Where Are You
Chapter 8
Dean awakes to the expected sound of vomiting. He manages to get his brother out of the bed and, with the trash can firmly in hand, helps him over to the toilet and holds his hair back as he pukes.
Sam sits on the end of the bed in just his boxers. He is shaking, hands and legs moving at double speed. His face is bone white and his eyes rimmed with red and bloodshot "Guess I fell off the wagon" he states, his voice harsh
"You didn't as much fall as plummet" Dean's attempt at humour seems to work and Sam gives him a wan smile "Come on" he throws his brother a shirt "Get dressed – you need to eat"
He leaves Sam to get ready and goes downstairs. Missouri is in the kitchen and she turns when he comes through the door, her teeth white as she smiles at him "I'm sorry boy" her voice is gentle "I pushed too hard – I'm just a foolish old woman at times" she squeezes oranges into a jug "Where's that brother of yours?"
"He's ok" it wasn't what she asked but she smiles again, eyes sad, knowing that his statement is a lie
"Neither of you is ok and you know it" she pushes a glass of orange juice over to him "You are starting to remember" it is a statement and not a question and Dean nods
"It's different from before" he sips at the juice gratefully, his eyes on the golden liquid rather than her face with its knowing eyes "Before I just got flashes, images, like a film or something – now I actually remember things, people, there's still huge black holes in my mind – but I see things – I remember my dad – my mom – little Sammy" he finally got the courage to look up "Will this ever get better?"
Before she can answer Sam enters and Dean takes a sharp intake of breath. His brother looks terrible, still pale, too thin, his body barely concealing the tremors that he is feeling. He glances across at Missouri with guilt ridden eyes and slumps into an easy chair, sitting on his hands to conceal how much they are shaking.
"Drink this" Missouri gives him some juice and he takes it carefully, hardly able to hold it to his lips "Sam Winchester – you need to get yourself some help boy – you can't help your brother if you can't help yourself"
"No" Sam's reply is vehement "I'm not leaving him" he sips at the juice and Dean watches as the orange liquid dribbles down his chin "I'm all he has"
There is a long silence and Dean can virtually hear Missouri's brain ticking over in her head. In the end the woman sighs "Then we will have to see it out together" she smiles "I've already told Bobby to git rid of all the alcohol in the place – dang if that man isn't stubborn – but I'm not having you drink yourself to death - not on my watch" she refills the glass and gives it back to Sam ""Plenty of this and you have to eat to – not that fatty stuff that you boys used to live on – but fresh fruit, brown bread, good home cooking" the tone of her voice bucks no argument and Dean sees Sam smile a little and feels better.
They sit on Bobby's porch, the older man already on his fifth cup of coffee. He looks sulky under the beard and Dean can't help but smile. Since they had arrived he couldn't remember seeing Bobby without a bottle of beer in his hand and he guessed the older man was feeling the cold turkey almost as much as Sam was. Sam is asleep on the porch swing, long legs stretched out, hair in his face. Dean feels a tight clench in his chest as he looks at his brother.
It was as if Missouri had opened a gate in his mind; just a touch; a little gap and now the memories were beginning to trickle through. He could see Sam as a little boy, holding out the prize from a box of Lucky Charms, face sincere and loving. He could remember how it felt to take care of his little brother, feelings of irritation, anger and frustration mixing with those of love and pride. He frowned, pressing his fingers against his temple. What sort of person was he? Sam had mentioned his sudden need to touch and embrace his brother. Hadn't he done that before? Had he been a cold man? Harsh? He wanted to know so much, learn about the things that had shaped him, brought him to this place. There wasn't much to go on now and he wondered if he were a better or worse man than before.
"You're just different" Missouri put a gentle hand on his arm "Not better or worse Dean Winchester – just different"
"Man that makes me uncomfortable" he smiled suddenly, his eyes on her face "You – you are just reading my mind"
"No boy" she flicked him lightly with her fingers "I can just see things that's all" she shook her head "You and that brother of yours need help badly – but Sam has always been the stubborn one and he ain't gonna start changing now" she squeezed his arm gently "You are both different people now Dean – you may never get back to what you were – but wherever you go – you are gonna have to go there together"
"I know" he nodded, glancing over at his brother, the sunlight dappling over his sleeping form "I guess I've always known"
The next month was hard. Dean rang his work and resigned, he let the lease on his apartment close and he waved goodbye to 'John Smith' forever.
He spent long hours with Missouri; letting her gently probe his mind, searching for his memory, searching, really for himself. Sometimes the things that came into his mind were painful and sad, other times they were gentle and happy. Often, when he remembered something scary or painful he wanted to bolt, to escape, but he only had to glance at Sam and he stayed put, his brother's needs coming before his own.
Sam clung to him like a limpet and, whilst it should have been annoying and uncomfortable, Dean embraced it, embraced the little bit of his family that still lived. Sam never let Dean out of his sight, watched him with luminous eyes, sat next to him at breakfast, lay in his lap whilst they watched TV. Sometimes Dean felt that they had regressed twenty years and that he was an eight year old, caring for his four year old brother. Sam needed him and, deep inside, he knew he needed Sam just as much.
Bobby told him a lot about his father; talked to him about hunts past and all the friends that were now dead and gone. It was through Bobby that he learnt more about the demon, about what had happened to his mom, his brother's girlfriend, the deal his dad had made. Dean was thankful he didn't remember those things, sometimes hoped he never would. He knew, though, that the demon was still out there, that it still had plans for his brother and that he had to keep Sam safe. He guessed that it must have rejoiced when it thought that he had been killed and his brother hit rock bottom. It must have celebrated, thinking that the Winchester brothers were no longer a problem, that Sam would embrace his dark side once more and become the 'good little soldier' it wanted him to be.
At night he would help Bobby put down the protection charms, line the doorways and window sills with salt. He would hang dream catchers and pentagrams in their bedroom and he would sleep next to Sam, cramped up in the tiny bed, a knife under his pillow. He may not remember how to be a hunter, but he was a quick learner.
He still didn't recognise himself; still searched, fruitlessly, in the corridors of his mind for the old Dean – the Dean that Bobby talked about, the Dean who his dad had cared so much for he had sacrificed his own life. He didn't remember the old Sam either. The Sam who was so strong, so courageous, the Sam who had made him promise; the Sam who had been so determined to halt his destiny – even if it meant death.
All he had was small, broken pieces of their lives and, although he was pretty sure it was out of character, he prayed every night, to whoever might listen to him. He prayed for safety, he prayed for his memory, he prayed for a dad he could barely recall, a mother he barely knew anyway, but most of all he prayed that Sam would get better, that Sam would become Sam again – and then maybe, just maybe they could be Dean and Sam – as they were always meant to be.
TBC
