Disclaimer: see chapter 1...
Thanks for reading if you've continued past the first four chapters. This will be completed soon (I hope...work and life continue to be hectic). I'm shooting for posting the last part this week. This is going to be a two-part - one in Dean's perspective and one in Sam's - to finish the break between Season 5 and Season 6. I hope it turns out the way you expected (or maybe I hope it doesn't...) cause it did for me.
And, as always, please review, whether you hate it or love it! Thanks again!
It's been almost a year now. A year since Dean watched his little brother battle the devil in a war of wills and win. A year since Sam had opened the portal to Hell, grabbed a hold of Adam, who had become the unwilling vessel for Michael, and plunged away into the blackness. The emotional wounds that were created that day are still raw, but they're healing. Dean knows that one day, he might be able to think about Sam and not feel like his heart is being ripped from his chest. Looking at Lisa and Ben reminds Dean that that day will come, some day.
Dean wakes up early, on the morning of the second of May. He stares at the white plaster ceiling, tracing a hairline crack that only his trained eyes would notice, and thinks about Sam. How it would be his little brother's twenty-eighth birthday. How the year seems to have sped by in a blur and how impossible that should seem. But it doesn't anymore. It doesn't seem so impossible that now, after all the years spent in the Impala criss-crossing the country fighting evil, that Dean's life has settled into something normal.
Normal. Dean used to scoff at the word, but now he smiles. Now, in his normal life, he makes pancakes and bacon, drives Ben to baseball practice, and takes Lisa out on dates. It may be missing a few key pieces, like Sam and his dad, but his "normal life" is beginning to settle around Dean. And he has to admit that it feels really good.
Beside him, Lisa stirs and Dean goes into autopilot, getting up and heading downstairs to start the coffee. He has a routine now: make the coffee, rouse Ben, shower, kiss Lisa good morning, get ready for work. Just like sitting at a rickety table in some shoddy no-tell motel room cleaning guns. There are steps, checklists, that he goes through in his head to make sure he doesn't forget anything.
Today is different and both Ben and Lisa notice it. Dean's still dressed in the sweats and worn t-shirt he wore to bed. Dean smiles at them, reassures them that he's just relishing in the fact that he has the day off, but they both can see there's something more. There's something Dean's pushing away from the surface, something haunting his eyes, and it scares them a little. This Dean, the one standing at the kitchen counter with one hand resting at the small of Lisa's back as he sips coffee, is an echo of the one that arrived on their doorstep almost a year ago.
After Lisa and Ben leave, Dean slowly climbs the stairs, his thoughts scouring through memories he's tried to keep locked away. They're not bad memories, not memories of the terrible losses he's faced through the years, but they hurt just the same. Dean can see little Sammy, on chubby one-year-old legs, tottering around Pastor Jim's living room as he takes his first steps. He can see Sam at six coloring in one of Dean's Hot Rod magazines. Sam at fourteen, bleeding from a small cut above his left eye and a wide, triumphant smile spread across his lips, as he leaned over Dean. It's that memory that stays with Dean the rest of the morning as he showers and dresses, as he finishes his fourth cup of coffee and reads the morning paper.
Sam had finally beaten his big brother, had finally gotten the upper hand and bested him, while they'd been practicing. The memory was a bright one, a beacon of happiness in a world of black despair, but it still pricked at the back of Dean's eyes, making them sting as he fought to hold back the tears. That memory was the turning point in Dean's mind. The point at which Sam had realized that if he could beat Dean then he could beat anything including their father's control.
Dean starts for his truck, pulling the keys from his pocket, before realizing that that isn't where he wants to go. He quickly switches his direction, heading for the garage. Light barely filters through the small windows, particles dancing in the thin streams of gold as Dean moves towards the tarp. Underneath, the Impala still gleams onyx, still holds power and beauty, and Dean smiles down at the beast of a car.
"Hey, girl."
Sam had always teased Dean, always groaned in mock embarrassment, when he'd talk to the car, but it was natural to him, like breathing. He runs his fingers along the body, feeling the curve of the hood as his rough hands brush away the thin layer of dust that still found its way under the protection of the cloth tarp. He rests his hand on the roof above the driver's seat, like he'd done a thousand times before, feeling the cool steel beneath his calloused hand, and looks over the top of the Impala to the passenger side.
For a moment, Dean can see Sam; can see his hazel eyes, soft and warm, looking back at him. See them asking Dean a million questions without uttering a single word. Then he's gone and Dean is just staring at the space between the Impala's passenger door and the concrete wall. He sighs and opens the door, the familiar creak like a shot to his heart. Dean sinks into the seat and just sits there, feeling the emotions wash over him - doubt, hopelessness, anger, betrayal, dread, excitement, euphoria, hope, pride, love. They hold his heart, pulling it from his chest and into his throat.
Dean sits in the Impala for what seems like hours, just running his hands over the steering wheel, casting looks into the backseat, brushing dust off the dashboard. Finally, he reaches up and pulls the visor down, letting the keys drop into his open palm. They're cold and hard, but still feel at home in his hands.
The Impala starts with a growl, coming to life with a great roar in the tiny confines of the garage, and Dean smiles wide, feeling the car rumble beneath him. He reaches over and turns the radio on, letting the speakers crackle to life with the sounds of classic rock. Letting the music call him home for a little while.
Steve Perry's voice begins to drift out, already crooning "Running Alone."
"Too too many hearts been broke along this lonely road. Steel grey eyes can shine the lies until they look like gold. Cold city sidewalks can turn you heart to stone. The street won't defeat me 'cause I've got the will. I'll survive. I don't mind runnin' alone."
Dean sits and listens to the words, letting them seep into his mind, letting the music lift out the memories he's been holding on to for just this moment. They are all of Sam, a sort of memorial to his little brother, and they all burn. The feeling is almost as bad as his dreams of Hell. Almost. He opens the glove compartment, ignoring the cell phones and papers that threatened to spill out, and produces a small silver flask. Dean can hear the liquid sloshing around inside as his hand shakes a little.
With the leather seat creaking beneath him, Dean settles in, his legs stretching across the front seats, his back against the closed driver's side door. His eyes are unfocused, replaying scenes from his childhood, their childhood, as he sips whiskey from the flask. Dean blinks as he remembers one particular day, when Sam had been about eight. The day he'd asked, for what felt like the billionth time, about their mother. Dean had pleaded with Sam to stop asking, to let it go, but Sam was stubborn. Had always been stubborn. Dean chuckles at the thought, knowing that his brother's stubbornness had been what saved them all back in Stull Cemetery in Lawrence.
Raising the flask for a moment, holding it in salute to the empty passenger seat in front of him, Dean smiles, a single tear rolling down his cheek.
"Happy birthday, Sam," Dean forces out. "I miss you, man."
He pauses to take a sip of whiskey then closes his eyes and rests his head against the window, breathing slowly as he loses the iota of control he'd been hanging on to since he woke up in the early morning.
"I love you, Sammy," he whispers as another tear escapes.