It's Not Okay
Disclaimer: I don't own anything officially related to Supernatural.
A/N: This is just a little bit of angst that wouldn't get out of my head until I typed it out. I figured if I was gonna type it, someone might want to read it.
oooOOOooo
Dean lay in bed, hands clasped behind his head and staring at the ceiling. He would not sleep tonight. The day had been too hard and too much emotion had been spilled.
His father was dead and Dean had no idea how to deal with that. He pretended to deal with it, but it hurt so much. It was worse than any physical pain he'd ever felt and he didn't think anything would ever feel good again. Sam wasn't handling it any better. Ever since John died (was it really only a couple of weeks ago) he'd been basing all of his decisions on what their father would have wanted. Finally sick it, Dean called him out. That had gone well.
Later, Sam told him he wasn't okay. Not at all. Dean could only look at him. He barely held it together when Sam said that he knew Dean wasn't okay either. Then he'd beaten the hell out of the Impala.
I don't know what to do, Dad. I don't know how to help Sam because I don't know how to help myself. I thought being there for him after Jessica died would be the hardest thing I'd ever have to do – what the hell do I know about losing someone like that? How could I relate to him? But I was wrong. This is much harder. This is harder because … I hurt, too.
I'm the big brother. I'm the protector. I'm the one who makes it all okay for Sammy. Who makes it all okay for me?
You never made it all okay for me.
I saw you, you know? In the hospital? You sat next to my bed as I lay dying and you did nothing. You didn't call anyone for help. Didn't I mean anything to you? Was I just the good little soldier you kept around to protect and take care of Sammy? Is that all I was to you, Sammy's keeper?
God, Dad, I hate you so much right now. You finally tell me you're proud of me and then you fucking die? Oh no, you didn't, did you? You tell me you're proud of me and then you drop that huge bomb on me. Then you die. Son of a bitch!
How am I supposed to deal with that? How am I supposed to help Sammy deal with that? Hell, I don't even want to help Sam right now. I'm numb. When I'm not numb, I hurt. You've never heard me say that, have you? No, because I always kept that to myself. I never let you know how much you hurt me every day. After Mom died, you looked right through me unless you were training me. And I ate that up because that's the only attention I got from you. I'd see you sit with Sammy on your lap after Mom died and I was so jealous. I hated Sam sometimes, too.
You never knew how much any injury hurt because I didn't let you know. I had to be perfect so, once in a while, you'd say, "Good job, Son."
Damnit, Dad. How could you leave me like this? I'm not ready.
I'm not okay, Dad. I'm not okay and I don't know how to be okay because – because I don't think I've been okay since Mom died.
But do you know what's really messed up?
In spite of everything, I miss you.
