Ouroboros - Part 1
Fic title:Ouroboros
Author name:Gedry
Artist name:Counteragent
Genre: Gen
Rating:PG
Word count: 32,895
Summary:After Sam gets his soul back his relationship with Dean is rockier than ever. Secrets have piled up and tension is running high between the brothers. Their inability to get along causes problems for Bobby so he orders them to get help or get gone. Working through their problems is more complicated than they thought, and their therapist isn’t who she seems.
Ouroboros
Change through the devouring of self
Session 1
“Tell me what leads you to seek therapy at this time.”
Sam shifts beside him. Dean notices it’s a nervous gesture, one of the few physical tells that his younger brother still has.
She notices, too. Her eyes dart to Sam’s legs after he moves them before tipping back up to Dean’s face. The lady has a hell of a poker face. The room is so silent they can hear the heat clicking on in the hallway and she’s just waiting, relaxed, for an answer to her question.
He hates counselors.
“There have been some problems,” Dean answers and has to fight the urge to swipe his hand across his face.
She looks at Sam who has spent most of their time here looking everywhere but at her face.
“With?” She prompts after another long moment of silence.
“Us,” Dean says as he waves his hand back and forth between his sibling and himself. “Our relationship I guess.”
“Personal or professional?”
“Um, what?” Sam asks.
“The problems you two are having,” she mimics the hand gesture. “Are they of a personal nature or a professional one?”
“I’m not sure there’s a difference,” Sam mutters at the same time Dean blurts, “Professional!”
“I see.” She scribbles something down in her notebook that Dean can’t read from where he’s sitting, and it sets his teeth on edge. “These problems, how have they impacted your ability to function?”
The heat clicks off again out in the hallway before Dean says, “We’ve made some bad calls recently. Got some people hurt that shouldn’t have been.”
“He doesn’t trust me,” Sam interrupts. God, Dean fucking hates it when he does that.
“I was talking,” he snaps.
“You’re always talking,” Sam huffs. “You never listen. That’s one of the problems.”
“I would listen if all the shit you said wasn’t fucking stupid.”
“It’s not stupid! Just because I have a different opinion than you doesn’t make me wrong, damn it!” Sam’s in full-on bitch face now. Dean thinks it might be number seventy-two he’s building up to. That’s the one he puts on when he thinks Dean is not only being an asshole, but trying to embarrass him on purpose.
It’s while he’s contemplating that when Dean remembers they aren’t alone.
She looks unimpressed.
“The information I have on you says you’ve been hunting most of your lives and you’ve been partners during that time, with only a few brief exceptions.” She moves her gaze back and forth between the two. “How would you describe your relationship?”
“Complicated,” Dean answers without hesitation.
“Tense,” Sam adds with a nod.
“Have either of you ever received services before?”
“I had a few heart-to-hearts with a hallucination of mine while we were locked up in a mental institution on a case two years ago,” Dean offers half joking. “Does that count?”
“Did it feel therapeutic to you?” she asks with her head cocked to the side.
“Yeah, actually,” he admits.
“Then it counted.” She turns to Sam. “What about you?”
“I saw a therapist at Stanford for a year and a half when I was in college,” Sam answers.
“I didn’t know that,” Dean blurts. “What did you need to see a therapist for?”
“Were you there when Dad raised us, Dean?” Sam snorts. “What didn’t I need to see a therapist for?”
“How effective was your previous treatment?”
“I think it helped,” Sam says slowly. “Until everything fell apart again.”
Dean thinks about Jessica burning up on the ceiling, and he’s pretty sure Sam’s thinking the same thing.
“What are your goals for therapy?”
Crickets - Dean swears it’s so quiet he can hear crickets it’s so silent in the room.
“Look,” he sighs. “I don’t think we have goals. This is how we are. It’s how we’ve always been. We’re brothers. We fight. It happens. All of a sudden it’s like this is a huge deal, and it’s really not. We’re fine.”
“I want him to respect me more,” Sam answers. “I’m sick of being treated like I can’t be trusted, and I want him to stop treating me like I’m infected with some kind of horrible disease.”
Dean stares at the side of Sam’s clenched cheek like if he looks at it long enough the words his brother just said will have never come out.
She turns her attention from Sam back to him and asks, “You want to try that again?”
“Bobby sent us,” Dean huffs. “He’s the closest thing to a dad we got, and he’s fed up. He said we were selfish, narcissistic, and that if we couldn’t do better than we are right now, to stop calling him. I can’t have that happen. So I don’t know if that’s a goal, but it’s all I have right now.”
“It’ll do.” She clicks her pen and puts her pad of paper down on the table next to her chair. “What I offer here is simple. You come to sessions, you talk about what I think you need to talk about; if I give you homework, you do it. You pay me in full and on time. In return, I offer you twenty-four hour access to me from any location. You chant the spell that got you here the first time and you’ll be back in the lobby again. When your session’s over, I send you back where you came from. I have a flexible schedule and offer crisis counseling as well. But there are rules.”
“And they are?” Sam asks.
“I have no limits on who I see,” she crosses her almost-too-long-to-be-real legs and leans back in her chair. “Anyone able to meet the fee requirement is accepted. This means that I will not accept fighting in the lobby. When you come here you might see other hunters, or demons, or other assorted types of creatures. My office is a neutral zone. I do not disclose information about any of my clients under any circumstances. Any attempts to break into my records or coerce me into sharing details about other clients that you might think would help you about someone else’s case will result in your termination as my client and your immediate death.”
“Right,” Dean snorts because that is seriously ridiculous.
“Try me,” she dares him. There’s something about the look in her eyes that makes Dean swallow and sit a little further back in the chair.
“The other thing is -” she’s distracted by the light on her phone blinking. “Give me a minute please. I’m sorry for the interruption.”
Dean and Sam look at each other and shrug as she picks up the phone. “Meredith, I’m in session. I told you not to disturb me.”
There’s noise from the other end and for the first time Dean sees some animation of her otherwise passive façade. “Oh, very well then, that’s different. Let me ask the Winchesters to step out and I will take his call.”
There’s a louder response from the other end of the phone and she sighs. “Alright, put him through.”
The noise turns to yelling as soon as the call rolls over. Dean watches her closely as she raises her eyebrow before tugging on a lock of her long red hair. “Mathew,” She says calmly but firmly. “Are you with me?”
More yelling.
“Mathew! CALM DOWN!” She orders.
Dean thinks he hears panting from the other end of the line.
“Listen to me carefully,” she says as she starts scribbling on a clean page of her notepad. “This is not your mother, Mathew. Your mother’s dead. We’ve gone over this before. This is just a monster like all the other ones you’ve killed. You can kill this one too, you just need to get yourself together.”
There’s something Dean can’t make out in response. Sam’s leaning forward like he’s trying to understand the guy on the phone, too.
“Yes, I know it took her shape. They do that. But it’s coming now, Mathew,” she comments. “It’s circling back toward you, just like the pattern you figured out. You need to get ready. You need to shoot it.”
There’s more frantic commentary from the guy on the other end and she suddenly sits up straight and commands, “You have to shoot it or you’re going to die right now! SHOOT IT! SHOOT IT NOW!!!”
The pull of the moment makes Dean want to yell at the guy to shoot whatever-the-fuck it is, too. Not that it would help out at all. There’s the sound of gun fire and then panting.
“Good job,” she says briskly. “I’ll expect my full fee deposited in my account by morning. That will give you the night to rest and recuperate.”
Dean misses what the guy on the other end of the line might have been saying, but he can tell by the look on her face that it’s not what she wants to hear.
“Mathew,” she says in a voice that is deceptively calm. “You will pay me. If you choose not to do so, I will have no other choice but to open your file to my collections department. Trust me, that is not something that you want to have happen. Bullets don’t stop them from coming for you.”
She hangs up without another word and turns back to them like it never happened. “I believe we were discussing our terms. Do you have any questions?”
“What are you?” Sam asks, and Dean shoot him a weird look because he sounds a little awed.
“This isn’t about me,” she answers with a smile.
They end up with individual appointments for next week. There’s some paperwork that they end up having to sign in blood, and so help him, if Bobby hadn’t vouched for this lady being the best, Dean thinks he would be trying to salt and burn her or something right where she sits.
“What do we call you, anyway?” Dean asks as they head for the door. “I mean, do you have a title or something?”
“Call me Dora,” she answers as she sees them out.
One minute they’re in her waiting room, the next they’re sitting in a deserted barn back off the highway.
“What do you think?” Dean asks as they clean up and get ready to hit the road.
“I think it better work,” Sam mumbles. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this.”
*****
“So, yeah,” Dean sighs. “We’re all signed up and ready to go. I see her on Thursday, and Sam’s got Friday. We have a number to reach her at in the mean time.”
“Good for you, son,” Bobby answers, and for the first time in a long time there’s warmth instead of exasperation in his tone. “She’s the best. She’ll get you boys straightened out.”
“We’ll see,” Dean mutters. “What is she, Bobby? She sure as hell isn’t human.”
“Doesn’t matter what she is, Dean,” Bobby snaps. “And if I were you, I wouldn’t dig too deep. The lady keeps to her word and tells you the facts up front. If you cross her, you don’t get the chance to do it twice.”
“Yeah, I got that impression when she took an emergency call from this Mathew guy,” Dean admits.
“Mathew Hubbard,” Bobby replies. “He’s dead, Dean.”
“She was just talking to him two days ago,” Dean blurts. “What happened?”
“I guess their termination session didn’t go too well,” Bobby sighs. “They found him in his car on the side of the road in broad daylight. Not a scratch on the car, but he was basically turned inside out.”
“How do you know Dora had anything to do with it?” Dean asks.
“Her business card was in his mouth.”
He hangs up with Bobby and fills Sam in on the news.
“Guess he didn’t pay her,” Sam says with a shrug. It’s the kind of stuff that’s been happening since Sam got back from Hell and it gives Dean the creeps. He knows his brother has a soul, hell he watched it get shoved back in there himself. But sometimes…it’s like Sammy’s soul’s not working.
Session 2
“Tell me how I can be of the most benefit to you during our time together.”
Dean’s heard something like that question before - but usually it came from the mouths of hookers.
He plucks at the fabric covering the arms of the over-stuffed chair he’s sitting in and figures that it would mostly likely be comfortable if he wasn’t so tense that he feels like he wants to peel his own skin off.
“Dean?” she presses after a long moment when he doesn’t answer.
“I don’t know, really,” he finally responds.
“Okay,” she leans back in her chair and says, “Why don’t we go about this a different way? Tell me what’s bothering you the most.”
“Sam has this thing he does in the car where he wiggles his leg all the time and it annoys the shit out of me.”
“So your biggest issue is that your brother has restless leg syndrome?” her eyes narrow at him.
“No,” Dean huffs, leaning forward. “See, that’s just it. He doesn’t have restless leg syndrome. He never has. He used to do it in the car when he had to ride in the front seat with Dad. It was one of those things he did just to piss Dad off because he knew it bothered him. Sam can be as still as a statue when he wants to be.”
“Has he always done it with you, or was it reserved for just your father?”
“It used to just be Dad,” Dean sighs. “When we first got back together, he never did shit like that. But over the years, it’s started to creep in really slowly. First it was the leg shaking, then he added in tapping, the occasional humming of the wrong song; there are these periods where I’m talking and I know he can hear me and it’s like he’s totally tuned me out. The other day, I let him drive and when I told him to pull over so I could take a piss, he acted like he didn’t hear me, and kept going for an hour.”
“What’s your reaction when these events occur?”
“I blow up,” Dean blurts. “You would too, if you had to piss that bad. I yell at him, smack him up the back of the head, shit like that. Stuff that brothers do.”
“And Sam’s reaction to you when you do those things?”
“I get a bitch face,” Dean smirks. “Look, you’ll figure this out over time, but Sammy is a total girl - no offense - he’s overly emotional. Always has been. It used to drive Dad bat-shit crazy. For a while there, when he was a teenager, it was like he had PMS all the time. I always thought he would grow out of it, but it never happened.”
“What would your father do when Sam would act this way?”
“He’d yell,” Dean shrugs, “give Sam a lecture about how he needed to act more like me.”
“What about physical consequences?”
“Dad never abused us,” Dean growls and his hands clench on the arms of the chair.
“I didn’t ask that,” Dora corrects. “But it is interesting that your mind went to that assumption first.”
“So, what, you think I’m lying?”
“I think you’re uncomfortable with the subject matter,” she replies. “You mentioned you would hit your brother on the back of the head. I was simply wondering if your father did something similar.”
“Oh,” he takes a deep breath. “Not really. When Dad hit you, it wasn’t playful like I mean it to be with Sam. Not that it happened often or anything. But when it did, you remembered it, or at least I did. It only really ever seemed to make Sam worse.”
“Back to Sam, then?”
“What do you mean?” Dean asks.
“Dean, you’ve been here a half-hour, and all you’ve talked about is your brother.” She mentions with a smile.
“You asked me what my biggest issues were, and I’m telling you.”
“No,” Dora shakes her head. “You’re telling me all about what you think Sam’s biggest issues are.”
“Well, he has a bunch,” Dean huffs. “Sam’s got way more issues than me.”
“Okay,” she waits for Dean to stop staring out the window and turn to look at her. “Let’s try something different here.” Dora’s posture shifts forward, and suddenly Dean feels like he’s under a microscope. “I’m going to give you a task, and we’ll see how it goes from here on out. You’re not allowed to talk about Sam in here with me anymore unless it directly relates to something that impacts you and your issues.”
“I can’t talk about Sam?” Dean asks. When she nods he blurts, “What-the-fuck else am I supposed to talk about?”
He’s irritated when she laughs.
“I’ll help you out this time,” she offers. “Talk to me about your substance use.”
“I drink sometimes,” Dean hedges.
“How often, and how much?”
“Maybe a fifth,” Dean’s back to picking at the arm of the chair. “Every day, or so.”
“And how long have you been drinking that heavily?”
“Years.” Dean shrugs. “It comes with the job. Sometimes it’s the only way I get any sleep.”
“Have you experienced any medical effects from your drinking?” She’s taking notes again, but Dean’s too twisted up to really care at this point.
“Not that I know of, but, honestly the last time I saw anything that even resembled a doctor was to get him to temporarily kill me.”
There’s a pause in her scribbles on the pad, but she doesn’t take the bait.
“Other substance use?”
“I smoked some pot as a kid,” Dean grins. “It made me sick to my stomach. I’ve taken a few pills here and there, but nothing serious. I tried cocaine once, but I didn’t like how out-of-control I felt, and that’s pretty much it until last year.”
“What happened last year?” Dora waits, but Dean doesn’t say anything. “Dean?”
“You said I can’t talk about my brother,” Dean explains.
“You can talk about him if it involves an issue of yours,” she reminds him.
“Sammy came back from Hell with no soul,” Dean explains. “He didn’t sleep, ever. So when I found out, it was really creepy. I didn’t trust him.”
“That must have been hard for you.”
“Hell yeah it was.” Dean bites his lip. “Sammy always had my back. He was the only person I was safe with, and when I realized I couldn’t count on him, I started popping pills to keep me awake.”
“How long did you use the pills for?”
“I’m still taking them.” He’s staring at the floor now.
“My information indicates that Sam’s had his soul back for several months, now,” Dora waits for Dean to nod. “I assume he’s sleeping. So what’s the benefit of continuing the medication?”
“He’s sleeping,” Dean sighs, “like a baby; me, not so much. Every time I close my eyes, I see all these things I don’t want to remember, and I have these terrible nightmares about what might happen if Sam’s soul falls apart. I dream about having to kill my brother…it’s easier to just stay awake.”
“How’s that working for you?”
“Shitty,” Dean snorts again, “I keep thinking I need to start taking more of them. I’m sleeping more than I want to.”
He watches her scribbling in her notebook and blurts, “So are you saying I have a problem?”
“Are you?”
“This is going to be annoying as fuck if you answer every question I have for you with a question,” he complains.
She raises an eyebrow.
“I should stop, right?” Dean asks.
“What do you think?”
“You’re the professional,” he huffs.
“It’s hard for you to define limits for yourself.”
“What do you mean?” Dean’s suddenly defensive.
“It seems like you want to give me the right answer,” Dora comments.
“Well, yeah,” Dean snorts. “You’re the boss, here.”
“It’s important who’s in charge.”
“Of course it is,” Dean explains. “The person in charge takes all the heat. It’s easier to be the back-up guy. That way, if something goes to shit, it’s not your fault.”
“So explain to me how you dealt with the change from being your father’s back-up guy to your brother’s leader.”
He’s going to have to close his mouth here in a minute.
“I never thought about it that way,” he finally admits. “It was easier with Dad. I did what I was told and followed his lead and he took care of me. I didn’t have to worry about options or choices or the fall-out of the plans he made. I knew he’d take care of me. I liked it that way. When I went out on my own, I was always really glad to come back to him because it was so much easier when he was around.”
“And now?” she asks softly.
“I’m not my father.” Dean sighs. “I second-guess everything. I feel like we do all the wrong things for the right reasons, and I don’t know if that matters anymore. They’re still the wrong things. I wanted to be like Dad. I wanted to take the pressure off Sam so he wouldn’t worry about shit all the time or feel like everything was his fault.”
“It’s not working, is it?”
“No,” Dean admits. “Sam doesn’t think like me.”
“So you’re telling me you don’t really want to be in charge all the time.”
“Yeah.”
“You sound sad about that.”
“I’m pretty sure my father would be disappointed in me,” Dean mutters.
“And that is really important to you.”
“Of course it is! He’s my Dad!” Dean snaps.
“But he’s dead, Dean,” she answers. “What about the people who are here with you now? Does it matter what they think of you?”
“I disappoint Sam all the time,” Dean says. “It’s a fact of life. It matters what Bobby thinks.”
“You sound resigned to the belief your brother thinks poorly of you.”
“All I know is the less people you’re close to, the less they can hurt you, and I have all the hurt I can handle with Sam,” Dean says with a sad expression. “I don’t like this.”
“I know,” Dora comments. “Your session’s almost over. Seems like we need to do some work on addiction, co-dependency, and self-esteem. Anything you want to add?”
“How about we wait and see if I survive those things first,” Dean says with a shake of his head.
“Alright, I have a standard final question that I ask all my clients. Where do you see yourself in ten years? What do you see for your future?”
Dean laughs a dry, brittle, almost cracking laugh as he swipes his hands across his face and rests his elbows on his knees. “I’ll be dead ten years from now, Dora. Guys like me don’t get to have a future.”
*****
They schedule him for a follow-up next week, and Dean leaves with marching orders to stop taking the stimulants and lay off the alcohol. He steps out the waiting room door and back into the bedroom he’s been sleeping in at Bobby’s house. Once he pulls himself together, he wanders downstairs into the kitchen to find Sam head-first in the fridge looking for something to eat for lunch.
“Want a beer?” Sam asks as he sees Dean come in. He works his way back out of the fridge to drop the stuff to make sandwiches with onto the counter. “I’m making turkey on rye. You want one?”
“I’ll take you up on the food,” Dean says, “but skip the beer, okay?”
“No beer?” Sam snorts. “Christo!”
“I’m not possessed, asshole.” Dean huffs. “I just need to lay off for a while.”
“Dora thinks you have a drinking problem?” Sam’s voice is a mix of stunned and flat.
“Not exactly.” Dean shrugs. “Maybe I think I do.”
Sam gives him a Pepsi, and gets himself a Sprite.
Part 2