SPN FIC - PTSD (7.04)
Dean's taught his brother how to deal. But...that would imply that he's used the same sort of trick on himself.
But chilling out's not what it used to be. He's starting to feel like it's turned into an Olympic event in which he can expect nothing more than a few sympathy votes.
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, OCs
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: Up through 7.04
LENGTH: 1264 words
PTSD
By Carol Davis
Just chill out, he thinks. It's a nice day. Sun's shining. Birds are singin'. With any luck, you won't need to kill anything in the next couple hours.
A few yards away, there's a woman struggling to load a couple kids and a ton of groceries into a beat-up SUV. She's not much bigger than a kid, herself, and watching her in his peripheral vision brings back memories of Dad teaching him to drive. Figuring out how far up he needed to hitch the driver's seat so he could reach the pedals.
A glance at the front of the store tells him Sam hasn't reached the checkout yet.
Just chill.
But chilling out's not what it used to be. He's starting to feel like it's turned into an Olympic event in which he can expect nothing more than a few sympathy votes.
"JEREMY!" the woman shrieks.
Those kids have been fussing since they came out of the store a couple minutes ago. The bigger one's having what's obviously an "I want CANDY!!!" meltdown, and the little one - two years old, Dean thinks, maybe a little more - is just following suit. Sam went through both those stages; Dean didn't dare.
Though maybe he did.
Before.
It's getting harder and harder to remember before.
The older kid - Jeremy, Dean figures - has gone limp on the pavement, refusing to get into the car. He's screeching like he's being impaled as his mother does her best to haul him up off the ground by one arm, while she uses her other hand to hold the baby in its car seat. Overtired, Dean thinks; they're all overtired, and a couple hours of sleep will turn this whole thing around.
Their grocery cart, currently being attended to by no one, begins a slow roll away from the car.
The woman looks at it and bursts into tears.
"Shit!" she screams. "Goddamn it all to SHIT!"
Down on the ground, Jeremy sucks in a breath like an opera singer aiming for that final high note and lets out a scream that rockets into Dean's head like it was shot out of a sniper rifle.
Just…
NO.
Just.
The screams, the howls for mercy of the damned - they're all swirling around him then, plucking at him with fingers that are both fire and ice. Somewhere deep inside his head, he can hear himself screaming "SAM! SAAAAAAAM!" both as a prayer for deliverance and because he simply cannot not scream.
Parking lot.
You're not…parking lot. Grocery store.
HOLD. IT. TOGETHER.
The whispers kick in then: the chorus of voices surrounding him. Deeeeeeeean. Do you know where they are, Dean?
Do you know how they're suffering?
YOU'RE IN A FUCKING PARKING LOT.
Jaw set, he lifts his right foot and slams it down to the pavement, and the jagged piece of gravel he keeps inside his boot jabs hard and sharp into the arch of his foot. It isn't much; it'll probably leave a bruise, if that, but it's a distraction. When he lifts his foot again, he wiggles it a little, so that the next blow jams the stone into a slightly different spot.
The pain is sweet, isn't it, Dean? Sweet, sweet pain.
You know you love it.
He begins to walk, canting his weight onto his right side so that each step insults the places the gravel has already wounded. He keeps his head low, so there'll be no eye contact with anyone he might pass; he's more than well aware that the expression on his face brands him as a nutball, and among the numerous last things he and Sam need right now is a chat with the cops because they've attracted the wrong kind of attention.
Deeeeeeeeannnnnn…
If those kids would just stop screaming - if he could have a little silence, then he'd stand a chance of coming out of this.
Come back to us, Dean…
He strides along the perimeter of the parking lot, remaining where Sam will be able to spot him if he's not back alongside the car when Sam comes out of the store. He doesn't dare go where Sam can't see him; it's too tough to explain that. He's never been one to take walks, even to kill time. Pacing the parking lot - that's believable. Taking a stroll to enjoy the sunshine definitely isn't.
Real, he chants silently as he strides along the outer row of cars. This is real.
Parking lot.
Kid wants his candy and a nap.
Rest of it's just shit in your head. Come on. You can DO this.
He's on his second circuit when he sees his brother approach the Impala. There's a big worried frown screwed onto Sam's face, but he's not looking around, not trying to find Dean. He sets his collection of bags down on the hood of the car, then scoots over to that old SUV and says something to the sobbing woman that Dean can't make out. Quickly and efficiently, with the frown smoothly morphing into a smile, Sam plucks the woman's groceries from her cart and deposits them in the back of the car, then crouches down alongside the still-flailing Jeremy.
By the time Dean reaches the Impala, Sam's got the woman and her kids all taken care of, all tucked safely inside the SUV with their groceries, and he's stashed the empty cart in the cart corral. He stands watching the SUV roll away, and waves to the woman, then turns toward Dean and heaves a very satisfied sigh.
"Remind me never to have kids," Sam chuckles.
"What - like, you were planning to?"
Sam frowns at that. "I don't know. I just - it'd be nice to think about. Maybe. Someday. Daydream. You know."
"Yeah," Dean mutters. "Whatever."
"Are you all right, man? I thought you were just gonna hang out out here and soak up some sun."
"I'm fine."
Sam ponders that for a second, and Dean can feel it coming: the demand for an explanation. But if that was Sam's intention, it's DOA. All Sam ends up doing is shrugging and reaching for the bags he dropped on the hood of the car.
"I got you pie," he says. "They had a whole bunch of those single-serving things. Got you three. Sound good?"
Yesterday afternoon, Sam said things were golden.
Said he doesn't feel guilty about anything, and he's getting on with his life.
He's getting a handle on things.
Yesterday afternoon, after all of that, after they'd been driving for a while, Dean came to the conclusion that Sam was lying out his ass.
But…
Maybe?
One of them needs to be on solid ground. If they both were, that'd be freaking awesome, but there's such a thing as asking the universe for too damned much. If Sam's good, if Sam can put one foot in front of the other - even if that involves Sam's telling himself some enormous, crazy-ass fairy tale, and ignoring ninety percent of what their lives are, then…
Maybe they stand a chance of surviving this.
Maybe. Someday. Daydream.
"You good, Sammy?" Dean asks quietly.
"What? Yeah."
"Then gimme my pie. You owed me some freakin' pie."
Sam huffs out a small laugh as he lines the grocery bags up on the back seat. "I swear, dude," he says over his shoulder, "you are the easiest person in the world to piss off. And the easiest person to satisfy."
Nodding, Dean rests his weight on his right foot.
Forces himself not to grimace.
"I guess," he says, and circles around the car to the driver's seat.
* * * * *
But chilling out's not what it used to be. He's starting to feel like it's turned into an Olympic event in which he can expect nothing more than a few sympathy votes.
CHARACTERS: Dean, Sam, OCs
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: Up through 7.04
LENGTH: 1264 words
PTSD
By Carol Davis
Just chill out, he thinks. It's a nice day. Sun's shining. Birds are singin'. With any luck, you won't need to kill anything in the next couple hours.
A few yards away, there's a woman struggling to load a couple kids and a ton of groceries into a beat-up SUV. She's not much bigger than a kid, herself, and watching her in his peripheral vision brings back memories of Dad teaching him to drive. Figuring out how far up he needed to hitch the driver's seat so he could reach the pedals.
A glance at the front of the store tells him Sam hasn't reached the checkout yet.
Just chill.
But chilling out's not what it used to be. He's starting to feel like it's turned into an Olympic event in which he can expect nothing more than a few sympathy votes.
"JEREMY!" the woman shrieks.
Those kids have been fussing since they came out of the store a couple minutes ago. The bigger one's having what's obviously an "I want CANDY!!!" meltdown, and the little one - two years old, Dean thinks, maybe a little more - is just following suit. Sam went through both those stages; Dean didn't dare.
Though maybe he did.
Before.
It's getting harder and harder to remember before.
The older kid - Jeremy, Dean figures - has gone limp on the pavement, refusing to get into the car. He's screeching like he's being impaled as his mother does her best to haul him up off the ground by one arm, while she uses her other hand to hold the baby in its car seat. Overtired, Dean thinks; they're all overtired, and a couple hours of sleep will turn this whole thing around.
Their grocery cart, currently being attended to by no one, begins a slow roll away from the car.
The woman looks at it and bursts into tears.
"Shit!" she screams. "Goddamn it all to SHIT!"
Down on the ground, Jeremy sucks in a breath like an opera singer aiming for that final high note and lets out a scream that rockets into Dean's head like it was shot out of a sniper rifle.
Just…
NO.
Just.
The screams, the howls for mercy of the damned - they're all swirling around him then, plucking at him with fingers that are both fire and ice. Somewhere deep inside his head, he can hear himself screaming "SAM! SAAAAAAAM!" both as a prayer for deliverance and because he simply cannot not scream.
Parking lot.
You're not…parking lot. Grocery store.
HOLD. IT. TOGETHER.
The whispers kick in then: the chorus of voices surrounding him. Deeeeeeeean. Do you know where they are, Dean?
Do you know how they're suffering?
YOU'RE IN A FUCKING PARKING LOT.
Jaw set, he lifts his right foot and slams it down to the pavement, and the jagged piece of gravel he keeps inside his boot jabs hard and sharp into the arch of his foot. It isn't much; it'll probably leave a bruise, if that, but it's a distraction. When he lifts his foot again, he wiggles it a little, so that the next blow jams the stone into a slightly different spot.
The pain is sweet, isn't it, Dean? Sweet, sweet pain.
You know you love it.
He begins to walk, canting his weight onto his right side so that each step insults the places the gravel has already wounded. He keeps his head low, so there'll be no eye contact with anyone he might pass; he's more than well aware that the expression on his face brands him as a nutball, and among the numerous last things he and Sam need right now is a chat with the cops because they've attracted the wrong kind of attention.
Deeeeeeeeannnnnn…
If those kids would just stop screaming - if he could have a little silence, then he'd stand a chance of coming out of this.
Come back to us, Dean…
He strides along the perimeter of the parking lot, remaining where Sam will be able to spot him if he's not back alongside the car when Sam comes out of the store. He doesn't dare go where Sam can't see him; it's too tough to explain that. He's never been one to take walks, even to kill time. Pacing the parking lot - that's believable. Taking a stroll to enjoy the sunshine definitely isn't.
Real, he chants silently as he strides along the outer row of cars. This is real.
Parking lot.
Kid wants his candy and a nap.
Rest of it's just shit in your head. Come on. You can DO this.
He's on his second circuit when he sees his brother approach the Impala. There's a big worried frown screwed onto Sam's face, but he's not looking around, not trying to find Dean. He sets his collection of bags down on the hood of the car, then scoots over to that old SUV and says something to the sobbing woman that Dean can't make out. Quickly and efficiently, with the frown smoothly morphing into a smile, Sam plucks the woman's groceries from her cart and deposits them in the back of the car, then crouches down alongside the still-flailing Jeremy.
By the time Dean reaches the Impala, Sam's got the woman and her kids all taken care of, all tucked safely inside the SUV with their groceries, and he's stashed the empty cart in the cart corral. He stands watching the SUV roll away, and waves to the woman, then turns toward Dean and heaves a very satisfied sigh.
"Remind me never to have kids," Sam chuckles.
"What - like, you were planning to?"
Sam frowns at that. "I don't know. I just - it'd be nice to think about. Maybe. Someday. Daydream. You know."
"Yeah," Dean mutters. "Whatever."
"Are you all right, man? I thought you were just gonna hang out out here and soak up some sun."
"I'm fine."
Sam ponders that for a second, and Dean can feel it coming: the demand for an explanation. But if that was Sam's intention, it's DOA. All Sam ends up doing is shrugging and reaching for the bags he dropped on the hood of the car.
"I got you pie," he says. "They had a whole bunch of those single-serving things. Got you three. Sound good?"
Yesterday afternoon, Sam said things were golden.
Said he doesn't feel guilty about anything, and he's getting on with his life.
He's getting a handle on things.
Yesterday afternoon, after all of that, after they'd been driving for a while, Dean came to the conclusion that Sam was lying out his ass.
But…
Maybe?
One of them needs to be on solid ground. If they both were, that'd be freaking awesome, but there's such a thing as asking the universe for too damned much. If Sam's good, if Sam can put one foot in front of the other - even if that involves Sam's telling himself some enormous, crazy-ass fairy tale, and ignoring ninety percent of what their lives are, then…
Maybe they stand a chance of surviving this.
Maybe. Someday. Daydream.
"You good, Sammy?" Dean asks quietly.
"What? Yeah."
"Then gimme my pie. You owed me some freakin' pie."
Sam huffs out a small laugh as he lines the grocery bags up on the back seat. "I swear, dude," he says over his shoulder, "you are the easiest person in the world to piss off. And the easiest person to satisfy."
Nodding, Dean rests his weight on his right foot.
Forces himself not to grimace.
"I guess," he says, and circles around the car to the driver's seat.
* * * * *