Dean
Everywhere he turned, ghosts plagued him. Faded memories and echoing laughs, ordinary objects Dean wouldn't even notice if it weren't for the fact that she'd touched it, left her mark on it, made it glow a little brighter because it had been brushed by her soul.
He couldn't escape it. Not unless he was down half a bottle of whiskey, when his head was foggy enough to make the rest of his body numb. When even Mason's crying didn't startle him out of his stupor. Slowly, so slowly, he fell to the ground on his knees in his room and let himself be consumed by his drunken state. But he was just sober enough to stay angry, all the time, so angry. And a week after the funeral Mason screamed louder still, but it was because he was right outside his door, held in the arms of someone who was trying to quiet him.
"Dean?" It was Sam. He didn't knock, didn't even wait for Dean's answer, just walked right in.
Dean glared at him with bloodshot eyes. He wanted to be alone. No, that wasn't right. He wanted her, but he couldn't have her, so the alternative was sitting on the floor against the bed, cradling the whiskey like he used to cradle his son.
"Dean," Sam repeated, more sternly this time. "You have to snap out of it, man. I—"
"Snap out of it?" Dean growled. "Are you serious right now?"
Sam sighed heavily. His tone softened. "That's not what I meant. Of course you're sad, and that's fine, it's expected. We're all sad, Dean. But the drinking needs to stop. You're never going to come out of this if you don't stop now."
"You don't know what I need. Just go."
"Dean—"
"Go!" Dean threw the whiskey at him, but it hit the wall instead, shattered and spilled all over the floor. Mason, who had just stopped crying, screeched again, buried his face in Sam's shoulder.
Sam shot his brother one last look, somewhere between rage and sympathy, and left.
Nobody came for Dean until the next morning, probably too scared to even check on him. Dean didn't sleep. He only moved when his position was too cramped. His head pounded as he rested it on his propped up knees. He didn't lift it even when someone knocked softly on the door.
"Dean?" Came Cas' rasp.
"I already told Sam to leave me alone," Dean mumbled. He wondered if Cas could even hear him.
The angel opened the door. Mason was asleep in his arms, drooling all over his trench coat. Cas' perpetual frown deepened when he saw what sort of state Dean was in.
"This isn't healthy," Cas said.
Dean grunted.
"You're going to drink yourself to death, or worse, to ambivalence and leave this child as good as an orphan."
"He's better off without me," Dean muttered.
"You don't really mean that," Cas said. "As an orphan yourself, you can't possibly think that's true."
Dean took another swig from his bottle he'd retrieved from under his bed and stared at the shards that still glittered like diamonds at the edge of his room.
Cas sighed, much like Sam had sighed. Mason stirred in his sleep.
"Just come out," Cas said. "You can still sit in silence if that's what you want, but just come out of this room. You shouldn't be alone."
"Everyone seems to think they know what's best for me these days," Dean said, and his voice was dangerous now. "But you're all wrong. I need to be alone right now."
"Not this sort of alone," Cas insisted. "I've seen this behavior from Winchesters before, and it never ends well."
"Dean?" Came another, smaller voice, and Charlie peeked around Cas. She was paler than ever, eyes wide. She looked scared. "You haven't eaten in days. Don't you think—"
"Why can't anyone leave me the hell alone?" Dean all but shouted, but the sharp tone made Charlie flinch, and the numbness had faded enough to make Dean's stomach twinge. She cowered back behind Cas, and her hurried footsteps down the hall weren't quite enough to muffle her sob.
"She wouldn't want this," Cas said quietly.
"Well she's not here."
"You're right. And neither are you."
He didn't bother to close the door after he left and Dean didn't bother to get up to do it. He drained the last of his bottle and fell asleep there, sitting up, his chin almost touching his chest.
#
Dean woke up an hour later, disoriented. He barely made it to the bathroom in time to puke the pitiful contents of his stomach. The bile burned more on the way up than the whiskey had on the way down. His mouth was dry and felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls. The stench of his own breath made him grimace. He shuffled to the kitchen, one hand on the wall for support, in search of a glass of water and something to get rid of his goddamn headache.
Sam was there when he went in, bags almost as puffy and dark as Dean's under his eyes. He held a cup of coffee in one hand and tapped on his laptop with the other. For a second, the two brothers stared at each other as their only way of acknowledgement. Then Sam murmured a, "Hey."
"Hey," Dean croaked. He winced at the throb his head gave.
"You look like hell."
"Speak for yourself."
"I've been up all night with my nephew." Sam yawned in proof, stifling it against the back of his hand. Dean went to the cupboards for what he'd come here for, already anxious to leave. "Charlie has him now."
"Good," Dean said, disinterested.
"He hasn't stopped crying since you locked yourself away."
Dean swallowed a couple pills, drank half the glass. He couldn't tell if any of this was helping. His mind was clearer, which made the pain intensify.
"Dean, we're all worried about you."
"Don't waste your energy. I'm fine," Dean grunted. He emptied the glass, refilled it.
"Bullshit."
Dean didn't respond. Sam shut the lid of his laptop forcefully.
"We're going out today," Sam said. It wasn't an offer, a request, or even a question. This was a demand.
Dean raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"
"You, me, Mason. You're going to hold your son, and I'm going to drive us to the cemetery, and we're going to visit Y/N's grave. End of discussion."
"I don't feel like it."
"This isn't up for debate. You've barely left your room since the funeral. I don't care if you go wearing the same clothes you've worn for a week. I don't care if you don't shower. I don't care if you don't say a single word while we're out. But you need this and Mason needs this and I need you to not hurt yourself more than you're already hurting."
Sam's voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. His eyes were fierce, but they were glassy from unshed tears. Dean set his empty glass in the sink.
"I'll go get Mason," he mumbled.
Sam gave a curt nod. "I'll be in the car."
#
The ride was silent, but neither of the brothers made any attempt to break it. Like Sam had said, he didn't seem to care. The fact that Dean was outside, breathing fresh air, was enough for him. Mason slept soundly in the backseat. The whir of the Impala's wheels on the pavement, of the rumbling engine, had always been one of his favorite lullabies.
The weather was brisk, but Dean welcomed the chill on his hot skin, made even warmer as he carried his son across the grass. Sam stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked slightly ahead to lead the way. Dean was grateful. He'd only been to the gravesite once, during the funeral, and the whole day had been a black blur. He didn't even remember giving the short speech he'd written, what it said, what anyone had said. He only remembered the coffin being lowered slowly, so slowly, into the ground.
Y/N's gravestone was the newest one, sticking out like a beacon calling to Dean. Sam stood aside so Dean could read it, even though he already knew what it said. "Y/N Winchester. Wife, mother, loved by all."
Mason whimpered, as if he could feel his mother's presence, so close yet so out of reach. Dean rocked him gently.
"Shh," he whispered. "It's okay."
Lies, all lies. It wasn't okay. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right, it was not okay. Dean didn't know if he'd ever be okay again. His shoulders slumped forward more than they already had these past weeks. He held his son tight, but the rest of him trembled as the words on Y/N's gravestone blurred.
For the first time in days, he allowed himself to feel.
Dean's breath hitched audibly, and Sam's hand came to rest on his brother's shoulder. The pressure was enough to keep Dean grounded, to keep his grip on Mason firmly enough to comfort him.
"I know," Dean said quietly to Mason when he started to cry again. "I miss her, too."
Mason just sniffled and looked up at Dean with those unfairly bright blue eyes. Flecked with gold. Endless. Mesmerizing.
"You look just like her, buddy." Dean's lips twitched as their eyes stayed locked on each other. "And she would've been the best to you."
Part of him forgot Sam was standing right there and the other part was beyond glad that he was, to keep him steady, keep him standing. Dean said, "I promise I'll be here. I'll do what she would've wanted. Every day. I promise."
Minutes later, maybe hours, Dean took a shaky breath and turned to Sam.
"Let's go home."
Sam nodded. "Okay."
"And maybe—maybe we can eat together. All of us. And talk about her."
"If you want."
"Yeah. I do."
"Then we'll be there."
The drive home was just as silent, but not quite as heavy. Dean watched Mason slip back to sleep in the rearview mirror. He didn't even wake as they stepped back inside the bunker.
The bunker was quiet and dim as it had been for ages, but for the first time in a while, it didn't feel like a waiting room. It didn't feel tense or hopeless. It felt maybe just a little like home.
Sam squeezed Dean's shoulder one more time before going ahead of him. Dean went the opposite direction to his room to lay Mason down in his crib, who had just begun to fuss in his arms.
"Hey, little man, don't cry," Dean said as he bounced him. "It's all right."
Mason only wailed louder. Dean sighed and sat down in the rocking chair with him in another attempt to settle him.
"Hey, Jude," Dean sang softly. Those first two notes already quieted Mason more than anything else had. "Don't make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better."
Mason's eyes drooped and Dean got up hesitantly, started to lay him down in his crib.
"Remember to let her into your heart," Dean whispered. A tear slipped down the side of his nose and landed with a soft splat next to Mason, who stayed sleeping. "And then you can start to make it better."
#
Mason was quiet for a long time after Dean's voice had trailed off. They'd spent hours into the early morning sitting in the semi-darkness. The sun would start to rise soon. Dean thought distantly that it was a good thing Mason didn't have school today.
"I told you it was a long story," Dean said, just to break the silence.
"I'm glad you told me," Mason mumbled. He had the look of someone whose whole world had been opened up. Or turned upside down. Or just shaken enough to make things look a whole lot different.
"Hey." Dean rested a hand on his shoulder, much like Sam had in the cemetery, so many moons ago. "You okay?"
Mason nodded and looked up at his dad with those bright blue eyes that refused to fade even as he grew older. And grew so fast. "Yeah. I'm okay."
Dean sighed heavily, rubbing his face with his free hand. "I feel like I ended all of this on the wrong note. I didn't mean to make it so heavy, it's just—well, it should be heavy. Some things don't come in any other weight."
"No, I get it." But Mason still looked beaten down. More so than he'd ever had when the mention of his mother came up. Dean had always known the large hole Y/N had left in her absence couldn't be filled, not by Jody or Charlie or Sam or Cas or even Dean, no matter how hard all of them tried.
"Son," Dean said, and Mason looked up again. "I'm only telling you this because you should know. She loved you so much, and that makes it all the more harder. But I don't want you to take this to heart and think that you should avoid love at all costs just so you don't hurt anymore. I tried that, and it didn't work."
Mason nodded, his eyes even wider as Dean spoke. They so rarely talked like this, with so much openness and vulnerability.
"Talk about her," Dean said. "Look at pictures, ask me or your Uncle Sam for more stories about her. She can't be here, but you can still learn about her and love her. There's always going to be so much to lose in life, but if you're ever given the choice to fall in love or walk away, I hope you choose to let her get to you. I couldn't ever bear to see the same thing happen to you that it did to me, but I'd feel even more awful if you played it safe. Life can do terrible things, but it can do amazing things, too. And sometimes those things go together. But it's worth it. God, it's always worth it. And I'll never regret falling in love with her or having you or anything that happened to us. Because you were both the best things that ever happened to me."
Mason's eyes shined as he leaned into his dad and wrapped his arms around his neck. Dean squeezed him tight, felt their heartbeats pound in the same rhythm. The rising sun through Mason's windows illuminated the framed picture on the dresser, the one of Dean and Y/N and newborn Mason soon after they came home for the first time as a family of three.
Dean smiled gently. Pictures like that, moments like this, they all made life's terrible things a little easier to handle. And that was all he could ever ask for.
A/N: This is the FINAL INSTALLMENT of Terrible Things. Thank you all so much for sticking it out through this emotional rollercoaster of a ride. I hope you enjoyed it! Reviews are always much appreciated!