Sam counts it as his second win of the day when twenty minutes after he heads back downstairs, Dean follows. Well, at least he's out of bed, Sam thinks, figuring dressed in something other than flannel pants and a t-shirt might be pushing his brother too far.
Instead of joining his brother at the kitchen table, where Sam is set up with his laptop and smart phone, Dean slides into the living room and curls up on the couch under a throw blanket. Not a big accomplishment then, Sam continues his mental dialogue, but he's awake, downstairs, and responsive…not bad for less than 24 hours since the assault. Of course Sam, thinks, that's Dean Winchester, the badass hunter, he's not going to let this get to him…but even in Sam's thoughts those words sound hollow.
"Hey, Dean, you want to join me in here? I've got to call some people back."
"What people?" Dean's head is barely out from under the throw. All that is visible is his hair still tousled from sleep and bright green eyes that have a wary look.
"Police, school, doctor," Sam's ticking them off a list.
"No. Think I'll stay here." Then more forcefully, like a warning, "I am not going back there, Sam."
"Heard you the first time, Dean. Don't worry, jerk. I've got this." It makes Sam sad that his brother doesn't call him a bitch in return. Sam's a little startled when his brother walks behind him to pour a cup of coffee and carry over with him to the table, but he gives him an encouraging grin, wishing his brother allowed hugs more frequently than the latest return from death.
Dean sits there silently staring at the table, both hands wrapped around the coffee mug as Sam makes his calls. It's a little strange to be talking about him to these strangers while his brother sits silent and still as a statue right next to him. Sam repeats important tidbits out loud for his brother's benefit. The four attackers are all old enough to be charged as adults; Sam learns this from the police. They have made bail, and the state education code says they can resume school because they haven't been convicted of any crime yet. Dean takes a gulp of his coffee on that news.
From Ms. Ortiz, Sam repeats an offer of immediate counseling sessions and a list of signs and symptoms of depression following sexual assault. Dean becomes more fascinated with the wood grain as Sam taps the keys of his computer to bring up the website she recommends. Sam frowns reading how loss of appetite, lethargy, and sleeping too much all show up as warning signs. Sam tells Ms. Ortiz what he learned from the police, and he repeats that Dean will not be returning to high school.
Dean's head lifts, as do his eyebrows, as Sam talks to her about Dean enrolling in classes online and completing college credits. When Sam ends the phone conversation, Dean almost looks animated. "Sammy, you could do that. I mean even if we're traveling and hunting, you could still do that."
Sam snorts. Figures, it's so typical of Dean to be looking after him even in the middle of a crisis. "I'd miss getting to interact with the professors and other students, Dean." Sam wishes he could take that back when the light leaves Dean's eyes again and he's left staring at the uncombed tangle of hair, as Dean resumes his staring contest with the table.
The third call, to Doctor Davis, is pretty awkward. Sam doesn't want to repeat what she is saying out loud. She warns him to get all the pills and anything else Dean could hurt himself with out of Dean's immediate area. She says to make sure he takes his anti-anxiety meds because this new stressor may be the one to send his brother over the edge. She recommends that he admit Dean to an adolescent psychiatric facility if he shows symptoms of depression, and – as the least she feels she can do – she says she is sending all the paperwork to the school excusing Dean from attendance.
As Sam hangs up from that one, he doesn't meet his brother's eyes. Instead he is already trying to figure out how to disarm his brother and where to hide the pills. Speaking of which, he needs to make sure Dean takes the anti-anxiety pills.
"If he internalizes this. If he doesn't get help. Well, people frequently turn to alcohol or drug abuse, or have suicidal tendencies when earlier traumas are ignored." Sam hears her, and knows how true that is about his brother.
Whether he heard more than Sam thought he could, or he was just doing that weird brother telepathy they sometimes did, Dean says, "I'm not taking them Sam. They make me let my guard down."
"You took some this morning," Sam retorts.
"I hadn't had a chance to think then." Dean's voice is sure, like he's confident that he's making the right decision in this. He catches Sam's eyes. "Unless you think I'm using that as a way to deflect my own guilt in this?"
Sam narrows his eyes at his brother. "You weren't guilty of anything in this." He wonders if there's any way to rewrite a history of taking the blame in his brother. Shakes his head and decides that while his brother is down here, he could go collect all the pills and weapons. When he looks back at his brother he hopes his thoughts aren't apparent in his eyes because he is seriously thinking he may need to put Dean on suicide watch.
Making his way upstairs, Sam uses the bathroom and splashes some water on his face. He still can't believe what he's thinking as he pockets the pill bottles from the medicine cabinet before opening the door to find his brother leaning against the wall outside the door. Dean has changed into sweat pants, and has added socks and running shoes. He has an inscrutable expression on his face and the flat psychopath stare he gets when he's angry. He pushes past Sam and shuts the bathroom door.
The taller Winchester moves on into the bedrooms, looking for knives, guns or other weapons. He gathers them into duffel. He can't find his brother's favorite hunting knife, and he figures Dean moved it when Sam was in the restroom. He snags Dean's keys to the Impala too. When he turns, he finds Dean standing there watching. As Sam heads toward the garage, Dean follows, still not saying anything. Sam locks everything in the trunk of the Impala and pockets the keys. This time there's no mistaking the anger in Dean's eyes when Sam turns to him.
"Dean," Sam starts, it's a plea for understanding. He's cut off.
"Sam." Dean's response makes his name an accusation of betrayal. Then he heads for the front door of the house. Sam hurries to get ahead of him. He blocks the front door. "Sam, get the fuck out of my way."
Sam shifts a little, but not enough to allow Dean to get by him. "Where are you going?"
Dean snorts. "Well since it would be pretty suicidal to smash you in the face while you're like a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier, Sam, I thought I'd go run to get rid of some of the anger I'm feeling right now. I mean, if that's okay. If I have your fucking permission to leave."
"Wait a minute while I change, and I'll run with you." Sam is trying to reason with him.
Through gritted teeth, Dean says, "Defeats the purpose, Sam. And I don't require a body guard." Dean pushes past him and heads out the door. Sam watches as he heads toward the beach. Then he rushes up to the room to change as quickly as he can.
When Dean reaches the Bob Hall Pier, he decides he needs to slow a little. The beach is empty and he starts down the seemingly endless miles of coast along the Gulf of Mexico at a fast jogging pace instead of the racing strides he used to get there. He's not even thinking of anything except where his feet will land. He runs until he feels like he can't go any farther, maybe ten miles in all.
As Dean stops and looks around he can't even make out the high rise hotels on the beach by the pier. The Gulf is on his left, endlessly empty; on his right are miles of sand dunes and wetlands. No houses are built this side of the park road that leads to the National Seashore. When he screams, he only disturbs the seabirds that rise squawking. He screams again, angry, hurt, sad, betrayed, it all flows out of him until his throat hurts. He sits down then, pulling up his knees to stare off across the Gulf.
Here he doesn't feel trapped. Here he can think.
Dean takes a deep breath of the salty air as he thinks it was pretty damned dumb of him to try to physically outrun his past. It kept up, and is still right here with him. He shifts to be able to watch the tall grass behind him. When he sees two coyote staring at him, he takes the hunting knife from the back of his waistband where he had clipped it, and flicks it open hoping they'll come at him to give him something tangible to fight.
The coyotes slink away, and Dean snorts. Figures, he can't even catch a break from this emotional knot in his stomach by having some physical threat to respond to. Winchester luck, he thinks, reflecting on his life. The only thing he feels like he didn't completely ruin is Sam, and Sam wants out again. And Dean, Dean wants it to end.
His do-over already sucks about as much as his old life did.
"Okay, fairy lady. We need to talk." Dean yells.
The air shimmers in front of him, and the Sylph arrives.