just watched quietly, occasionally tilting his head and smirking—as if hearing an internal dialogue John wasn't privy to—and by the time they reached the part with the exploding toilet, he even gave a small snicker, surprising both of them. John allowed himself a moment of relief. Dean was going to be okay. They both would be. They would get through this the same way they had everything else life had thrown at them—together. John was satisfied that it was the most he could hope for and infinitely more than he deserved.
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In case anyone is wondering, the paper in his wallet that Dean refers to is the one Sammy gives him in my story "Just Like My Big Brother".