Moving On

Chapter 11 - The Edge of the Truth

It's been a horrible few weeks and I can't believe what I've put Sam and Bobby through. At times it was almost as if I was watching myself act out but couldn't stop myself. I've started arguments with Sam that I couldn't handle, leaving Bobby to pick up the pieces when I've had another panic attack or I've heard him laying into Sam about being more careful with me. I hate it. I hate what I've become.

I hate the fact that when I'm on my own I have to constantly fight back the need to panic. I try to fill every spare moment so I don't have time to think. I don't sit down until I'm exhausted and if I can I wait until someone else is in the house. I can't explain the fear and I can't stop it.

I worry about Dad, out there alone, but I've learnt my lesson. He wants nothing more to do with me and as Sam and Bobby want nothing to do with him, we have no common ground.

I have tried to remind Sam of the good thngs Dad did but he refuses to accept them. He either turns it round and says it was me who did it or he lists times Dad failed us. With Bobby backing him up on the subject, I can see little point in persisting with the defence. I know when I'm beaten.

I don't like the content of Sam's dreams. They are times that are better left, things I don't like to remember. The source of enough of my nightmares for me to know that Sam is better of ignorant of them. Instead he dreams continually of my weakness and the ways I couldn't protect him and I fail him again because I can provide no answers, nothing to stop his dreams.

I try to wear myself out in the hope of dreamless sleep but it doesn't last. As soon as exhaustion passes, the dreams start again. Night after night, I wake from sleep, sweating and on the verge of panic. I wake myself on the edge of crying out. I want to check on Sam but I know I can't risk the stairs creaking if I try to climb them. At the moment, neither Bobby nor Sam have realised I'm not just getting up early. Part of me feels that maybe I should mention it to Sam. Part of me feels that maybe I should mention it to Sam. We have promised to hide nothing more from each other in health terms. I don't want to lie to him but I hate him looking at me like I'm about to break. What kind of man have I become?

The stair creaks but I can't even summon the energy to turn and look behind me from where I'm sitting at the kitchen table. I know it's Bobby anyway.

"Thought I might find you here," he says.

"Predictable as ever then, I guess." I don't turn and he remains in the doorway.

"Are you going to give me that?"

"I'm not doing any harm with it." I spin the knife in front of me again.

"I know. You make a mess of my table though and you're the one sanding it and refinishing it."

"What do you want from me, Bobby?"

"I want you to let Sam and I help you?"

"How do you intend to do that?"

"Let's start by you telling me what's bothering you. Why aren't you sleeping?"

I spin the knife again. "You know what they say."

"What do 'they' say, Dean?"

"No rest for the wicked."

"Okay. So now we've got the flippant part over, why aren't you sleeping?"

"Not tired enough, I guess."

"Not tired enough to sleep or not tired enough for it to be dreamless?"

"And you were going to tell us when exactly? I seem to remember hearing about a promise you made to Sam to tell the truth."

"I haven't told any lies." I spin the knife and stop it by putting my hand down on the handle.

"No. But you haven't told the truth either. How long has it been going on?"

"Since the hospital took me off the good stuff."

"Before you got out?"

"Yep."

"Did they know?"

"Guess not."

"So what wakes you up? Dreams?"

"Reality, Bobby. Why do you think he's having dreams of stuff he doesn't remember?"

"We're not talking about Sam, we're talking about you."

"I'm fine."

"I can see that. So you're up at what? Four in the morning just because..."

"Because I'm not tired..." I spin the knife and stop it again.

"Right, I can see that by the bags under your eyes."

"Like I said, I'm fine."

"Then what are you doing with the knife?"

"It helps me." Spin...stop.

"Helps you what?"

"Not think."

"The knife helps you not think. So, what are you not thinking about?"

"Ha ha! Very funny. I'm not thinking remember." Silence falls, I spin the knife and stop it. Spin, stop, spin, stop, spin... All the time Bobby watches.

Spin, stop, spin, stop. I pick the knife up and look down the edge of the blade.

"Dean!" There's a note of warning in his voice.

"It's a good knife," I answer as I run my finger along its side.

"Put it down."

"Well looked after, clean, sharp."

"Dean, stop it!" I place my finger at its tip. His voice is stern although quiet.

"It's a good hunting blade, efficient, cuts clean with little pressure." I draw my finger from the tip along the blade edge up toward the hilt. It leaves the slightest tinge where my skin has broken. Nothing deep.

He slaps it out of my hand and it clatters down on the table. "I told you to stop it. I won't have you messing with knives in my house. You want me to lock them up as if you were a child."

"I'm not doing any harm and I know what I'm doing." I return to the spinning and stopping. "You think I'm stupid."

"I think you're hurting."

"You know what?" I pick the knife up again examining the blade carefully in the light before I continue, "Life... life is like the blade on this knife. Good people get to walk here," I indicate the broad, flat side of the blade. "People like me, we get to walk here." I point at the cutting edge. "All we can hope for is to keep the pressure even, the cuts small and clean."

"No Dean, that's not all you can hope for. What you have to do is ask for help. Friends help turn the blade from that to this." He turns my wrist moving the flat side back to the top.

"It doesn't work like that. Not with me."

"What makes you say that?"

"Look at Sam." I gesture to the flat of the blade. "He was here with Jess, then I showed up and now he's on the edge."

"No Dean. I agree he was here with Jess, but it was her death that dragged him here and it's you who stopped him going over. You put yourself between him and the edge. You protect him."

"Not well enough." I put the knife down on the table quietly. The room is silent as I stare at the blade. I break the silence eventually. "Why do you think he's having dreams of stuff he doesn't remember?" I ask again.

"I don't know."

"Do you think it's my fault?"

"No. Why would I think that?"

"They're all times I failed." I spin the knife again. This time Bobby pushes my hand to the table away from the knife. As the knife slows, he lets go of me and picks it up.

He sits down and sighs. "No they're not, or not the ones he's told me about."

"How many are there?"

"Talk to him, Dean."

"No."

"Why not?"

"How many reasons do you want?"

"Only the good ones."

"Huh! Very funny. You know I got to thinking about something Sam was saying. He was talking about who told me we'd be separated if we were taken into care. Thing is, I was thinking, maybe I was wrong. Maybe it would have been better. Sam would have had a proper family, parents who looked after him, maybe brothers and sisters. A proper school with proper friends, not always being the outsider. I made that decision. I chose to deny him all of that."

"No, you didn't. Your Dad denied him that. There's no guarantee he would have got anything like that through care. He could have been worse off. You did real well. Your Dad should have come through for you both but he didn't.

"He deserved better."

"You both deserved better."

"It was in my power to make sure he got it."

"No, Dean, it wasn't. All you could have ensured was different. He could have had it worse."

"Unlikely. Hunting was no life for him. He's intelligent. He got a full ride to Stanford. He could have had it all. He should have had it all."

"He's not the only intelligent one, Dean. You could have done it too with someone to back you."

"You're wrong there, dude. No qualifications here. Not even smart enough to finish school that was me."

"Dean, I know what happened. Jim told me, so don't pretend you're dumb when circumstances took your opportunity away."

"Circumstances! Opportunity! I dropped out Bobby, no-one made me do it. Dad didn't make me. I did it. I was too chicken to face it."

"No. You had your future, your choices taken away and you chose the only thing left to you. You didn't fight it, you protected Sam from that so he never knew, so he could make his own choices. You couldn't leave him, it was never in your nature to do that and so you left school."

"Coward, that's what I am."

"We could get you those qualifications now. There's an adult ed centre in the town. It would give you something better to think about rather than all this introspection."

"What? So everyone knows what a dumbass I am?"

"No. So everyone knows that despite not getting them at school, you are smart?"

"I... what would... Sam might..."

"Dean. Just think about it okay. I'm not going to say anymore. I'm not going to say anything in front of Sam. You think and when you've made a decision about whether you want to know more you let me know. I know the guy in charge, I can drop you down for a chat one day when Sam's at work. He doesn't need to know until you've made a decision unless you want him to."

"Bobby? If I say no...?"

"Fine. Just make sure you make the decision you want. This is for you."

"It's just... No, it doesn't matter" I can't tell him what I'm really thinking.

"Tell me Dean. I'm not going to judge you, but tell me the truth."

I want the knife back, it gives me something to focus on, something other than Bobby. I clench one fist inside the other and begin to knead it. He pushes my hands to the table for the second time. "Stop it, Dean. It's not worth this. You want it, we sort it. You don't want it, fine, no big deal. It's just a choice and it's not even one you have to make now."

How do I tell him? How can I explain what I'm thinking? How can I tell him and pretend to have any dignity left at all? He and Sam keep talking about the truth; telling the truth Dean, no more lies Dean. I don't exist except within a web of lies. I feel his hand trembling over mine, just seconds before I realise my breath is hitching again. It isn't his hand trembling it's me, I can feel the tremors through my body. I look up at him and know instantly he knows what's happening, hell, he probably knew before me. I try to push away from the table, but he moves his hand from mine to grip one arm, using the other to stop my free arm. "Stop it. Sit still. Dean, just breathe and listen, you'll be fine. Nothing else. Focus on what I'm saying. Now as far as I can work out there are three things that you could be worried about, so I'm going to go through them one by one. The first is that you don't want to do it but don't want to tell me so I'm going to say this, it doesn't matter. If you don't want it, it's fine. The second is what happens if you do it and fail. Again it doesn't matter, give it a shot, you don't stand to lose anything by trying. The third is Sam. I don't think it should matter what Sam thinks but I guess he would probably be all for it. But if that's the problem don't tell him until you've made a decision, we'll call it a surprise. I don't really want lies but if it's a big problem, we won't tell him. Does that sort it?"

I can feel the red flush of embarrassment in my cheeks, I still can't breathe easily although it's not so bad. I push away from the table quicker, this time escaping his grasp. I move to lean by the sink, staring out into the black nothing beyond the window. I can feel my eyes begin to brim. I try staring into the distance unblinking but the feeling just gets worse, so I close my eyes hoping to stop them from overflowing. By the time Bobby's hand settles on my shoulder, it's too late and I know the tears are visible on my cheeks if he looks. "Come on, Dean. Just keep breathing, you can do this. You can control it, don't let it control you. Just breathe."

I try to do what he says. I focus on breathing, on his hand, on the black nothing outside until its okay. The panic hasn't gone, it's still there but it's behind the embarrassment. I wipe my cheeks. "Come and sit down." I don't move. "Dean? It's over, come on." He pushes me towards the chair. "Sit down." I shake my head and grip the back of the chair. "Dean tell me. Maybe we can fix it."

"Can't fix me."

"Give it time, Dean. We're not talking about something that is going to happen immediately. You're getting better, look how you overcame the panic just now."

"You did it." I wish it was me is what I want to shout at him. I wish I could do it. I wish I didn't feel like this.

"No, I was just here. You did the hard bit. Talk to me, Dean. Let me help."

"I don't feel like... me. I want to try... you know the school thing but... I... what if people... I can't... people looking... people thinking I'm... I... it's stupid, I'm stupid."

"No Dean. It's not stupid and nor are you. Not at all. How about I chat to my friend and find out a bit more. Maybe you could do some study here before you need to go to classes. What do you think?"

I can barely nod my agreement without panicking that I'm doing the wrong thing. He adds, "Even once I've spoken to him, you still don't have to do it."

His calm patience helps; he doesn't seem to judge but then we've been in a similar position before. Last time I took refuge here, last time he took me in to protect me from Dad.

"He doesn't want to know me at all, does he? I tried to do what he wanted, but I failed him and now he can't even bear to..."

"Stop! It's not your problem, it's his, Dean. Your Dad is screwed up, has been since your Momma died, maybe before who knows. Any father with an ounce of sense would be proud to have a son like you. If my boy had... if he'd lived... I'd be proud of him if he were like you but I would never have let him face what you've done, not alone and, if it was within my power, not at all!"

"Why...?" I can't finish the question. It isn't fair to ask him.

"Why what Dean?" I shake my head in denial. I won't ask him that. "No? Fine. I think I know what you want to ask. Why didn't I become like your Daddy? Dean, there are two types of hunter. There are the ones like you and me, Caleb and Jim. We hunt because we know what's out there, we know how bad it can be, we don't want other people to go through what we've been through. If you like, we hunt to protect. We know nothing we do is going to bring back what we've lost. Then there are hunters like your Daddy. They hunt just for revenge. They hunt because they want to make something pay for what they've lost, for how they feel. They think if they kill enough it will take away their pain. It doesn't. Nothing but time or your own death will do that. The thing is we gradually replace the pain. Every time we see a family saved, someone else survive, a little piece of our pain is taken away and replaced with a piece of, I don't know what to call it, happiness isn't the right word, contentment maybe, peace, respite. We know that our loved ones can look down and be proud of what we do in their memory. Your momma would be so proud of you Dean, of everything you've achieved, all the ways you've supported Sammy, the people you've saved. Jim and Caleb were proud of you too. They were like me, they'd have been proud to call you son. Your Daddy's a fool for not seeing that."

I don't think he'll ever know how much I want to believe him, how much I want what he's saying to be true. "I'm sorry."

"Come on, Dean. Go and lie down at the least. Rest. Take a book and read but just take it easy. I can see it. You are getting better and you will keep on getting better but you need to rest even if you're not sleeping."