Author:Mirrordance
Title: Talk Me Down
Summary:If he was the one I called last night,I might already be dead.I can't put that together with this guy who was on my right side all these can't possibly be the same had just left for Stanford and cut off his ties, and Dean is running himself to the ground.
Note: Thanks to all who read and especially all who reviewe Chapter 1! I wrote down some notes and replies to some concerns on the reviews on my Afterword at the end of the fic, so if you wanna get a look at the, as they say, the method of the madness (including character notes, some story quirks you may or may not have noticed, where the title of the fic came from, et cetera, please read through it :) Anyway, without further ado, Talk Me Down:
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Talk Me Down
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Chapter Two
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Dean next woke up to the cartoonish-voice of a man from a warbling radio, asking for the description of the patient's situation.
"Has called complaining of a severe, debilitating headache," came the response. Nice voice, calm, level, assuring. "Ongoing for at least the last twenty-four hours. Patient is male, mid-twenties max, exhibiting signs of shock, elevated pressure. No obvious injury. Found him unconscious and unres-- oh wait, hang on, he seems to be coming around."
Dean squinted his eyes open, to find that the man looked like the voice.
What?
Never mind.
Dean shut his eyes again at the assault of light. Damn things were burning out his sockets--
"Hey, hey," the paramedic said, "You can close 'em, sure, but stay with me, all right? I need to ask you some questions. I know your head hurts, but do you hurt anywhere else?"
"Stomach," Dean admitted, voice a rasp as he caught his breath. His head was going to explode, and he needed to hold it to keep it together, didn't they understand that? Why the hell were they pushing his arms back? He needed his hands...
"Did you injure yourself earlier today or in the last few days?" the paramedic asked, "A fall? Hit something? Anything to do with your head, your neck or back?"
"No," Dean writhed, trying to jerk his arms free, "I need... need m' hands--"
"Just relax, Dean," the man said, making Dean freeze, and belatedly realize he must have been out of his mind sick when he had called for an ambulance and gave them his real name, "We're trying to help you."
They were loosening his clothes, and while it was making it easier to breathe, he was embarrassed as hell too. He felt like a turkey dinner free-for-all. But first things first. Fix the head, and everything else he could deal with.
"No injury," Dean replied, gulping, as he tried to loosen up and let them help him. Hell, someone had to, right?
"Did you take anything?" the man asked neutrally, "And you have to be honest with me, because we need to know everything so that we can help you--"
"No drugs," Dean drawled with a groaning chuckle, because it was still kind of funny, "No alcohol. Not even aspirin. If only. I fucking wish. Shoulda had 'em all."
"All right," the man said, laughing lightly, "Have you ever had this before?"
"Never... never this bad..."
"No history of neurological illnesses?" the man asked, "You or your family?"
"Does crazy count?" Dean asked, and gasped and cried out when his stomach spasmed again. He choked and gagged, and was mercifully turned on his side. He felt someone rubbing his back, and he just breathed and focused on that. Hands of strangers, but whatever. Beggars couldn't be choosers and he had no one else, didn't he? No one and nothing else, no strength, not even pride, nothing...
"No visible injury," the man reported to his radio again, as Dean tried to regain control of his breathing, to stay alert, "Claims no use of illegal substances, no signs of drug paraphernalia in the vicinity... No history of similar illness. Just a really sick kid here. He's responsive, decent sense of humor, but he's drifting in and out. I don't wanna give him anything until we see some tests... he's stable, but in a lot of pain..." he turned back to Dean, "Anyone we can call for you?"
Dean took a deep breath and shook his head.
Just a really sick kid, he thought, initially indignantly, except he was hurting on the damn floor and being held by hands he didn't know or care to know, as long as they lent some relief.
Just a sick kid, he thought, Yeah, I get that. I can second that.
He hasn't felt like a kid since Sammy was shoved into his arms in a burning house. He hasn't been a kid in a long, long time. But these strangers were loosening his clothes and rubbing his back, touching him, looking out for him. Laughing at his lame-ass jokes, even. He hasn't let go like this in such a long time, just... just let go. No need to stay half awake, one eye open, ears attuned, body tensed and battle-ready.
He let himself be helped for the first time in a long time (let might be too strong a word, since technically, this damned failing body wasn't giving him any choice), and embarrassing as hell as it was, there was some relief to it too. He found his entire body loosening up, because he was tired and discarded, and he was never one to do things halfway anyway. He'd stopped floundering like a dying fish. He was just... mercifully, and finally sinking.
"Dean, you still with me...?" came the paramedic's voice, still-level but sounding more worried now, and sounding far, sounding like it was coming from underwater.
Sure I am, Dean thought, Or at least... you're the closest I have to being around anybody lately, mister. Whoever the hell you are.
It was an odd sensation, like falling in one's sleep, the sudden, jerky feeling of consciousness being shaken free of the body. His mind fled a second after his entire body loosened to completely limp.
"Hey, hey..." the voice called again.
Dean didn't bother responding. Yeah, they got him covered. Whoever the hell they were. He felt like someone was truly and openly looking after him, for the first time in a long time.
He 'let' them.
Beggars can't be choosers after all.
If you had a son who had the uncanny habit of answering at the first ring, countless missed calls in the span of over thirty-six hours was damned near devastating.
But John Winchester was never a quitter. He called some contacts up where Dean told Bobby he was headed, and was told beyond a shadow of a doubt that his son and his sleek black car were not spotted, and that the hunt would be handled by someone else.
He didn't know if he was supposed to be relieved. If Dean didn't go there, where the hell was he?
John drove in the direction of Bobby Singer's house. He could consider that as Dean's origin and work outward from there, giving him a respectable search radius.
He called Dean's number every few hours, was on the road with a hot cup of caffeine (it was decidedly not coffee), expecting his call to go straight to voice mail like all the other calls did, except Dean picked up at the first ring this time, and he sputtered the damn drink all over his damn clothes and he cussed and nursed his truck into the shoulder of the road.
"Dad, you okay?" came the usual urgent question, and John felt half of all his hair turn white in aggravation, and the rest just fall off.
"Dean, where the hell are you?!" John exclaimed.
"Came from Bobby's," Dean replied, and his voice sounded scratchy, like he had just woken up, "On my way to a hunt."
"Don't lie to me," John warned.
"It's technically true..." his eldest murmured. It was all semantics. What a wise-ass. No wonder his kid brother wanted to be a lawyer.
"That hunt you told Bobby about?" John barked, "If that's where you're headed, don't bother, it's taken care of."
"Oh, good," Dean breathed, "That's good."
John's eyes crossed in irritation. Dean sounded... loopy. Drunk? He wouldn't be surprised. Dean had gone home drunk the night he brought Sam to the bus station bound for California. He's dealt with misery and celebration equally with a bottle after all. But it didn't feel right, not this time, not lately.
Father and son fell to an awkward, conversational lull. Dean didn't sound like he minded at any rate, barely seemed aware of it, was even humming one of those songs he blasts in his car. Maybe the awkwardness was all from John, because everything suddenly seemed louder and more acute. He even heard some activity from Dean's end.
Sir, I'm sorry you can't use that here, said a woman with a calm, studied, modulated voice. John knew voices like that. Voices like that belonged to mothers with sick kids, nuns, kindergarten teachers and nurses.
"Dean where the hell are you?" he asked, mouth dry.
A thoughtful, weighty pause.
"Dean--"
"Sackrey General," came the clipped reply, "A couple of hours out from Bobby's. Don't call Sam."
John's eyes almost popped from his head. "How bad is it?!"
Because in Dean's book, his younger brother could be bothered about anything, anything at all but the serious things. Dean with a mild injury and Sam was affectionately bullied into random service designed to make Sam feel useful and better, annoy him to distraction from the worry – get me this, get me that, brat. Dean with his gut torn open by a monster or other and the mantra was don't let him see, don't let him see...
"I'm fine," Dean said breezily, and his tone was deceptively light, his chuckle a low, rumble, "I'm fine, dad, I don't even need you here. I think I can even bust out of here in a couple of hours. I panicked, and I just feel ridiculous now."
"What the hell happened?" John demanded.
"Long story."
"Try."
"Dad," and suddenly he sounded truly weary, and quite embarrassed, "No bleeding, no holes, no cuts, no stabs, no broken bones, no poison, no fever, no injury. Fair enough? I'm just kinda off my game. Had a bad sandw-- oh no wait, scratch that."
"What?!" John asked, confused.
"Bobby's gonna ring my neck," he murmured, "Yeah, I was lying about that last part, scratch that. The food was actually pretty good, it's not his fault."
"Dean," John said, in a warning tone.
"Bottom-line," Dean declared, "I'm good, and I'm almost out of here."
"I'm headed there," John told him, "Don't go anywhere, and that's an order."
John called Bobby, just to tell him everything was all right... more or less. He owed Bobby that much at least. Dean was found, Dean was conscious, everything else they could live with.
"Where'd you find him?" Bobby asked, "And I am gonna give him an earful as soon as he picks up his goddamn phone."
And there's the rub.
"Hospital," John grumbled, and added over Bobby's curses - the man could curse in three languages, at least, and damn but he had a dirty mouth on him when he was pissed - "He's pussy-footing around about how or why, but he sounded all right."
"Where?" Bobby asked.
"You can probably get there sooner than I can," John said, "But I ain't letting you go there before I do 'cos I wanna get to him alive, Bobby. You can come on down after I talk to him if you want."
"He's your son, so it's your call," Bobby grunted after a telling pause, and John, feeling his disappointment and disapproval, wondered what that was about for a beat, before disregarding it, "Just leave some pieces for me. I wanna get my hands around his scrawny neck."
John forgot to ask Dean about which name he had used, but a buxom-blond nurse spotted him right off, and led him to his son.
"Just like you said," she announced with a beaming smile as she ushered him into Dean's room with a flourish, "I found you the man who walks in with the sourest scowl I'll ever see in my life."
"Thanks, Lennie," he told her with a small smile, though his eyes were already drifting to his father's even before she replied.
"Anytime," she said, leaving the two of them alone. There were two other beds in the room, both unoccupied. It was a quiet hospital in a small town.
John narrowed his eyes at Dean in speculation. He had forgotten that Bobby called Dean scrawny – something he never thought of before, but seemed especially pronounced now. The thin white t-shirt showed off his bones, bones which sank his skin, skin so sallow it widened and brightened his eyes. There were no machines hooked up to his son, which was a relief. Just an IV on his arm and a tube on his nose, the kind that miserably went down to the stomach.
"Explain."
"My head is fucked," Dean said, matter-of-fact, voice and expression flat and dull.
John knew how to play too. "Not good enough, 'cos then there's no difference from when I last saw you. So what's all this?"
Dean appreciated the barb, smiled tightly. "And you were wondering why Sam wanted to be a lawyer, always running that mouth with you."
"I was thinking the same thing about you," John said, smiling grimly too. It was the first time they talked about Sam since he left, without either of them turning sour or angry or closed altogether. John looked at Dean thoughtfully, and then decided that he could wait a few minutes for for a decent explanation. Besides, Dean wasn't likely to give an accurate one anyway. He'd corner his son's doctor later.
John pulled up a chair next to Dean's bed, sank into it gratefully and leaned back, still pensive.
"So what's all this?" John asked, waving his hand at the general picture of his sick son.
"They said it in scientific Latin mumbo-jumbo," Dean replied, "So I forgot half of it. Sounded like a migraine, but I guess the additional Latin stuff just meant it's the bad-mother kind. I thought my head was gonna burst open." He chuckled, raising up his arm, referring to the IV line, "What a dork. At least I get hard-core painkillers. Yummy," and he pointed to the tube on his nose, "And nothing was staying down, so this is food. Better than your cooking, at least."
John snorted at him.
"So how long does this have to go on?" he asked his son.
Dean rubbed his face wearily, "'Til they say enough, I guess. I know I can't wait 'til it's out. I was gonna just pull, but I have a feeling that won't end up so pretty."
"I'll wring your neck if you try," John guaranteed him, "So what else did the doctors say? They did some tests, right? Nothing... nothing I should be uh--"
"I felt like a rat," Dean said, cutting off his father's word-hunting, "Yeah, they poked and prodded and tested. Coulda been an alien abduction. So there's nothing to worry about. No tumors, no bleeds, blah blah blah, random, random - I just got sick, I guess."
"Bobby said you haven't been eating," John said, "Does that have anything to do with this?"
"Partly," Dean admitted, wincing, "I haven't had time to eat much lately, sure. They said I'm stuck here for the migraine-something, some kind of an ulcer, some kind of a deficiency, and, of all things, exhaustion. Exhaustion.I thought that was like, like, a euphemism for rockstars getting wasted or something. Guess it really happens after all. I wish I got wasted instead."
"Bobby said you haven't been sleeping either, haven't been stopping," John said, "So those two jobs... not the only ones you worked since I've been away, I guess."
"Yeah," Dean admitted, "Hey waitaminute, Bobby said all that? He's got a big mouth."
"You owe him," John pointed out, "He's worried."
"I know."
"You know what R and R is for?" John asked.
"I'm not stupid, dad--"
"Not what it stands for, son," John sighed, "What the hell it's for. You gotta breathe, once in awhile. Right? Helps you do the job better. You take control of yer body, or it takes control of you."
"There's always a lesson, right?" Dean asked, voice taking on an edge.
John checked his temper at the tone, just arched an eyebrow instead. "I guess so."
"I'm sorry," Dean said quickly, closing his eyes, "I'm just... yeah. You're right. As always. What the hell is new."
"You just gotta take care of yourself better, son," John said, rubbing the back of his neck, and this was gonna take everything outta him, just everything. But Dean was sick, he was so seldom sick and seldom this bad, and John was pretty sure where all of this was coming from, so he had to ask. He just had to.
"I was thinking of giving Sam a call."
Dean's eyes snapped open, and he shot his father a stricken look. He blinked, and killed it right away. He chuckled low, condescending.
"Sure. Now you do."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," Dean sighed, "Dad, can we just drop this? I'm really not in the mood."
John sure as hell was tempted to. Run away again, tempting, easy. But whatever was on Dean's mind is what got the both of them here, and if they didn't do this now, they were just going to end up back.
"So you got a job lined up for me?" Dean asked.
"Dean," John said, exasperated, "Didn't we just--"
"R and R," Dean said quickly, "Right. Got it. Right. I'm sorry."
"So," John took a deep breath, "You want me to give Sam a call or what?"
"I want you to want to," Dean snapped, "I just don't understand why you had to--" he cut himself off, "No, I do. I'm not... I'm not mad. It was your last card, I understand why you had to. I'm sorry."
"Dean, what are you talking about?" John asked.
"I don't know," Dean admitted, shaking his head, "I don't know. Call him if you want to. Knock yourself out. Good luck."
John just looked at him quietly for a long moment, not knowing what to do or say, really. Dean reached for the remote control of the TV, put it on an old Looney Tunes episode.
"I guess I'm justy kinda sad about it," he said quietly, distractedly, never taking his eyes away from Daffy Duck, "He's so surly," he said, chuckling to himself, before turning pensive again, "You spend 8 hours cooped up in a car together. We've slept on the same bed for years when we were kids. And then suddenly it's just quiet, you know. And the toothpaste lasts longer, and especially the shampoo. And my side keeps getting hit when I work 'cos I can't get used to the idea that no one's covering me there, ever again. And I don't wanna get any better, I don't wanna get used to that, 'cos that means..." he shook his head, eliminating the thought, cos that means he's never coming back.
"I look at food and think there's so much," he said instead, and John was trying to piece together whatever the hell his son was trying to get at, "I'll never be able to finish all of that. Not without my Sasquatch brother. A pizza box, a bucket of chicken, too big, you know. Too much. Sickening. I couldn't imagine all of that in me. It's just wrong, you know. Sickening. Disgusting."
He chuckled again, because Daffy said something funny. "You're despicable," Dean echoed softy, before continuing, "The worst of it part is...He won't pick up my calls. I mean I'm not mad. I get that he wants to live out his life over there. I want him to live his life out there, he deserves it more than anyone. But if one of us gets killed out here, if one of us is really in a bad way and that's what the call was about – and it's always a possibility - doesn't he even give a shit about that? Doesn't he give a shit that you or me, one of us could be hurt or one of us could be dead?
"I know why you had to tell him never to come back," Dean went on, quietly, and his eyes were glazed and glued to the TV, "It was your last card. You said that only 'cos you wanted him around. You didn't think he'd go if cutting us off forever was what it meant. But he did. He went away and now he's not answering my calls so I guess he's sticking to his guns too. And I'm finding it hard to understand that."
He chuckled again, self-deprecating. "If he was the one I called last night, I'd still be there. Worse, I might already be dead. I can't... I can't put that together with... with this guy who was covering my side all these years. This shaggy-haired kid. I can't... can't see how they can possibly be the same guy.
"The only thing I can see," Dean went on, "Is that we gotta keep going, you know? We gotta keep working, we gotta keep hunting, we gotta keep helping people, for all of this to make any sense. Sam wanted out, I get that. But I'm staying, and what we do... someone's gotta keep doing it or else people will die. So we just gotta keep doing it. We gotta not-stop. 'Cos if I stop... then I got nothing else.
"So," he finished, looking at his father, and the wounded look was gone, "You got a job lined up for me, dad?"
John didn't call Sam up right away after catching up to Dean. Dean was looking better, doing great, recovering. It was making John sink back to complacency, after his initial panic. He didn't need to go through the misery of calling Sam, because Dean was okay, Dean was getting over it, as he always gets over everything.
But the day they took out the feeding tube, the day Dean tried to eat and John watched because Dean was embarrassed and eating like he had forgotten how, and John watched as he lost everything he had painstakingly ate just minutes ago, and John watched as he sank into exhausted sleep white and shaking, that day he called Sam.
I look at food and think there's so much, Dean had said, I'll never be able to finish all of that. Not without my Sasquatch brother. Too much. Sickening. I couldn't imagine all of that in me.
Sickening.
Disgusting....
He caught Sam's machine, and was profoundly relieved.
"Sam, it's... it's dad," he had said. He knew that if anything could get Sam's head out of the sand it would be his brother being hurt. Despite whatever Dean thought, he knew this. He knew this beyond a shadow of a doubt.
"I don't know if you're gonna get this, but what the heck. It's Dean. He's sick. He's getting better so don't worry, I got him. I just thought you should know."
Dean was far from a hundred percent, far from eating enough, far from recovered, far from well. But he was better, keeping what little food he had to eat down at any rate, and he knew his body enough to know he'd improve further soon enough. Besides, he knew he just had to check out when the doctors started muttering about a psych consult.
"Maybe it's a good idea, Dean," John said, looking profoundly pained and uneasy.
"Yeah," Dean snorted, "Let someone else sort out your mess again."
The antagonism just spilled out, was uncalled for, and Dean didn't know where the hell it came from. Maybe he just wanted out of the hospital. Maybe he was a little bit insulted by the suggestion. Maybe he was right to begin with, and there were some things John Winchester for all his bravado and tough-guy attitude was damned scared of, and double-damned incapable of handling.
But pain unquestionably streaked across John's weary eyes, and that, Dean could never let go of. He hurriedly said he was sorry. John just let him check out and do whatever he wanted. They both dropped the apparently embarrassing truth.
The two Winchesters called up Bobby and headed over to the Singer yard straight from the hospital, where they were crashing to give Dean some time to get back on his feet.
Winchesters were pretty good with paying back debts, so on the way there, Dean picked up a big bucket of fried chicken from a restaurant near the hospital, and even played it up and put on a bow he had conned from a woman selling flowers in the hospital gift shop to give to Bobby as a peace offering. Bobby only accepted it if Dean ate with him. It was a good trick, and the chicken wasn't half-bad.
Sam called them after apparently just listening to his father's message, and caught them when John, Bobby and Dean were watching another antiquated game show in Singer's living room. Dean snatched up his cellphone from his pocket, looked at the caller ID, and stared at the ringing phone like it was heralding the apocalypse.
"Pick it up, will ya?" John ordered him, pretending not to know who it could be, "Damn sound's annoying me."
"Yeah," Dean said, mouth dry, shuffling to his feet and taking the call outside.
Bobby watched the younger man walk away, and waited for a beat before telling John, "You did good, Winchester."
"What do you mean?"
"I know you and Sam had a falling-out," Bobby said with a shrug, "Picked it up in bits and pieces from Dean. But he needs to hear from his brother. You did good. And he's looking better."
"He tries to keep it low-key but this one could have gone down real bad," John said, wincing, "I talked to his doctor. I had to, 'cos you know how he is. The Dean-version was a bad headache and fatigue. Reality is, as always, more than a little worse."
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing now," John replied, "But the pain was bad. They were giving him serious medication. He still has to take some in the next few days. And while rare, the docs warned me to keep looking out for attacks like that last one. If it gets that bad again and for that long... well let's just say he was lucky he didn't stroke out this round."
"But he's all right?"
"Yeah," John answered, "He just has to watch it. I gotta watch him. The attack could have come from stress, overwork, malnutrition, depression, fatigue..."
"Basically everything plaguing the kid lately," Bobby finished, "Yeah, I get the idea. So what are you planning now?"
"We lie low until he's better," John said, "And... and unless I can't help it, I'm keeping him by me."
"As I live and breathe," gasped Dean, mocking, "It's Sammy Winchester."
"Hey, Dean," came the greeting, and Dean could have sworn he heard the dimples in Sam's cheeks, "You sound good."
"You sound disappointed."
"Ha ha," said Sam, wryly, "Dad said you were sick or something."
Dean's brows rose, "You guys talked?"
"Kind of," Sam said, and Dean heard him wincing too, "He left a message, and I finally got to listen to it."
"So you get messages after all," Dean said, unable to keep the edge from his voice. It hurt, that Sam had heard his messages and ignored them. He masked his anger quickly though, before it turned malignant and ruined the conversation. He didn't want Sam to be running away (even more) from phone conversations too.
"Busy busy, huh?" Dean said flippantly, "It must be crazy starting your life out there. Nailed any coeds yet?"
"No," Sam replied, distractedly, tone turning more serious, "So what, you all right? What happened?"
"Dude, I'm fine," Dean said, "None yet? Sam. Come on. You gotta represent the Winchesters, man. Give some respect to the name. Or just some simple self-respect for that matter. People'd think I never taught you anything and--"
"Dean, you're really scaring me here," Sam said, chuckling nervously.
"You not getting laid for weeks in college," Dean emphasized, "That's scary."
"Dean, no, come on," Sam insisted, "What happened, you all right? I was – am – worried."
It slipped out before he could stop himself:
"Coulda fooled me."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Sam asked.
Dean sighed, and gave Sam the same spiel he gave his father: "Nothing. You want the rundown? No bleeding, no holes, no cuts, no stabs, no broken bones, no poison, no fever, no injury. I was just off my game. Overworked and underpai- oh no wait, unpaid, that is – ended up in the hospital. But I'm good now. And I'll be more careful this time."
"Good," Sam said, quietly, still sounding unconvinced, and undeniably slighted, "I do care," he said, belatedly, so honest and awkward that it made Dean wince.
"I know that--"
"No, Dean," Sam argued, "I do. No jokes, man, all right? You're my brother, of course I do. Just cos I'm here doesn't mean I don't. Just cos I don't answer doesn't mean I don't. It's just that... you're always fine, you know?"
Dean blinked at the statement, and then shook his head in confusion, wondering if he was supposed to be offended.
"You're always fine," Sam said again, voice taking on an edge and a waver, "I mean, you can't not be. You can't not be."
And then the world opens up, doesn't it, Dean thought, miserably. Because apparently, though the end-result was the same – a kid brother not bothering to pick up the phone - the possible reasons behind it were as different as night and day. t was easy to think Sam had just stopped caring about his family. It was harder to realize he cared so much he had convinced himself there was no possibility that they were calling about bad news.
You're always fine.
You can't not be.
Because these things meant that Sam could leave them, and these things meant that he could find his own way out in the world. Because Dean was always fine. Dean didn't need him. The phone call wasn't going to give bad news, because it couldn't possibly be bad news. It just couldn't possibly be.
"I ah..." Dean hesitated, and he hated himself sometimes, just sheer hated himself, and he was going to turn honest again, because it was so easy to be honest over the phone, which gave a guy an easy-out clause. You can be honest, because running away right after it was just at the press of a single button, and when you next see each other face to face, you can even pretend nothing happened.
"I need you to do something for me," Dean said.
"What?"
"Promise me something," Dean replied, "Just... promise me something, all right? If I call, Sam, as much as you can, always answer. Always answer."
"I can't promise that, bro," Sam said with a nervous laugh.
"If you promise you'll always answer," Dean said, pinching at the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes, "I promise I'll never call. Not unless--"
It's my last one. Like, dying-breath-goodbye-phone-call. Because a few days ago, he had a hard time reconciling the image of his loving kid brother with the image of a self-absorbed, indignant, angry college rebel who wouldn't even speak to him.
If one of us gets killed out here, he had told his father, If that's what the call was about, doesn't he even give a shit about that?
If he was the one I called last night, he had gone on, and now he wonders at the magic-happy-drugs that had him yapping and yapping like a girl like that, I'd still be there. Worse, I might already be dead. I can't... I can't put that together with... with this guy who was on my side all these years. This shaggy-haired kid. I can't... can't see how they can possibly be the same guy.
But they were, Dean realized. They were the same guy. Sam was exactly the same. His cares were the same, his love was the same. He was just... a little bit more delusional than usual, just enough to survive out there, away from his family, away from Dean.
Dean could live with that.
But what he wouldn't be able to take though, is one more night like the one when he had been sick, and his only thought of his younger brother was rejection. Because easily, if he was dying and had one call to make, it would go to Sam. It would kill him if his call went to fucking voice mail.
"If you'll always answer," Dean said again, "Then I'll never call."
"You're so weird, Dean," Sam said, but he sounded nervous, and Dean suspected he knew what it meant, "Anyway, I just wanted to call, you know. Just to make sure you're all right."
Dean waited for the promise expectantly.
Sam wasn't biting.
"Well I'm all right," Dean said, wearily, resigning himself to the fact that no promises would be made here, and said more louder, and more steadily, "I'm at Bobby's, with dad too, so I'm good. If that's all you wanted to know, Sammy. I'm all right. I'm fine, bro."
I'm always fine.
"Thanks for calling, Sam," he said, dully. He felt, more than heard Sam taking a breath to say something else. But he wasn't in the mood anymore. He won't be for awhile.
He hung up.
Dean walked back to the living room, and there was something changed about how he looked that struck at Bobby painfully. The call from Sam was supposed to make everything better, wasn't it? But he looked... he looked like something died. Dead eyes, quiet, weary. There was a terrifying steely-resolve beneath it, and at the same time he looked inextricably lonely too. Bobby glanced at John beside him, who was frowning, looking like he was thinking the same thing.
Dean sat back on his place in the couch, stared at the TV none of them were watching by now. He was barely back in the living room when Bobby Singer's cellphone rang.
He looked at the caller ID.
Sam Winchester, it said, and Bobby rolled his eyes up to heaven and wondered what the hell he had ever done to deserve all this. He grunted a half-assed excuse and stepped out the way Dean had gone just minutes before.
"Hello, Sam," Bobby greeted, voice low, "I think I know what this is about."
"How is he, really?" Sam asked, "'Cos I can--"
"What?" Bobby snapped, "Go over here? Get your head outta your ass, Sam. You wouldn't, not really."
"Bobby," Sam breathed, and Bobby wanted to kick himself. He didn't understand, what was making him so angry. Sam had a right to branch out. Dean had a right to be sad about it. John did whatever the hell he wanted. So everything was where it was supposed to be. What the hell was his problem?
"Sorry, kid," Bobby said at once, "Been hanging around your old man. Translation: it's been a long day."
"I don't," Sam stammered, ignoring the redemptive humor, "I don't understand."
"I don't either," Bobby muttered, before turning more serious, "Sam, Dean's fine, he was just sick for a little while but he'll live through it. You come back and you're gonna light him up, we both know that. But don't you come back if you're just gonna up and leave again, 'cos I get the feeling you'll end up breaking him worse."
"What are you saying?"
"You're a smart kid," Bobby said, "You know what you leaving's cost him, right? You can't not know that. It's cost you too, I'm not blind. And though your father likes to think we all are and hides it, this cost him too."
"It's not my f--" Sam said, indignantly.
"I'm not saying that," Bobby said, quickly, "It doesn't have to be anyone's fault for it to be plain hard, Sam. And it just is. You come back, and it starts up all over again. Now I don't know anything, and maybe it's none of my business. But the way I'm starting to see it..."
"I stay away," Sam said, hoarsely, "Or I have to stay."
"I could be wrong," Bobby said, "But can you think about that? To have to go through one more time, like the last time you left? Someone's gonna break. Maybe Dean, god knows he's already bent out of shape. Maybe you, you're already pulled taut. Maybe your daddy, who's all tired and frayed. I could be wrong, and maybe I don't know anything. I'm not a Winchester, never will be, but you gotta give me this: you boys are as close to family as I can ever get, and I ain't never seen Dean or your old man like this, and I got the feeling I'm not gonna like what I see either when I see you. It's a mess, Sam. I thought... I thought if you just talked to your brother, things can get better. But now I'm seeing... you can come on home and fix this, but when you leave again – and we both know you will- you'll shatter what's left. Best to leave bigger pieces behind instead, huh?"
"Is he..." Sam said, voice breaking, caught, and then controlled again, "Is he really fine, Bobby? Is he really fine? Because if he's not, I don't care anymore, I'll go, and if I have to..."
"He's getting better, Sam," Bobby said, "He's figuring out how to do this without you, boy. He's stumbled on this round, but he knows he has to, 'cos you got fires inside you, and you're gonna fly, and he just has to."
"I'll... I'll stay back," Sam said, and he sounded as defeated as Dean looked, "But you gotta look after him, Bobby. And you gotta promise me something."
"What?"
"Anytime he calls you, answer him."
"I always do," Bobby guaranteed.
"And anytime he calls you," Sam said, "Call me."
THE END
November 26, 2008
Afterword
Contents:
I. The Title and the Theme
II. The Characters
A. Dean
B. Sam
C. John
D. Bobby
E. General Character Notes
III. Massive Thanks and Replies
IV. The Next Project
I. The Title and Theme
As you may have noticed, every single scene featured a call or a phone or a radio or a reference to a call or a phone or a radio, or the word "call." Every single scene, because it struck me as an interesting unifying theme, especially since looking back, mobile communication is so integral to the series, haha... I don't think you'll see a series with greater phone usage than Supernatural.
The title came from a line in the brilliant song Cell Phone by Jack's Mannequin. Some of the memorable, high-impact lines are very reflective of the story so if you liked Talk Me Down, give the song a listen and hopefully you'd get what I'm talking about:
I have become increasingly overwhelmed but not discouraged
And soon I'll leave the infirmary feeling well but lacking courage...
...Ring me up on my cellular phone so I know I'm not alone in a world full of vampires
Come on darling talk me down on my cellular phone because I can't get home
I'm a slave to the wires
I've done this before, I will do it more...
...I have become increasingly overwhelmed when out in public
I'm not so patient when they stare
There's a fighter somewhere underneath this skin and bones...
...I have given everything and more
Sometimes convinced I have the world to carry
Everyday is war
And rockets fly from dusk 'til dawn I won't be shaken
And should they take me in the night don't think my signal's fading for you
For you to ring, for you to ring me up on my cellular phone so I know I'm not alone...
There's been some interesting online discourse on what this song means. As a matter of fact there's a number of versions of the lyrics, even. I looked it up because I love the song. From what I can gather though, it seems it's a song about a guy with cancer (with references to vampires as nurses taking blood, the play on words of being patient and a patient, the daily war of surviving, etc.) and his only links to the outside world through a phone. I found that metaphorical for Talk Me Down, where the links they had to each other were supplied by cellphones.
The depiction of Dean in this story is like the guy in the song: 'overwhelmed but not discouraged,''I've done this before, I'll do it more,' a fighter, someone who knows he just has to move forward.
Anyway, point being: if you liked the story, look up the song. The lyrics are great whatever the heck they really mean, and the tone is so wistful and inextricably determined that I just had to write something around it.
II. The Characters
As always, here you will find some notes on potentially debatable characterizations and the rationale for the depiction.
A. Dean
Dean's my superhero, and in Talk Me Down, I was so afraid of writing him out as irrationally dramatic and needy. Needy is not hot, haha. So I was so scared of posting it because it felt like I was treading the too-much line. I mean, what kind of a guy suffers this much and gets physically ill when his kid brother decides to go to college? There had to be a good reason, or better, several.
So, I had him overworked on tough jobs alone. I had him already coming down with something. I harped on his people-leaving-me complex. I added the spin of his father detaching himself, being somewhat equally-damaged and ill-equipped to handle the situation. I had him blabbing out his feelings because he was drugged. And I figured the thing that would make him most depressed would be encased in the teaser summary of this fic: his realization that this brother he loved to pieces maybe didn't care whether he lived or died.
I was so afraid of posting this story because it featured two uncharacteristic Dean traits that might have made him seem unrecognizable: (1) his physical and pyschological brokenness; and (2) his openness about being broken. I hope the above mentioned factors, compounded by everything coming together, justifies these things.
My favorite part in this story is when he tells Sam, 'Promise me you'll always answer, and I promise I'll never call.' It was Dean taking up the big-brother role again, recognizing that Sam's refusal to answer is from vulnerability, as opposed to being from anger or carelessness. At the same time, he needed to make sure that if he ends up dying on the job, Sam will pick up his last phone call too. You can even say the entirety of this fic came down to him saying that line, and I hope that kind of insight is translated.
B. Sam
I can't help it; I think there's a really very human level of self-absorption to younger siblings that is all entirely the fault of their indulgent, older siblings haha. I've always depicted Sam as humanly selfish, which I think is realistic and fair and very interesting. You don't get to see so much of him in this fic but what you do see, I hope, catches that spirit: his desire to go after the things he wants, and the self-delusion that allows him to pursue and sustain it.
The Pilot episode of the series has always been a subject of contention for me. We get the wee-Chester perspective of some considerable brotherly-devotion, and then you have a fairly detached Sam who wouldn't answer phone calls. There's a disconnect that just begs to be filled, I think.
I firmly believe that Sam wouldn't really just leave Dean out in the cold and cut him off completely. There must have been a reason how he found the heart to leave his beloved brother even at the face of danger and not even answer any of his calls, and this fic is another version of what that reason could be.
One Night, an older fic of mine, postulated that he left thinking Dean would be covered by their dad and when he was pushed away by Dean himself so he could have a better future. Talk Me Down proposes that he had convinced himself that Dean would be okay without him, because he was always okay, because for him to be not-okay was simply not possible. The delusion was both a sign of Sam's love and a survival mechanism. I felt he was capable of this because in the Pilot, Sam had been so sure their father was all right too, as if it was impossible for him not to be.
Talk Me Down also puts forward another reason why Sam would stay away: the things Bobby had said, about him coming back and breaking them worse. I remember doing outreach a couple of years ago, spending time with a bunch of disadvantaged kids. One of the first things we were told at orientation was to be consistent in our visits. If you're going to be flaky, or in-and-out as you pleased, it confused the kids and hurt them, so you're better off not going at all. I also remember Psych classes, which have shown studies on mice and gamblers how random stimulants are the most behavior-reinforcing: basically, if you never know when you're going to get a reward, you'll do an action more frequently. The rationale for Sam staying away could also be both these things. If he comes back and goes away again, and comes and goes sporadically at whim, it would be confusing and hurtful to the people he will keep leaving behind. And if he comes and goes at random, they would be more hopeful and constantly disappointed. So he steps back. Bobby's metaphor of how better it was to leave a relationship in large, broken pieces as opposed to shattered is how I illustrated he could make things worse if he came back and left again.
Still, Dean being sick was a wake-up call of some sort for Sam. When I was writing this story trying to get to the culminating line where Dean asks Sam to promise to always answer the phone and in return he would never call, I thought that would be it, haha, until the ending line just struck me out of nowhere. Sam still cares for his brother a lot, and makes Bobby promise to always answer Dean, and then afterwards always call Sam. It felt like a nice twist, and it felt kind of... warmer, haha. I guess.
C. John
Am I gonna get shot by his portrayal here, haha... As I said, if I feel there are controversial characterizations or quirks that I have to defend, then I bring it up in this section of the notes. I depicted an unabashedly flawed, cowardly version of John here, I think, that some people might find disagreeable.
He pushed away Sam trying to keep him close. He pushed away Dean because he couldn't stand his pain. He loves his wife but all he could think of is revenge. Talk Me Down is a distortion of his love, just it's perverted, wrong-version. Frankly, I find it human that John should want to avoid the after-effects of Sam leaving, which was the culminating illustration of his failure as a father. But at the same time, he loved Dean enough to set things aside and call Sam, or send Dean away if he thinks his son can get in danger, or looks for him when he thinks he's gone.
So I hope it's not too heavy-handed on John, haha. The original Talk Me Down was supposed to be a father-son bonding thing, until it took on a more depressing tone. The old teaser was actually that 'John was on the most important hunt of his life: finding what was left of his eldest son.' Obviously, haha, it didn't quite go that way.
Note, by the way, that the metaphor of an ugly person looking at a mirror all day was actually inspired by a clever line from one of Lois McMaster Bujold's Vorkosigan books. Something about a monster being trailed by a mirror or something like that. I love her works so much that thoughts like that tend to stick, without me being able to cite which specific work the thought had come from.
On a lighter note, I hope you spotted several recurring lines here between the scenes from John's perspective and from Dean's. I wanted them to feel related, with a similar jargon, so I repeated a number of lines that they both said, and pointedly Sam didn't, just to emphasize his distance. Sam doesn't even have a point of perspective in this fic. I do like using the media to convey the message and not just the words, so I hope the feeling of Sam's detachment from this world got through.
D. Bobby
Was he too intrusive here? I think I was on thin ice here too. The lecture at the end felt almost too sanctimonious, but I really felt it needed to be articulated, and I let him say it, because I think he had a right to say things like that, especially if he's the one who has to weather the windfall, haha... seriously, though. In Talk Me Down, my depiction targets an emphasis on the sense of Bobby's inside-out-ness, like he's an extension of the family, sure, but still inextricably outside of it. The position gives him a sharper eye on the situation, I think. And I personally believe that if the Winchesters keep bothering you for favors, you got a right to tell 'em what you think they're doing wrong, haha.
E. General Character Notes
On a more technical note, you may have noticed a lot of series-references in this fic. The idea was to give the quirks in the series a sense of history, and to lend some credibility to the fic by giving it a sense of familiarity to people who have watched the show. Just a few similarities and borrowed scenes and lines from the episodes that you can find in Talk Me Down, just off the top of my head would be:
1. Dean coping with Sam's loss by not eating can be spotted in All Hell Breaks Loose Part 2, as is the bucket of food from Bobby, and the line about Dean needing to eat something;
2. Bobby's 'you can't be too careful' thing is from Lazarus Rising;
3. John's phone call to Sam was right out of Faith;
4. Dean's honesty over the phone is plucked from Scarecrow;
5. A Winchester being 'always fine' enough to be dismissed by Sam is from the Pilot;
Et cetera, I can't remember anything else. I try to do this a lot in my Supernatural fics, just to make them feel more in sync with the series. If they were real people, they would have recurring phrases and quirks after all :)
III. Massive Thanks and Replies
As always, thanks to all who read, favorited, alerted, and especially all who reviewed Talk Me Down: WofOZ, wild-karde, unplugged32, apieceofcake, Aishybashy, adder574, tomash, snchills, iluvsprntrl, Zatnikatel, anjali23sk, Yammy1983, Merisha, Brenny, bluenettle, moira4eku, Meggin Lane, suicidalqueen, SingleMinded, and:
Ster1: I liked that you recognized that John was also impaired in this situation when you mentioned that he was 'barely coping too.' Thank you for that, you're as perceptive as always, and I agree.
Phoebe: I'm just a fan of how you phrase things, I guess, haha. Yup, manic Dean and there's no two ways about that, but especially with how you summed up John in this fic: the idea of him being puzzled and frustrated with Dean is exactly how I wanted it to come out. He's only human after all, and he's tired too.
Jusmine: Ah yes, the migraines, haha... I wish I could say the description didn't come from experience, haha, but there you go. I hope the migraine you got isn't from reading chapter 1, haha, and is long-gone by now. Feel better and thanks for taking the time to read! :)
Mandy: *Hugs back* Thanks for the constant support and encouragement. I wish I was more worthy and I hope this one didn't disappoint!
Kelcor: I hope I didn't offend your John-love here... oh man, I know what you mean, I like depicting him as caring too, I have a history of fics on that, haha, but Talk Me Down is a little more worn-down version of him, fresh off the Sam-leaving-them debacle, so I hope you don't feel the depiction wasn't characteristic!
If I got cross-eyed and missed you, please let me know as all reviewers deserve their due thanks. Thanks, really, for taking the time. I know it's hard, so thanks a bunch. I was initially going to sit on the rest of this fic for a week more, but your reviews were so encouraging and inspiring that I felt, what the heck, it's Thanksgiving, I wasn't expecting more than ten reviews (a fair average for my fics, I think) so when I hit twenty I thought, oh I might as well, since I hate waiting myself :)
I hope it you liked it. Thanks for your time, whether you review or not. Either way, C&C's are as welcome and cherished as always!
IV. The Next Project
Crap, I know I keep posting something else other than what I preview so I figured I might as well just work on the stuff I do owe, and not put anything new down here for now, haha. It's just that when I get excited about an idea, I shift gears. So far, though, I have posted most of my previews, and am still working on One Week, which would be the third part of the One Night – Once More trilogy, and Underworld, whose condensed-drama version From Perdition I posted not too long ago. Please look out for these fics in the next few I dunnos, haha.
'Til the next post!