Disclaimer: Still not mine
Day Twelve
By the time Dean wakes it's midday. He opens his eyes slowly, gripping the edge of the bed when he doesn't recognise the wallpaper immediately. He twists the sheet in his fingers, turning his head slowly to the side. It's just as he feared. He's alone in an unfamiliar place.
He could have sworn Sam said he would be here when he woke but Dean can't see him anywhere. He doesn't realise his breathing has become erratic as he vainly reaches under the pillow for his knife. His searching fingers find nothing and Dean knows, he just knows, that things are wrong. Sammy said he'd be here and he's not. He always has his knife but it's not there and he doesn't remember going to sleep here.
He tumbles gracelessly out of bed, mind spinning, chest heaving, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. He's not helpless and he's going to get the hell out of here. He doesn't stop to register he's only wearing a t shirt and boxers. He's still got his hands and feet to fight his way out with.
The door isn't far away but to Dean it may as well be miles. When he hears footsteps outside, he freezes. The door handle turns slowly and Dean panics, looking for somewhere to hide, scrambling back towards the window. If all else fails, he thinks, he can jump out. It can't be that far down.
*****
Sam is kicking himself right now. He slept far longer than he intended to, which means he's probably broken his promise to Dean. He keeps his fingers crossed that his brother is still asleep as he opens the door quietly.
But life is never that easy, he reflects as he steps through the door just in time to see Dean trying to get the window open. Sam's a Winchester. He knows what Dean is trying to do. He'd do the same thing if he felt trapped. Dean obviously hasn't worked out where he is yet and Sam needs to stop him before he throws himself from the second floor window, doing himself more damage than he needs.
"Dean," he calls, softly and watches as Dean freezes. He wonders if his brother recognises his voice. Dean hasn't turned but he's stopped trying to force the window so Sam decides to press home his advantage.
He steps closer, close enough to touch but not in Dean's personal space. Not yet. He wants Dean to make the first move, to acknowledge Sam, acknowledge he's safe. Sam relaxes a little. He knows he can stop Dean hurting himself now he's closed the distance between them but he hopes it won't come to that.
He feels more than sees Dean calm down slightly, tense shoulders dropping a little, head falling forward to rest on the window pane. Sam knows this is the moment to break through the solitude Dean has built up around himself and lays his hand lightly on the small of his brother's back.
He can feel Dean trembling, probably through exertion he thinks, as he gently steers him away from the window and back towards the bed. As he guides Dean to a sitting position he takes a good look at his brother's face. His eyes are frighteningly vacant and his skin is pale.
Sam perches next to him and waits, silently, for Dean to come back to him. It takes a few minutes but after what feels like an eternity, Dean's eyes clear and he turns his head to Sam.
"Sam?" he whispers, and Sam just nods, making eye contact, reassuring Dean without words that he's safe. Dean nods back and Sam can just hear him counting softly, trying to get his breathing back under control.
*****
Zeppelin, Dean thinks, as a generic rock riff fills his head. Surprising how something so loud can be so soothing at times. He can feel Sam's hand at his back, small circular motions helping him keep the nightmares at bay for a while.
He feels stupid and he doesn't know why. He can see now where they are. He can't really understand why he didn't know immediately he was at Bobby's. He's spent enough time in this house, hell, in this very room. It was always 'his' room when he was a child. It was his only private space growing up. He should have recognised it instantly. He briefly wonders if Bobby will be offended when he learns of Dean's reaction.
He takes a deep breath and pulls back into himself, although it takes far more effort than he's comfortable with. He's not one for outward shows of emotion and this is yet another chink in his armour now. He can't afford chinks, not in their line of business. He can't let Sammy know he has weaknesses. Not now, not ever. Sam will never trust him again if he knows how scared he is sometimes.
He forces a smile, game face firmly back in place and shrugs Sam's hand off. He has an uncomfortable feeling that Sam can see through the show, but if he does he's letting Dean get away with it this time.
Dean accepts the towel his brother passes him and pushes himself up to his feet. Yes, he could do with a shower but, truth be told, he just needs some space to regroup in private. He offers Sam a grateful smile and a quiet 'thanks' on his way past.
When he gets back Sam has gone. He's laid out clean clothes on the bed for Dean and Dean smiles to see his brother's choice. Jeans are a given, ripped and worn as they are. Plain black tee shirt which he thinks is new, and a soft brown hoodie, also new. He wonders where Sam got the money from, reflecting maybe he didn't. Maybe they're stolen. Maybe Sammy's a little more street savvy than he gives him credit for. Or maybe Bobby has a secret stash of clothes for occasions like this. Either way he's grateful for them as he slowly slips them over his head.
*****
Bobby has made sandwiches. He made them as soon as he heard movement above. This house is old and he knows every creak and groan it makes. He's spent most his adult life here after all. He knows the third step from the top makes a distinctive screech when you lift your foot off it so he knows someone is on the way down. And he knows that if one Winchester is on the way, the other won't be far behind.
Sam is a sight for sore eyes, he thinks as the youngest brother shuffles in to the kitchen. He looks slightly better rested than the night before but Bobby would bet his bottom dollar he still feels like crap. He knows he's been in with Dean, he heard the footsteps and voices.
He doesn't press, just raises a quizzical eyebrow as he passes Sam a mug of coffee. He's been around long enough to know when to push and when to sit back and wait. He can hear the shower running so he knows there's a little time before Dean joins them.
Sam takes the mug and sighs, long and deep, and Bobby thinks there's more behind it than general fatigue. He doesn't have to wait long. Sam shakes his head and focuses on the hot liquid before him.
"He didn't know where he was," he says. Statement of fact, but Bobby can hear the underlying self recrimination in Sam's voice. He can tell the Sam it's not his fault till he's blue in the face but he doesn't think it'll make a difference. What those boys need, really need, is to talk to each other, Bobby thinks, and he'll bend over backwards to make it happen if he has to.
*****
When Dean finally makes his way down stairs Bobby and Sam are just sitting at the table in silence. He could have sworn he'd heard voices a second ago and he wonders what they were talking about. It doesn't help his self esteem to know they've been discussing him and his little episode earlier. Can't they see he's struggling enough with this and them dissecting his every move is unbearable?
It's even more obvious when Bobby pushes to his feet and, muttering something about 'work to be done', makes his excuses, leaving the Winchesters alone.
Sam pushes a steaming mug of coffee at Dean and he accepts it, watching his brother with wary eyes. He knows Sam has been patient with him and he knows that patience is going to wear thin soon. Especially as he can see his own fatigue reflected in his eyes.
As he wraps his hands round the mug he looks up at Sam and offers him a sombre smile. It's all he can manage at the moment but, god knows his brother deserves more.
"I'm sorry, Sam," he manages and his voice is so quiet he's not surprised when Sam doesn't acknowledge the words. He probably didn't hear, Dean thinks.
*****
Sam has never let anything slip by him where his brother is concerned. The soft apology from Dean takes him by surprise but he doesn't say anything. He knows how much it takes for Dean to admit a weakness, a failing, even if he's the only one to see it. So he just nods his head, watching Dean carefully, wanting to see if he's about to fall apart or whether he's starting to break through his almost catatonic state.
When Dean looks up at him again, Sam is ridiculously relieved to see he's dry eyed and relatively composed. Yes, he's a little pale still but going six days without food and light will do that to a man. Sam's made sure he's building up his appetite again. It's been slow going but they're heading in the right direction and the fact Dean can manage a shower by himself now is testament to his ever growing strength.
Sam wonders if this is the right time to try to start a conversation or whether he will just make the things worse. He doesn't want Dean to shut down again but he's encouraged by the few words Dean has managed so far today. And he thinks, deep down, Dean wants to talk but doesn't know how to take the first step.
It takes another few minutes before Sam has gathered the nerve to break the mostly comfortable silence in the kitchen. When he does, he thinks for a minute he's blown it before he's started. Dean's head shoots up and the look on his face breaks Sam's heart. Sam can't bear being the one to put that hollow, terrified look in his brother's eyes but then Dean's face crumbles and he puts his head in his hands.
Sam scoots his chair round the table so he's next to Dean and puts his hand out to comfort him. But something stops him midway and his hand hovers aimlessly. Dean lifts his head and seems to take pity on that hand by reaching out with his own and bringing them both down to the table. And then, he does what Sam had hoped he would do, but never expected.
He starts to talk.
*****
Dean's aware he's rushing, stumbling over words he's been able to pronounce since he was three years old. He's aware his heart is beating so hard against his chest Sam can probably hear it. He's aware he's clutching his coffee so tightly his knuckles are turning white. And he's aware he has Sam's full attention.
And somewhere, in the back of his mind, he's aware that this is what he needs. He can feel a weight lifting off his shoulders. One he didn't know he was carrying. As he tells Sam about the hell he lived through during those six days he feels the constant tightness across his chest dissipating.
He's careful not to meet Sam's eye though. He doesn't think he's ready to face the sympathy and pity he's pretty sure he'll see there. Or the horror. Because it was horrific and as he recounts the details as succinctly as he can, he has a moment of clarity. A sharp, clear stab of reality.
Now, talking about it, laying it out, examining it objectively he suddenly understands something. He got through it. In one piece. There will always be part of it in his psyche and he'll have nightmares for a long, long time. The whole ordeal will meld into his personality because he's realistic enough to know that he'll always be affected by it. But that's not what he's suddenly realised.
No, what he knows now, knows beyond all doubt, is that if there's anything to be learnt from this, it's that he's a survivor.