AN: These chapters are not in chronological order, although they all take place during Wyoming retirement.
Chapter 2
The PTSD hit Dean within the first three months living in Wyoming, and it took him two years of medication, therapy, and stunning amounts of love and patience from Sam and Castiel, to finally experience a significant decrease in symptoms. The flashbacks, the nightmares, the panic attacks, the anger and irritability, the erratic sleep patterns became so occasional, that Dean was pretty much back to his old self. Sam could see glimpses of the young man that Dean once was, when Dad was still alive, before Dean went to Hell. He knew that Dean would need more time to completely recover and may have to do emotional and psychological maintenance long-term, but it seemed like they were finally out of the woods, past the worst of the illness.
Then, the depression hit.
Sam comes home from his afternoon shift at the hardware store later than usual. The Impala's parked in front of the big house Sam and Dean share, gleaming in the sunshine. It's just after four o'clock, and Dean should be at the garage until five. But Sam drove past Lou's on his way out of town and found out that Lou had let Dean off for the day around three because business was slow.
"Dean," Sam calls out as soon as he's inside, wiping his shoes on the mat. "You here?"
No answer.
Sam starts to walk down the corridor splitting the house front to back, glancing into the living room as he passes by. Maybe Dean's next door with Cas or walking on their property.
He sees Dean's boots outside his brother's room, the right boot tipped on its side. He doesn't know why, but the sight of them fills him with uneasiness. Dean's bedroom door is almost shut, and Sam pushes it open cautiously.
The older Winchester is lying on the bed, facing the window in the wall to the right of the entrance. He's on top of the blanket and sheets, not under them, still dressed in jeans, socks, and his gray thermal t-shirt. The curtains are drawn open, bluish gray light filtering through the window and softening the edges of everything in the room.
Sam looks in at Dean and thinks for a moment that he might be asleep—but he sees a twitch in Dean's body and realizes something's wrong.
"Dean?" he says, voice quiet and careful.
The other man doesn't answer, so Sam steps inside and stands at the foot of the bed to look at him. Dean's eyes are open, and he's crying, tears snaking down his cheeks slow and lazy. He's absolutely silent and still. Sam briefly wonders if maybe Dean doesn't realize he's crying.
"Dean," Sam says, doing his best to sound calm. "What's wrong?"
The older Winchester lowers his gaze and wipes at his face with the back of his hand, sniffling just a little. "Nothing," he says, voice raspy.
Sam has to try hard not to roll his eyes. Dean's been pretending that he's okay when he's anything but, for so long, that sometimes Sam wants to quit asking how he is and just get on with helping him. "Did something happen at work?"
Dean swallows and looks in the general direction of the window again. "No," he says. "Nothing happened. Really."
Sam pauses as he starts to remember that Dean's been moody a lot over the last couple weeks. It's been inconsistent: sometimes, he's fine, and sometimes, he's withdrawn and sad. Most people wouldn't notice the difference because Dean's good at acting like he's all right, but Sam can feel it when his brother's off. The energy in the house, the energy between them, changes. When Dean goes straight for the whiskey before dinner and skips the beer, he's upset about something. When he sits in his rocking chair on the porch with a drink for a long time in the evenings and just watches the landscape surrounding their property, he's preoccupied with something sad or wistful, dredging up bad memories. When he loses his appetite or can't sleep, something's bothering him.
Sam's noticed a little bit of everything in the last two weeks or so, but he didn't take it seriously because nothing's changed about their lives. Everything's fine. And it's normal to have off days.
But Dean crying isn't normal.
"Sam, I'm serious," Dean says, his voice low and tired. "Nothing happened. Nothing's wrong. I'm just—I need some time. Okay?"
Sam goes around to the left side of the bed and sits next to Dean, his back to the door. Dean's facing away from him. Sam thinks, then says, "Maybe nothing happened, but you're obviously upset. I guess you don't have to tell me why if you don't want to, but... Let me help you, if I can."
Dean breathes out and closes his eyes.
Sam lifts up his hand tentatively and cups it around the front of Dean's shoulder. Neither of them speaks for a minute, until Sam feels Dean shaking against him.
"It's me, Sam," Dean says, his voice broken. "Something's wrong with me. I feel like crap, and I can't shake it. I don't know why. Okay? I was good, and all of a sudden, it's like I can't—I can't get up."
Sam immediately thinks of Dean's medication regimen. He was on an anti-anxiety drug and something else to help with his nightmares until he was stable enough that he got his doctor's clearance to gradually wean himself off the pills. He's been med-free for a few months now, and so far, none of his PTSD symptoms have popped back up. Maybe this depression thing is new. Maybe it's the next stage of Dean working through all the stuff he lived through in the past.
Sam's going to have to talk to him about going back to the doctor and considering an anti-depressant, but right now, his brother needs him to be supportive.
"I thought I was cured," Dean whispers. "Maybe I should move out until I get my shit together."
Sam almost physically flinches. "Hey," he says, his voice firm and a little louder. "Stop it. You're not going anywhere. Whatever this is, we're going to get you through it. Together."
"I won't make you live with that person I was. I do that, and you'll be the one who leaves."
Sam looks away from his brother and shuts his eyes. His heart stings in his chest. He's torn between anger and guilt because he would never leave Dean for being weak, but he's abandoned his brother before.
"You waited so long for this life," Dean says, voice thin and pained. "I don't want to ruin it."
Sam curls his fingers into Dean's shoulder, opens his eyes, and shakes his head. "God damn it, Dean," he says softly. "You're not leaving. This is your home. Let's just take this one day at a time. Okay?"
Dean doesn't answer.
Sam looks over at him but can't see Dean's face. He only contemplates it for a moment before he lets go of Dean's shoulder, leans down to untie his boot laces and take off his shoes, and lies down on the bed behind his brother.
Sam wraps his arm around Dean's waist and pulls him snug against his chest, feels the way Dean's whole body tenses before completely relaxing, and touches his brow to the back of Dean's head. They lie there for a couple minutes, Sam's eyes closed and Dean's scent in his nose, before Dean finally starts to quake the way he does when he's holding in a sob.
Sam wants to tell him, Cry. Go ahead and cry. It's just us here.
But he doesn't speak, knowing that Dean's started now and can't stop. Soon, Dean gasps and gulps for air, the sound wet and not quite a sob.
Sam just holds onto him and listens. He's got his own surreal history of trauma, wounds, and suffering. No one understands where Dean's been or where he is right now better than Sam. And Sam's been on the inside of madness before. He's come out of it—nothing short of a miracle—so he can believe that Dean will be healed. Maybe that's why it had to be. Sam's Hell, his insanity, his agony. Maybe he chose to bear his own cross so that he could stay this close to his brother.
"I love you," Sam whispers. "I've got you, Dean."
Dean rolls over to face Sam, buries his face in Sam's neck and the slope of Sam's shoulder, and Sam drapes his arm around him again, big hand flat against Dean's back. Sam's consciousness is full of this: their body heat, the dampness of Dean's skin, the salty smell of his tears.
"Hey," Sam says, quiet. "I've got you."
He starts to stroke Dean's back and thinks about how much he'd rather have this hurt brother to nurse every day for however long it takes, than no brother at all.