Disclaimer: Neither Supernatural nor its characters belong to me. Supernatural is (c) Eric Kripke and Warner Bros., etc. No infringement intended, no profit made— this story is just for fun.
Spoilers: All of Season one and Season two— specifically "Everybody Loves a Clown" and "Born Under a Bad Sign"
Summary: Dean's physical and emotional boundaries are broken. Sam does his best to hold everything together.
Characters/Pairing: Gen, Sam and Dean, but very "smarmy"
Rating: R for language, horrific imagery and graphic descriptions
Warnings: MAJOR Crack!fic (well, I think it is anyway), hurt!Dean, mpreg, demons, horror, depression, graphic descriptions— think ER on SPN!crack. This story, while mpreg, is not Wincest or slash. Some might consider this to be "pre-wincest" as the brothers have a very close relationship. Read at your own discretion.
A/N: Please read the warnings! Credit must go to Pine tranio, who was the test audience for this fic. Thank you!
o0o00O00o0o
Eviscerated
By Libellule (aka Griselda Jane)
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Emotion rose in his throat and Sam made a strangled noise trying to squash it back down. He couldn't be the strong one anymore. He needed his brother to help him. He needed Dean.
o0o00O00o0o
Chapter Five
Sam sat on the edge of a kitchen chair, his knee bobbing up and down. Nervous energy jittered down to his foot, like the flash of electrical current through a lightning rod. He pulled his hand over his face, letting it rest around his jaw as the situation ran through his mind.
Everything was all messed up, and Sam couldn't quite wrap his brain around it entirely. How had a demon hunt turned into this? Dean had completely unraveled, no more than a pile of threads at Sam's feet. And Sam, who had inadvertently pulled that last strand free, could do nothing but watch as his brother came undone.
Fuck, Sam thought angrily. Why is this happening? He pushed his palms into his eyes, rubbing until red and green shapes swam before them.
The front steps groaned and the screen door creaked open as Jim stepped through into the hallway. Sam shot to his feet, not waiting for the doctor to take off his hat before descending upon him. Jim took one look at his face and said, "What's happened?"
"It's Dean," Sam began. "Something's really wrong with him— He just kind of— shut down." Sam swallowed, trying to force his constricting throat open. "I made it worse," he said, feeling something break loose in his chest.
Hands guided him back into a kitchen chair. Jim said, "Let me check on him," and he disappeared, heading toward the bedroom.
Rooted to his spot, Sam waited. The same anxiety that gripped him when he had first brought Dean to the doctor swallowed him up again. This was Dean, his big brother who always took care of everything (or tried to at any rate). Dean was broken and more hurt than Sam had ever seen him. The past year had been harder on the Winchester boys than any year previous. And the worst thing of all was that now Dean perceived Sam with distrust. He'd actually recoiled away from his touch. There wasn't a time in recent memory when Dean had purposely moved away from him when Sam had sought him out.
Jim reappeared in the kitchen, crossing the small space to Sam's chair.
"How is he?" Sam asked, eyebrows drawn together with worry.
His expression possessed that doctor-patented neutrality as he replied, "Not very responsive."
Scrubbing his hands over his face, then up through his hair, Sam slouched over, shoulders hunched in defeat.
Jim pulled out a chair from the table and sat down next to Sam. "I haven't known Dean for very long, but this behavior is abnormal for him?" Jim asked, his steel blue eyes searching Sam's face for the truth. "He's not usually this lethargic or apathetic towards life? His emotions don't normally go from extreme to extreme?"
"No," Sam said with a frown. "Dean doesn't— deal— well with emotions, but he's never been this erratic before. When he gets angry or upset he can never hold onto it for very long." A slight smile tugged at his lips. "When it comes to me anyway. Sometimes I think he'd forgive me anything."
"Dean's just not himself, is he?" Jim said gently.
Sam fixed Jim with a stare of his own. "What are you trying to tell me, doctor?"
"Physically, he's recovering nicely, but…" Jim's voice trailed.
"But what?" Sam prompted.
"I think he might be suffering from depression," Jim said carefully, watching for the younger Winchester's reaction.
The gears in Sam's head shifted into place. "Like, postpartum depression?" Sam asked.
Jim nodded. "Yes."
Sam blinked, staring at the doctor dumbstruck. The notion just didn't make any sense. Postpartum depression. Dean. Dean was suffering from postpartum depression. All at once understanding and denial encompassed Sam— This is why he's been so profoundly despondent— my brother cannot have postpartum depression—
"Are you serious?" Sam gaped. "He was pregnant for less than a day!"
"That doesn't matter, Sam," Jim said. "His body went through all the stages of pregnancy, and developed all the hormones the demon needed to gestate. While he wasn't expecting a baby out of this, there's still loss— the physical loss and loss of self."
"How serious is this?" Sam asked. He didn't know anyone who had suffered from postpartum depression and didn't know what the repercussions were.
"It's usually a temporary condition, but it can be very serious," Jim said. "It depends on many different factors."
"How does this happen?"
Jim shrugged. "There's no way to know for sure. One theory is that hormones developed during pregnancy drop sharply within hours of the delivery and that this dramatic change causes postpartum depression. The change in levels would be even more dramatic in Dean's case because of how rapidly his body changed."
"Maybe it's an after effect of the demon?" Sam speculated. "How can I know?"
"There's no way to know for sure," Jim said. "It's very possible that demon hormones introduced into his blood stream have caused this depression in him. His body chemistry is probably all out of whack."
"What can we do?" Sam asked.
"I'm not a specialist in this area, but I would suggest counseling or medication or a combination of both."
But Sam was shaking his head before Jim finished his statement. "How would we ever explain to another doctor about these circumstances?" Sam asked. "You know how he is about taking medication— he's stubborn about the smallest pain pill. Dean will never go for psych medication."
"This is a very delicate situation," Jim began. "We need to get him into some sort of treatment right away, even if it's unconventional."
o0o00O00o0o
Time passed by in a haze. With each day Dean grew more despondent and withdrawn while Sam grew more desperate for answers.
There was no internet connection at the ranch and the complete lack of information flow was driving Sam insane. A thousand questions circulated through his mind and he didn't have answers to any of them. Sam took out his frustrations in the barn, splitting and sanding beams of wood for the new porch.
"I got you some books," Jim said from the doorway, startling Sam. He crossed the room and laid a stack of library books on the workbench.
Sam tilted his head to read the titles on the spines. There were four books: Essential C-section Guide, Coping with Surgery, Living with Depression and The Postpartum Husband.
Sam's eyebrows raised on the last one.
"It's not just for husbands, Sam. It's for partners and family members and friends and anyone who's concerned about someone suffering from postpartum depression." Then Jim smiled a little and said, "But definitely don't let Dean see that one."
"Thanks, Jim," Sam said.
"The surgery book is for Dean," Jim said. "I don't know if he'll read it, but it'll be there for him if he wants it."
o0o00O00o0o
The sun felt hot on his back, a layer of heat pocketing between his shirt and skin. When he couldn't stand the heat anymore he rolled over, letting the sun splash the side of his face, black and pink beneath his eyelids.
For an instant, he felt very much like himself, but the ever-present pain in his abdomen grounded his reality. He was disgusted with himself. What would John have said about his eldest son's behavior? Dean Winchester didn't wallow in self-pity, yet here he was, lousy with it. Deep down a part of him felt that maybe he deserved the misery he was in, that maybe all he was feeling was just confirmation of the worthlessness he felt seeping through the cracks in his façade from time to time.
What good are you to anyone? You can't do anything anymore— you're just useless now, a hindrance. Maybe Sam would be better off if you just—
A shrill noise jarred him out of his thoughts. He held still and listened. It was the damned phone again, ringing and ringing and ringing until Dean thought his skull would split.
Someone make it stop, he thought, but there was no end in sight. If Jim or Sam were around, they were not answering the phone. Dean forced himself up, gripping the mattress until the dizziness cleared, and made his way to Jim's office.
He didn't say anything when he picked up the receiver, just listened to the voice at the other end. "Dad?" the voice asked, and then after a pause, "Dean?" it guessed. He recognized the voice— Molly, Jim's daughter. "How are you doing?" she asked.
His first instinct was to lie. He wanted to say just fine, but a shaky breath came out instead. Dean hadn't said a single word in two days.
"Not so good, huh?" Molly asked softly. It was quiet on the line for a long moment—long enough that Dean contemplated hanging up. "A hunter saved my life when I was eight years old," she blurted out suddenly.
It was so unexpected that it took Dean a few seconds to process. "What did you say?" He rasped into the phone, his voice course with disuse.
"It was the single most terrifying thing that's ever happened to me. I was playing in the yard and then suddenly this— monster of teeth and claws and eyes was at my heels—a werewolf, apparently. Turns out that the man my father was treating right in our family kitchen was hunting that creature. He ended up sacrificing his life for mine— a hunter did that for me." She paused as if it was a relief to relay the incident to another. "Is that what you are, Dean, a hunter?" she asked.
When stunned silence was her only answer, she added, "Look, I know you don't know me, but I've been around my fair share of hunters thanks to my Dad. If you ever need to talk about what's happened to you— well, you can talk to me."
How could Dean explain to anyone that the shelf on which his life had always rested had somehow broken? The demon was gone now, but it had broken something inside of Dean, something he never realized could break. His heart felt leaden and he just hurt all over, inside and out.
He felt despair and was shamed by it, ashamed he could feel so despondent. He tried to feel happy, tried to remember what happy felt like. He knew he should feel grateful that he was alive, that he'd survived the surgery, but instead he was lost in a fog of misery. He didn't know why he felt empty and alone, isolated, like he'd never be happy again.
"Dean? Are you still on the line?" she asked.
"Yeah," he mumbled.
"My number is in the rolodex by the phone, under Molly," she said. "Don't hesitate to call me."
o0o00O00o0o
Thumbing through the books, Sam eyed the pages skeptically. What could these books possibly have to say that would help Dean? The man's guide to giving birth to a demon section seemed to be missing from all of the volumes.
But Dean was more despondent than Sam had ever seen him. There was a small but growing fear curling inside Sam that bloomed terribly whenever he looked at his brother. For the first time in his life, he feared that Dean might do something desperate to end his current misery.
If these books could offer even the slightest bit of help, Sam would take it. Curious, he flipped open The Postpartum Husband to the "What You Can Do" section. There was a list of bullet points, advice stacked neatly in a column as if by following down the list this overwhelming disorder could be similarly contained and managed.
Try to be patient, it read. Sam sighed, ashamed to think that he had become impatient with his brother. It was difficult not to get frustrated with him because nothing Sam said or did could unlock Dean from the prison of his own mind and body. He read on to the next one.
Provide emotional support: tell her you love her. Sam snorted derisively. Yeah, that'd go over real well, Sam thought. That would fall unequivocally under the "no chick flick moments" directive. Although, and Sam paused for a good moment, considering. Maybe Dean did need to hear this. Well, maybe not hear it, Sam thought with a little smile. But I could make sure he knows it without a doubt.
Sam let out a short, loud laugh as he read the next one. Reassure your wife that you don't regret marrying her. He pushed the book away, the absurdity of the situation hitting Sam full force. Not for the first time he felt frustrated and obstructed— this book couldn't possibly have answers for them. But then none of these books would have the master answer. Sam would have to piece it together like a patchwork quilt, but if there was one thing Sam was exceptional at, it was researching and finding patterns.
Sighing again, Sam pulled the book back towards him. Not everything in the book could be useful given their unusual situation, but it didn't mean that the whole book was a waste of time. He couldn't give up yet.
Be especially sensitive to how your wife feels about her body right now. The weakness from the surgery bothered Dean a great deal, but how much the actual physical deformity of his body affected him, Sam didn't know.
A sudden flashback to the operating room— his brother split on the table before him in vivid red detail— Sam sat up abruptly, bringing his hands to his face, trying to blot out the memory. God, Sam would never stop seeing it, never stop seeing Dean like that.
Hastening on, Sam read the second to last line in the list. Tell her you think she's pretty. Sam dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. My, what a pretty amulet you have, Sam thought scathingly. It really brings out the color in your eyes— Oh, God, it's hopeless.
Raking a hand through his hair, Sam set his eyes on the last sentence.
Remind her that you'll be there for her, just as she would if you were sick. This one—this one— resonated with Sam and it made the sick feeling inside him blossom across his middle.
It occurred to Sam that even though he knew he would never leave his brother, Dean would never truly believe it. For a long time after Sam had rejoined him in their quest, it was as if Dean was holding his breath, waiting for the moment when Sam would leave him once again. That fear of abandonment and uselessness had been cemented into Dean the moment Sam had taken off for Stanford.
Though it was unfair and Sam had every right to pursue his own life, he had done his brother wrong and he could never undo it.
Sam shut the book, rubbing his fingers across his mouth. There was no more room for screw-ups. If he was going to help his brother, then he had to find out everything he could about postpartum depression. Without further delay, Sam opened the book to the first page and began reading in earnest.
o0o00O00o0o
Despite the tension between them, Sam couldn't let his brother be alone. Dean had never coped well with solitude. His deep-seated fear of being abandoned coupled too well with seclusion.
It was late when Sam finally retreated to the bedroom. After spending the day immersed in research, Sam found himself stalling at the closed door. He understood a little bit better about what Dean was going through. The books were filled with facts about pregnancy and birth, about depression and emotional disorders, but what affected Sam the most were the firsthand accounts from postpartum depression survivors and their loved ones. He'd been brought almost to tears by their struggles, seeing their hardship mirrored in his brother. The most difficult reports to read were by family members whose loved ones had not survived the battle and taken their own lives.
He'd come to accept that depression wasn't something that could be treated like a bleeding wound, though they both offered the same threat. It wasn't something that could be seen or touched, or something that was consistent in any way. It was intangible and nebulous and fleeting just like the mind itself. Looking back, Sam could see how Dean had tried to fight the overwhelming emotions he was feeling and had failed to the demons in his head.
Dean thinks he needs to be strong all the time— infallible— just for me, Sam thought. He didn't ask— no, he couldn't ask for help.
Sam was a little afraid to face Dean, afraid to truly see how bad his brother's condition was. It was not an easy road stretched out before them, but since when had the Winchesters ever done things the easy way?
The clock in the hall chimed softly, indicating a quarter past midnight, but the time hardly mattered for Dean hadn't left bed all day.
The room was dark, and though it took a moment for Sam's eyes to adjust, he knew what he would see before they did. Burrowed under the bed sheets, Dean lay curled into himself, a position that must have been agony on his incision wound. Sam crossed the short distance to the foot of the bed, watching his brother. Dean didn't say a word, though he was not asleep. He hadn't spoken in days.
Dean held himself perfectly still; Sam could see the tension in the taught muscles of his back. Worry ringed his mind like a kettle of vultures circling the sky. Hearing a soft gasp, an involuntary intake of air, Sam realized now that Dean was trying too hard to keep himself still, trying not to let his brother discover the tears rolling down his face.
A sharp ache clawed at Sam's heart. This had to stop. He couldn't stand it anymore. Dean suffered and Sam suffered right along with him. Sam simply couldn't bear to look into his brother's once vibrant gaze and see hollow, vacant eyes instead, to watch as Dean withered and died—
Sam crawled up onto the bed, leaned in close behind his brother, and circled his arms around him, holding him fast.
A startled noise escaped Dean and he pulled at Sam's hands, trying to force himself free. Sam fit his chin on Dean's shoulder, nose pressing into his cheek as he held him steadfastly, his embrace secure with all the things he couldn't adequately say with words, with all the love and strength and affection he felt for Dean. Sam gave him the only thing he had left, the only thing he hadn't tried yet.
"Dean," Sam whispered. "Dean— I'm here— And I'm not going anywhere, I promise you." He squeezed him tightly, a solemn pledge in his words and his touch. Please understand me, Sam thought desperately, Please know how much I love you, and understand that you will never have to face this alone.
Suddenly, Sam felt the resistance go out of Dean as he sagged against his hold. At first Sam thought he'd done the wrong thing again, but the hand clasped around Sam's wrist, that had been desperately trying to pry Sam loose, was only resting there now, thumb circling the bones beneath.
"Sammy…" Dean breathed, voice raw and full of emotion.
"It feels like it'll never get better," Sam said gently and he felt Dean nod, his close cropped hair brushing against his cheek, "but it will. Maybe not as quickly as you want, but you will get past this."
Dean didn't say anything. Sam felt a warm tear splash against his nose. "Let me help you, Dean. Trust me the way I trust you. Just, please, don't give up."
o0o00O00o0o
Though things were far from better, Dean was not alone in his struggle at least. He believed that Sam wouldn't abandon him in this. The situation improved in tides, sometimes forward and sometimes backward, ebbing and flowing a little bit further everyday.
Dean ventured out of the house for the first time in over a week, making his way slowly down the porch steps and around the ranch house towards the barn. His body remained weak from the surgery and he found even little actions to be taxing, so when Sam hurried over to meet him at the side of the house, he accepted his arm gratefully.
"What are you doing?" Sam asked. It would be weeks before Dean could return to any sort of physical activity. Walking around was perfectly fine, as long as Dean didn't stray too far, but helping Sam with the construction of the new porch was not.
"Wanted to see what you're working on out here," Dean said. "Somebody's gotta check the structural integrity."
"Structural integrity?" Sam said with a smile that told he knew the real reason Dean wanted to be out in the barn.
"Hey, I was around for your building block years," Dean said as Sam helped him across the yard. "Built some of the finest towers under my supervision."
He didn't say much, but Dean spent a good three hours outside with Sam that day.
Despite the new effort that both brothers put forth, difficult times still lay ahead. Dean outright refused medication no matter what Sam said or pleaded or yelled, and though he was talking again, he still remained maddeningly quiet most of the time. Both Sam and Jim tried to get him to open up, but Dean couldn't be forced into anything and when they tried to pry, he shut down. In the time-honored Winchester tradition, Dean suppressed as much as he could.
Dean felt ashamed that he couldn't control his emotions— they had taken the helm. This depression-hormonal thing or whatever it was seemed like an excuse for his lack of control. A part of him understood that this was bigger than he could handle alone, but the stubborn part of him wanted to will it away on his own. He didn't want to be dependant on anyone or anything let alone drugs.
Yet, he allowed himself to lean on his brother. Sam was an unyielding presence— Dean wanted to push him away and hold him closer at the same time. Sam was careful, handled him delicately as if Dean might break. Even though this was true, Dean hated it, hated that he needed to be treated with such care. But Sam was good at being gentle and strong and simply there.
Nights were hard on both of them when their minds were free to wander and their inner demons came out to play.
Sammy, what would I do if you weren't here? Dean thought when his brother settled into the bed beside him. Sam curled around him like he'd done when they were children, only instead of Dean resting his chin on Sam's wayward mop, it was Sam who towered over him.
"Goddamned giant," Dean whispered. He felt Sam smile into his neck as he snuggled further just to tease him.
And many nights Sam woke with a start, heart pounding a mile a minute and eyes glazed with fright. In the instant between Sam waking and his mind catching up to reality, Dean recognized true terror on his face. Guilt settled heavily in his stomach because Dean knew the nightmares were about him and the surgery Sam had been forced to witness.
"Sam," he whispered, reaching out to him with a gentle touch, reassuring Sam that they were both all right.
They were broken, but they were trying.
o0o00O00o0o
On the twelfth day after Dean's surgery, a car pulled in the driveway. As far as Sam knew they weren't expecting company, but a true smiled crossed Jim's lips when a woman with a little blond-haired boy emerged from the four-door sedan.
"Molly," Jim said, crossing the yard to meet her.
"Hi Dad," she said, giving him a kiss. Molly was a petite woman, just barely coming past Jim's shoulders in height. Her brown hair framed her face wildly and her smile was warm, crinkling kindly around her eyes, which were as sharp a blue as her father's.
The toddler squirmed down from his mother's grasp and wobbled to Jim's legs. "Grandpa," he said.
Jim scooped up the boy. "Luke," he said, "Let's go into the house. I have some friends I'd like you to meet." He turned with the little boy in his arms towards the ranch with Molly following behind.
"This is Sam and Dean," Jim said, gesturing to the brothers. Luke clung to his grandfather, smiling shyly at the Winchesters. "Sam and Dean, this is my daughter Molly and her son Luke," Jim said.
"Hello," Molly replied, striding forward to shake Sam's hand.
"Hi," he said, eyes skittering nervously towards his brother. How would he handle these unexpected guests? Sam was ready to intercept her, but Dean didn't recoil when she approached.
"You must be Dean then," Molly said, smiling at him, taking his hand between her two. "It's good to meet you."
Dean was silent, but he gave a little nod by way of a greeting. His gaze shifted towards the floor and he smirked suddenly. Sam looked down and realized that Luke was standing just beside him, looking up at him in wonder, clearly never having met someone as tall as he was. Kneeling down to meet the little boy's gaze (and even then Sam had to crouch), Sam said, "Well, hi there, Luke."
Shy of strangers, Luke looked to his mother.
"What do you say when someone says hello to you, Luke?"
The boy turned back to Sam and said, "Hi," and then he turned and went over to Dean and said, "Hi," before running back to his mother.
"I hope you don't mind," Molly said, looking from her father to Sam and Dean. "David's on a business trip this week and I thought now would be a good time for a visit."
"Of course I don't mind," Jim said. "We've got a full house right now, but you and Luke may use my room. You know I've spent many a night on the pull out in my office."
There were a few bags to bring in from the car, so Sam and Jim helped Molly with her suitcases while Dean sat with Luke in the family room playing with toy cars. Stealing a sideways glance at his brother, Sam watched him interact with the little boy.
Luke had two small plastic vehicles, a red fire truck and a blue police car, which he wanted to race along the coffee table. Keeping the fire truck for himself, Luke handed the police car to Dean, making vroooom action car noises while he drove over the wooden surface. Sam shouldn't have been worried for Dean was a natural with children. Dutifully, Dean drove his police car around the path Luke made out, but then showed the little boy that if he pushed the car fast enough it would roll the entire length of the coffee table, fly off the edge and sail along the floor until it crashed into the couch. Luke laughed with amusement, and soon the two were racing the cars off the table to see which one could go the farthest. On his way out the door, Sam heard Dean say, "My car's a real beauty. I'll show you tomorrow if the weather's nice."
Molly decided that since she had crashed the party it was only fair that she cooked a nice meal for all of them and shooed Sam and Jim out of the kitchen. Before they joined Dean and Luke in the family room, Sam stopped Jim just outside the door. "You knew Molly was coming, didn't you?" Sam asked.
"I asked her to come," Jim replied.
"Then why all the pretense?"
Jim looked at him. "If Dean knew the real reason she was here, would he be as receptive as he has been?"
"Probably not," Sam admitted. "No, he'd be as willful as ever."
"I just hope she can reach him," Jim said. "She has experience with this sort of thing."
o0o00O00o0o
Having Molly and Luke around changed the dynamic of the house. Luke was innocent and full of wonder and Molly was a kind woman who offered a different perspective on things. It was good for Dean to interact with someone other than Sam.
More often than not, Dean ended up as Luke's playmate, but he was suited for the task. He couldn't lift or run after the little boy, but they shared a mechanical fascination and spent hours building block towers and drawing pictures and racing cars around the family room. Sometimes the activity exhausted Dean, but it also took its toll on Luke. Once Sam had checked up on Dean to find him and Luke napping on the sofa together.
Molly and Luke had only been at the ranch for three days and already Sam had noticed a change in his brother. This morning Sam peered through the screen door, observing Dean, watching him as he kept an eye on Luke. The little boy was playing in the front yard with a ball. Dean had a wistful expression as he watched the toddler pick up the ball and run on his little legs to his grandfather. Jim tossed the ball and Luke squealed with delight when it sailed over his head.
Sam came out onto the front porch and settled into the chair next to Dean. With a gentle summer breeze passing easily around them, they sat in companionable silence, watching the little boy play for a while. "He's delighted over the simplest things," Sam remarked.
"You used to be like that," Dean said, smiling a little. "Reminds me so much of you," he admitted quietly. "Stuff I forgot until watching him just now."
"Yeah?" Sam prompted.
"You were easy to entertain at his age. We were always cooped up somewhere— the car, a hotel— so running around any stretch of grass after a ball just enthralled you. Probably don't remember, you were so little," Dean said. "Dad always smiled when I brought you back all worn out. Meant a little peace and quiet 'cause even then you asked a ton of questions."
Dean grew quiet, lost in his remembrances. His brother surprised him with these moments from their past, and Sam wanted to know more, but he sensed that now was not the time to go traversing down memory lane. Dean's wistful expression had become suddenly doleful.
"Dean?" Sam asked.
"I'm— I'm going inside," Dean said, pushing himself up with a grimace. At Sam's concerned frown, he responded, "I'm just a little tired, Sam."
As he watched him go, Sam wished more than ever that he knew what was going on in his brother's head. Just like that the pendulum swung the other way. Was it memories of their father that had caused the haunted look in his eyes, or was it depression catching its hooks into Dean?
o0o00O00o0o
Not more than five minutes had passed before there was a soft knock at the door. Dean expected it to be Sam coming to mother-hen him to death, but instead he saw that it was Molly at the bedroom door.
"This used to be my room, you know," Molly said, taking a few steps in and looking around.
"Sorry to have kicked you out of it," Dean said. He sat on the edge of the bed, hand pressed against his aching abdomen. He'd pushed himself too far again.
"You didn't. Actually, it's much easier being at the back of the house where I can watch Luke play with his grandfather from the window."
Dean didn't say anything else, so Molly continued. "Luke seems to get into all kinds of mischief these days so I've got to keep a close eye on him."
Dean was quiet, but then he smiled slightly and said, "Sounds like someone I know."
"You mean Sam?" Molly asked with a laugh as she sat down beside him on the mattress.
"The kid's as much trouble now as he was when he was Luke's age," Dean said.
"So, you're telling me it doesn't get any easier?"
"Luke's a good kid," Dean replied. "He'll turn out all right."
"He'll be grown before I know it," she said. "I can't believe it's been almost three years since he was born. In some ways it's flown by, and in other ways it's been an eternity."
When Dean didn't comment, Molly went on. "Luke was a tough delivery," she said quietly. "Things weren't going well, and I was in no way prepared when they told me I had to have an emergency c-section."
Dean turned towards her abruptly, understanding now where the conversation was heading and the trap he was in. "And you just thought you'd tell me all about it," he said sharply.
"Yes," she said. "Is that so terrible? Please don't be angry, Dean. I understand a little of what you're going through and maybe my experience can help you."
"Oh, you know about having a demon growing inside of you?" Dean accused, coming to his feet. "You understand what it's like feeling this evil thing crawling around inside you? What it feels like on its way out? All the havoc it leaves behind in its wake? I'm not me anymore and I'll never be again. How do I tell Sam the brother he knew is dead? God, his brother is dead—."
"You're not dead, Dean," Molly said, placing a hand on his arm. "You're still you."
Dean shook his head, avoiding her gaze. He'd already said more than he intended. It was bottling up inside him, everything he couldn't tell Sam, or even really admit to himself, fears he didn't want to acknowledge.
"I may not understand everything," Molly began, "but I know enough, and what I don't know, you can help me to understand." She came around to meet him, peering up into his face. "I want to help you, if you'll let me," Molly said. "Whatever we talk about will stay here between us. It does help to talk about it, instead of letting it fester inside. After this week you'll never have to see me again. No one has to know. Let me help you."
With a gentle prod, she guided Dean back to the mattress and sat next to him, waiting patiently for Dean to decide.
He wanted to talk to her, there were things he wanted to ask her, but it was so difficult to get the words out past the lump in is throat. "After the surgery," he started, "how long did the weakness last?"
"After my surgery I couldn't do anything," she said. "Not anything strenuous for nearly eight weeks. I needed help to walk. Stairs were impossible. I couldn't even lift my son. I felt wretched and weak and angry."
She paused, taking a breath. The memory of it was difficult for her to speak of, even after three years. "It was hard for me afterwards," she said. "My family tried to help me and the more they tried the angrier I got. I felt useless. I wasn't diagnosed with postpartum depression, but things got very dark for me for a while."
Dean looked at her intently, recognizing the parallels between them.
"My husband told me I was a different person for a while after the birth," she confessed. "And I know I wasn't myself."
"How did you— cope?"
"My family," she replied. "My husband and my son got me through it."
Dean scoffed, letting out a shaky, little laugh. "I don't have that."
"Yes you do. Sam loves you, Dean," Molly said, cutting right to the core. "He only wants to help you."
Feeling the threat of tears, Dean turned away from her, blinking furiously. "I'm not like this," Dean said with disgust. "I don't know what's wrong with me."
"Dean, it's not your fault," she said. "You can't control what you're feeling right now." Molly reached for his arms and turned him back towards her. She looked into his eyes and said, "It is not your fault. You know that don't you? The best way to get through this period is to allow yourself these moments of despair. Know that you won't always feel the way that you do now, even though it feels like you'll never know anything different."
"I'm so sick of this— so tired of feeling this way," Dean whispered. "I just want it to be over." He looked at the floor, feeling the weight of these words against his skull.
"It's okay to need help right now," Molly replied gently. "Not just from Sam or my father," she began, "but there are medications that can help you too."
"I don't need pills," he protested.
"There's no shame in needing medication," she replied. "It would just be for a little while to help equalize the chaos inside you. I understand your reluctance, but at least talk to my father about it."
Sighing, Dean nodded. "I'll think about it," he said. It was a concession he could grant.
o0o00O00o0o
Sitting out on the front porch, Sam was right by their bedroom window. Earlier he noticed that Molly was talking with Dean, and so he made it a point not to look back, trying to give his brother privacy. When Molly came back outside a few hours later, she gave him a discreet little nod before rounding up Luke for a bath. So it was several hours later when Sam noticed through the window Dean was pacing back and forth, hands pressed at either side of his head, and he looked distraught.
Warning bells went off in Sam's head as he hurried inside the house. "Dean?" he asked, leaning in the doorway of their room.
"Leave me alone, Sam," Dean said.
Sam stood there instead, watching. Something had changed. Dean had been acting odd all day and Sam was worried. Dean was wrestling with something within.
"I'm not going anywhere," Sam said, trying to remain calm. "You've been doing great, Dean. You're making real progress—."
"It's not like that!" Dean snarled. "It's not— linear— I don't know what triggers it or why— I felt fine— happy, even— but now—," he tore off, frustrated. "I should be fine by now— I should be over this— I shouldn't need any help—."
"You should nothing," Sam said forcefully. "Don't belittle what you're going through. There's no standard, Dean. Nobody thinks any less of you. I certainly don't."
Sam knew words like weak and pathetic were running through his brother's mind.
"Take me for a drive," Dean said suddenly.
It was so unexpected that Sam stood there stupidly for a moment before responding with a light, "Sure." He helped Dean to the Impala and they took off.
Sam drove without a place in mind, but found he had taken them to the one place he knew of— the field where he'd burned the demon. Dean seemed to know it without Sam having to say a word.
"Show me," he whispered.
Sam nodded, guiding his brother to the spot.
Dean lowered himself to the ground, kneeling before the pile of blackened ashes. Dean dug his hands into the cinders, fingers sifting through the ashes as if searching them for something. Sam didn't know what he was looking for, but hoped that he got whatever he needed.
The wind picked up bits of gray, scattering cinders like snow around him. He sat there for a long moment, and Sam lingered back, giving him space.
"It's really gone," Dean said.
o0o00O00o0o
Sam watched Molly totter about the kitchen fixing breakfast. Sam couldn't tell yet if her interference had been a help or a hindrance. Dean had been scarily quiet for the rest of the evening, and hadn't said a word to his brother until Sam had been ripped from sleep by another nightmare. Dean had been full of words then, saying anything to calm him.
Suddenly, Sam felt a tug on his pant leg and looked down to see Luke, one small hand on his knee, the other with a book. "I can read," he said. "Listen." And Luke hoisted himself with a little help from Sam onto his lap and began reading the ABC book. Sam delighted in the child, realizing how much this amazing little boy had helped Dean. When Sam looked up he saw his brother leaning in the doorway, a smile on his face.
"Two geniuses in one chair," he said. "You keep reading like that, Luke, and you'll be smarter than Sammy here, and Sam went to college."
"What's col-edge?" Luke asked.
"It's a place you go when you're really smart and you just can't help but want to know more. It's mostly for geekboys who study too much, but nowadays I hear that cool kids go too."
Luke scrambled down from Sam's lap wielding his book at Dean. "You read to me?"
"No way, buddy. You read it to me," Dean said. Disappointed, Luke pouted, giving Dean his best puppy-dog impression.
"Tell you what," Dean said. "You read it to me and then I'll tell you a story of these two brothers. One was a very handsome and dashing fellow who had to keep the other one out of trouble…" Dean led Luke into the family room and the door swung closed behind him.
Startled, Sam found his eyes filling with tears. Dean sounded almost like himself. He probably doesn't even realize, Sam thought as he turned away, self-consciously wiping at his eyes. Please let the tide be turning for us…
"Good morning," Jim said as he entered the kitchen. Molly kissed his cheek and put a plate of eggs on the table for him. As Jim tucked into his breakfast he said, "Sam, I was hoping you might be able to help me with something outside today before the storm hits."
"Sure," Sam said, sipping orange juice.
"And I think you should know," Jim said in a hushed voice, "that Dean came to me earlier asking about various medications that might help him."
"He did?" Sam asked.
Jim nodded. "He hasn't committed, but it's a start."
o0o00O00o0o
The rain came suddenly, beating upon the roof in an even pit-pat.
"Oh no, Sam and Dad will be caught right in the middle of this," Molly said, pausing in her knitting to watch the rain bounce against the windows.
The doctor and the youngest Winchester had gone out to fell a few rotting trees that were within range of the barn before the storm hit. Jim had been meaning to do it for a while, but just hadn't gotten around to it, and Molly didn't want him cutting down any trees while he was by himself. With Sam willing to help and a big storm brewing on the horizon the present moment was the best opportunity for the job.
"They'll be home soon," Dean said, but he too stared out the window, contemplating the rain with a frown. He didn't like staying behind. Little more than two weeks ago he would have been more than able to fell a tree and help Sam out with the front porch. But what bothered him the most was leaving Sam without any viable backup. Not that a tree should give Sam any trouble (they were practically the same height), but Dean still had to worry a little whenever Sam was out of his sight.
Luke had a box of crayola crayons spread across the coffee table and a well-worn coloring book laid out under his fists. He and Dean were coloring a page together when a flash of lightning split the gray sky with a roll of thunder following right behind it.
"Whoa," Luke said, looking up nervously. He glanced at Dean, who smiled at him reassuringly.
"It's okay, Luke," he said. "Thunder can't hurt you— it's just noisy."
The wind picked up, rumbling around the ranch house. There was a distinct scratching noise from the kitchen. Molly and Dean glanced at each other and then towards the closed kitchen door.
"Did we leave the window open?" Molly asked. "Sounds like a shutter's blown loose."
"I'll check," Dean said, slowly pushing himself up from the couch. "Why don't you finish coloring this picture for me?" Dean suggested to Luke as he held out the jungle green crayon.
"Okay," Luke replied taking the crayon from him.
There was nothing amiss when Dean entered the kitchen. The window was closed tightly, and the shutters were secure in their places. Padding softly across the tile floor, Dean listened. Rain beat against the ranch, its constant cadence a nuisance. Lightning flashed and it was then that Dean saw a form slinking through the screen door.
A black dog with a shock of yellow hair between its ears stepped through the slash in the screen and into the darkened kitchen. Limping a few steps across the tile, it growled low in its throat and bared its teeth at Dean.
It was the other rakshasa, mate to the one that transferred her demon baby to him— the baby they killed.
"Oh, shit," Dean whispered as the demon hunched low, ready to strike.
To be continued…
o0o00O00o0o
Author's note:
I am a broken record: I am SO sorry that this took so long to get out! This chapter has a lot of stuff in it that I hope you enjoyed. There is ONE chapter left— I can't believe it's almost over. I have another story in the works after this one. Stay tuned for more details.
Thank you for the reviews— it's so nice to hear from other SPN fans. Please keep the reviews coming.
I have to say I'm a bit nervous what this writer's strike is going to mean for our show this season. Last year we were rallying to tell the network how much we loved the show to keep it on the airwaves— and this year I think we have to do the same thing, only now we have to get them to appreciate the writers too.
Wanna chat more about this? Head over to my LJ. I am also posting this story on my LJ (griseldajane . livejournal . com) if you prefer to read it that way. Friending welcome!
Thanks for reading. See you next chapter.
- Li