THE BOX
It had been two weeks since Dean had out-processed and been formally discharged from the Marine Corps.
He'd spent one week pacing back and forth, day and night, within the walls of Sam's apartment before he'd decided he couldn't handle it anymore. Dean would be lying if he had said he didn't see the relief written on Sam's face when he made the announcement that he was leaving.
It had been clear Sam hadn't known what to do with a brother who was still acting as if he was in the middle of a war zone. Dean acting claustrophobic in the small confined space of the apartment. Dean staring out the living room window at the apartment buildings surrounding them. They were apartment buildings with a huge number of windows that he felt compelled to constantly survey. Then there was the sheer amount of people. He couldn't stop looking for anyone out of place in the throngs of college students below. Who didn't belong? Who was concealing something? Where was the threat?
Dean's nightly routine of closing every blind, locking every door, and running patrol checks every twenty minutes was starting to get to his little brother. So, he'd simply told Sam that he needed some time to think, time to figure out what he should be doing, and that he planned to head back to South Dakota.
So here he was again.
Back in South Dakota.
One week into sleeping in the guest bedroom of Bobby Singers house.
He'd found it almost incredible that this was where his little adventure had all began—practically amazed at how he'd come full circle.
Overall, he'd been surviving to the best of his ability since arriving at Bobby's. He really was doing the best he could as someone who felt completely out of place and useless. He'd been sidelined from any hunts the second Bobby had laid eyes on him. "You look like hell and your leg still isn't 100%" Bobby had said that first day. Really, though, Bobby had left him with plenty to do; repairing cars and equipment. It wasn't that any of the things Bobby had asked him to do were important or time pressing, instead they were meant to keep his mind occupied. Dean appreciated the distraction, appreciated Bobby's desire to help by letting him sort through his own mess in the most productive manner he could provide.
Dean knew he was cluster fuck of mess. He was still staying up all night every night staring out windows, waiting… for what, he wasn't sure. An RPG. A firefight. Hell… who fucking knew.
It wasn't that he didn't know he was back home, back in the states. He knew— with absolute certainty—he was in South Dakota. But there was something about the sun setting and the empty darkness surrounding him at night, and Dean would find himself swarmed with relentless memories. More than once a back fire of an engine off the highway had Dean planted face down on the floor screaming "Cover" or "Get Down! Get Down!" It was those memories and automatic reactions that transcended time and place and damn near every night he became convinced he was right back in Iraq… fighting to live another day.
Maybe because of that he was drinking a little more than he should.
Maybe a lot.
Hell, it didn't matter.
He was trying. Trying to come to terms with the images seared in his brain, trying to sort the emotions that were hard wired to them, and that was something… wasn't it?
He'd make it if he just kept trying.
Right?
Shit. Maybe not.
Hell, he didn't know.
What he did know was the alcohol seemed to be working. Drinking all night to stop from being paralyzed by memories. Passing out. Getting up to be as productive as possible before the shit storm in his head started again. Cracking that first beer and repeating.
So maybe to some people he was failing miserably. But to himself, Dean knew he was doing the best he could.
That was, he had been doing the best he could, right up until he'd caught sight of the box.
It was the box of odds and ends that Ben's family had left for him back in the barracks. The box had been sitting in the corner of Bobby's living room since Dean had arrived back in South Dakota, almost forgotten about until the day Dean went searching for a photo album, a specific picture, that he had wanted to share with Bobby. Instead of finding the photo album, Dean had reached inside and pulled out two envelopes with his name printed neatly across them. He'd left those letters on top of the box, avoiding them for two days, before he'd finally decided he should do something about them.
On that seventh night staying with Bobby's he'd grabbed them up, along with a newly purchased bottle of whiskey from downtown. For some reason he'd known the beer wasn't going to cut it tonight. He needed something strong. End of story.
Shaking his head, Dean headed for the living room where he let himself sink into the couch and tossed the letters on the coffee table.
Opening the bottle, he poured himself a double and sat back. The first shot burned the entire way down, so did the second, and by the third Dean had to laugh at himself. He may have been drunk damn near every night over the past week, but it was still a shock just how little alcohol it took to accomplish a good drunk these days.
Seven months of being dry did have a few perks.
Again, he grabbed up the bottle, held it to his lips and took another drink. He was pretty damn sure he was going to regret this the next morning. But for now, this was good, no this was perfect.
He chewed mindlessly on his bottom lip, before he remembered the envelopes laying on the coffee table, there were two.
Well, he thought laughing to himself, there were two, but the more he looked at them, the more it seemed like there were probably four.
He was unmistakably drunk. The kind of drunk that made your head spin, and your eyesight blurry.
Dean made a mental note to stick with the hard shit from this point on, the whiskey wasn't taking near as long as the beer to get the job done.
He smiled to himself. He felt good with a buzz. Or maybe he was trying to feel good?
Whatever.
Glancing at the white envelopes again, he closed his eyes, did he even want to read what was written?
Probably not.
If he picked them up, he was going to ruin the buzz he had going. But then again, if he didn't open them now, he wasn't sure he ever would. Scrubbing a hand over his face he reached out, grabbed carelessly for the letters on coffee table, snagging them up before they slid to the floor. Stretching out across the well-worn couch, propped up against the arm, Dean sighed and took a long swig from the glass bottle in his hand.
Now or never.
Tearing open the first envelope Dean watched several photos fall onto his lap, he recognized several of them immediately, they had all been on Ben's wall before their deployment. Pictures from promotion parties, nights at the club; memories that were good, fun, a far cry from the past few months. He picked each of them up, studying the faces before him. There was a short note scrawled out in meticulous cursive writing from Mrs. Hanson, Ben's mother. Dean took a deep breath as he began reading it, feeling the overwhelming sense of grief and pride that Ben's family had had for him. Words reached out to him telling him he was always welcome to stop by if he was ever in Iowa. That the box they had left behind was meant for him; that they wanted Dean to keep Ben's memory alive and to remember the good times that had been had. Dean sighed as he read the last paragraph, 'Ben spoke so often and so fondly of you that you have become an unwitting member of our family Dean. With Ben gone, as well as his stories about you, I almost feel as if I am losing two sons. I do hope I will have the pleasure of meeting you face to face someday. Please take care of yourself and let us know if we can ever do anything for you.'
Grabbing up the second envelope he sunk deeper into the couch and took another drink. Setting the bottle off to the side, he tore open the flap that had been taped together, and lifted the second letter. Almost immediately he felt the rush of air leaving his lungs as he recognized the handwriting scrawled across the sheet. He sat straight up, scrubbing a hand over his face, the buzz was gone—he was sober as hell now.
Hey man,
So if you're reading this, things sure as hell didn't go the way everyone wants. But on the other hand, they went the way I thought they would. Truth is I've been having some pretty screwed up dreams lately. I don't know what the hell is going on, maybe its stress, maybe I've just finally cracked. But here's the thing at this point I'm pretty sure I'm not making it home man—I can just… well I can feel it.
Anyway since its pretty much not something you bring up in normal every day conversation, when you get this letter from my mom, know that even if I'd like to- I can't change what happened and neither can anyone else for that matter (and yes I'm saying that for your benefit because God knows you're beating yourself up about whatever you think you didn't do).
the thing is I've kind of made my peace with it, I'm ready and I'm okay if it really is my time to go. I know you really believe in the supernatural, obviously, you may have even convinced me (I mean hell I'm writing you a letter about my nightmares and my potential death—fucking weird right?). So anyway, I'm gonna do you a solid—when I get where I'm going— I'm gonna find your mom. I know you hate chick-flick moments. That aside, I want you to know you're practically family-essentially my brother; one of the best friends anyone could ask for and your mom should hear about that firsthand.
Promise me that when you get the chance you'll go home Dean. Forget about this war. Take care of your actual brother. Eat some pie. Get laid. Especially get laid, you've been pretty tense lately.
I'll be looking out for you man. Semper fi.
SSgt Hanson (yeah, I still enjoy outranking you bitch)
Ben
The letter fell from his hands, floating to the ground.
Fuck you Ben.
Fuck you.
He couldn't breathe, couldn't stop from shaking.
Picking up the near empty bottle of whiskey, Dean reached back and threw it as hard as he could at the wall, startled by the sound as he watched it shatter, smash to pieces.
It was then he realized he was screaming; the sounds piercing the air were full of anger and pain. There were no words. Clutching his chest, he leaned forward choking on the sheer amount of grief rising. He wanted to get the hell out of the dark living room, but his body wasn't cooperating. Instead he slid to the floor, sitting with his hands wrapped around his head, hearing the sobs escape from his throat.
Fuck you Ben.
Fuck the memories. Those memories, even the good ones, had been hollowed out and filled with anger and rage— hurt and pain. He couldn't do it anymore.
Looking over across the room he spotted it again. Through blurry blood shot eyes he saw that box.
It had to go.
The box of memories had to go.