Where I walk alone -- part 2
Dean is watching him and he thinks maybe he should at least say something.
“I had a bad dream.”
Yeah, that totally doesn’t make him sound like he’s eleven. He used to have nightmares about their father back then, once he’d found out he was hunting monsters he would dream about him getting torn apart by all kinds of weird beings. He would wake up, scream for his father and most of the time he wouldn’t be able to go to sleep after it. But, right now, sleep actually sounds wonderful, like heaven really, he should go back to their room-
Dean sneers at the repetition. “A bad dream? Or a bad dream?”
Dean is striving for patience, he can see that clearly, and Sam knows that patience is going to wear out soon. He tries to look up at him, but somehow his eyes don’t want to meet Dean’s.
“A bad dream… really bad.”
“Sam-“
No, he can’t, he can’t talk about it, no.
“Look, it was just a dream, okay? I think after everything that’s happened it’s not too surprising-“ **you’ll grow to like it**-- “-oh God…”
Sharp teeth appear at the edge of his vision and he flinches back violently, his hands coming up to cover his eyes, rubbing at them when they start burning. He needs to stop that voice, needs to shut it up **you gave me your heart once**, get it out of his head, these flashbacks are just too painful…
“Look, Sam, I know how hard it is…” Dean hesitates, leans forward slightly, then continues, in a softer voice, “Loosing Dad… it hurts- But this?”
He tries again then, gathers all the energy he has left and looks up, looks at Dean, forces his face into a tired smile, praying his brother will just drop it, let him off this particular hook so he can fall apart later, in private, when Dean’s not looking. He even manages to string together a few words to prove he really is okay.
“I’m fine. It was a… a nightmare… one h-hell of a nightmare, but it’s over now. You don’t have to worry about me.”
It won’t work, he realizes that halfway through the last sentence, Dean’s not buying it, no letting of the hook. In fact, Dean’s getting angry. “Dammit, Sam, it’s my job to worry about you, and you are about as far away from okay as you get!”
He’s right, Dean is right, he is falling apart, drowning in memories and fear and misery. And, just like that, all the fight goes out of him, he stares back at Dean, mind blank. He doesn’t know what to do.
Dean shifts, watches him, drops his voice, the tone getting slightly concerned. “You were crying, Sam.” There’s no teasing him and that’s so out of character it’s starting to make him feel uncomfortable. “Crying, Sam, in your sleep. And this is not the first time.”
It isn’t? He can’t remember anything like-this, he’s sure he would, it’s not exactly something you would just forget, ever. He looks up, surprised. “Not the first time?”
Dean leans back, rubs a hand over his face. “Not every night, but, yeah, you have. Sometimes so much I wonder why you don’t wake up with a sore throat.”
Despite the dulling exhaustion that’s slowly numbing his limbs the words tug at what’s left of his interest and he thinks about it. If Dean is right, if it has happened before, why can’t he remember? He looks up at his brother, curious for a moment. “Why didn’t you wake me up? If it was so bad?”
Dean tenses, grits his teeth. “I’ve tried. You won’t wake up.”
Oh. That’s… that’s not good, not good at all, but at least it would explain-
Dean leans forward again, catches his gaze, looking him straight in the eye, a hint of anger creeping into his voice. “Tell me it’s just a bad dream.”
He’s daring him, Sam realizes distantly, daring him to lie to him so he can explode, can yell at him how much he can see through him.
Sam blinks, scrubs a hand through his hair and clears his throat, searching for something he can say to get him off his back. It’s never easy to lie to his brother, but with his thoughts drifting like that and the ever increasing need to close his eyes and just let go he has to realize that he can’t, not this time. He can’t lie to him, not about this, he’s too scared, too fucking scared out of his mind by what he’s seeing, he can’t play it down.
“I…” he starts, looks up, swallows hard, fights to make his voice work and still ends up croaking miserably, “Dean, I can’t…”
Dean’s eyes harden, his voice getting louder. “Can’t what, Sammy? Can’t tell me? Can’t talk about it? What?”
Can’t do either. Either way, Sam is screwed. Lie to him and hurt him with the lie… or tell the truth and kill him. Breathing hurts, all of a sudden, taking a single breath seems almost impossible through his tight throat. He squeezes his eyes shut, massaging his temple for a moment.
“I don’t know if I can talk about it-“ he starts, and even to himself that sounds just lame.
Dean shakes his head and glares. “Sam.”
He is too calm, uncharacteristically so, studying him so intently he has to drop his gaze.
“Sam, look at me.”
I can’t.
He fidgets on his seat, nervous fingers closing around something cold and when he looks down at his hands he’s fumbling with a small saltshaker, turning it over and over. He stares at it, wonders distractedly if the salt would help him keep the screams-dreams back and maybe, if he puts some of it down around his bed-
“This is killing you, man.”
His eyes snap back to Dean’s **he can’t die, that’s the worst of it, he can’t die** and he sees pain there, worry, for him. “I know I haven’t been brother of the year lately, but… you… I don’t want to lose you, too, Sam. I can’t…”
This is serious, he knows how worried Dean must be, how out of his mind if he says stuff like that, if he admits to actually give a shit. He wants to help him, he does, he wants to tell him that he doesn’t need to worry, that he’ll find a way to solve this, to make it go away, but he’s so tired and his eyes are tearing up again and he just can’t seem to focus.
He forces himself to look up, to meet Dean’s gaze and the look on his brother’s face tells him he can’t hold back, not this time.
“I…” he starts, searches for words, turns the shaker in his hand, “I don’t know how to-“ He breaks off again when he realizes he’s stalling. “I keep seeing Dad.”
Dean winces, swallows, takes a deep breath. “When you sleep?”
He feels his head nod and his eyes drop back to the shaker.
“When you dream?”
He knows Dean is biting his lip now, fighting to keep his emotions in check, feels ridiculously glad that at least one of them is able to keep himself together.
“He’s always there…”
Small grains of salt fall on the table as he continues to spin the shaker and he watches them move, fall into a pattern that doesn’t make sense. It fascinates him and he almost misses Dean’s next question.
“Are they… are they dreams… or dreams?”
The small plastic box starts shaking, more white crystals spilling to the dark surface of the table.
“At first I thought they were just… dreams… like everything was finally catching up with me… and…” He runs a weary hand over his burning eyes, pausing.
“And now?”
“Now I’m not sure anymore.”
“Not sure…”
He blinks slowly when his sight gets blurry again. “It feels too real…”
Dean’s breathing heavily now, out of the corner of his eye he sees his brother reaching up, no doubt running a hand over his eyes. Dean does that a lot when he’s worried. Or nervous. Or scared.
“It feels too real? Something that makes you scream in your sleep? That makes you… that makes you cry?”
Dean leans closer, voice rising slightly, something-panic?-clinging to it. “What feels that real, Sam? Why are you screaming Dad’s name?”
Terrified. Dean’s terrified. He’s starting to lose it and Dean never loses it. It’s so wrong, just wrong and he should just shut up, suck it up and burry it, because that’s what they do, because Dean shouldn’t sound like that, not over him, over this. He can’t know, it will be too much for him, too close. This can’t be his problem.
He shuts down, leans back, creates distance, crosses his arms in front of his chest, the shaker clutched tightly in his hand. And Dean looks at him. Glares.
“You’re dreaming up stuff that makes you cry, makes you scream for Dad. Makes you attack me.” Dean’s still on the other end of the table, but he could as well be inches from his face, his eyes, his words are so intense he can feel them batter away at his meagre defences. And he doesn’t stop. “You think that’s completely normal, Sam?”
No, he doesn’t, but-
“Jesus, Sam, what crazy-assed shit is going through that freaky head of yours this time?" He is almost sure he must have zoned out on his brother again and not reacted for a longer time, Dean went from scared and coaxing to mean with no explanation. The words hit something deep in his chest and they hurt, but it’s a distant pain, dull, like it doesn’t really concern him.
“Dean-“
“What are you going to do next time I try to wake you up from your dream? Stab me? Or maybe shoot me?"
Dean is speaking too fast, he has trouble keeping up with him, but the pain gets stronger, becomes more real and he just wants It. To. Stop.
“Dean…”
“No, Sam, I get it, you don’t want to talk.” And yeah, Dean is angry now. Scared. And he has every reason to, he can’t even blame him. “And you know what? Save it. I’m out of here.”
No, God, no, don’t leave, please don’t leave.
He watches, completely dazed, how his brother stands up and throws some notes on the table, not even looking at him. Then he turns and walks toward the exit, just like that, without saying a word. It takes his exhausted brain way too long to realize Dean is leaving, his brother is halfway through the diner before he can make his lips form words again, and he chokes out, “Dean, wait!”
Dean doesn’t even turn. “I’m done waiting.”
This mood swing doesn’t make sense to him, he knows there’s something he keeps forgetting. The door closes behind Dean and Sam stares at it, blinks, is dimly aware that he is being stared at.
He’s upright before his balance has a chance to adjust and as a result it sends him swaying for a moment. He manages to stay on his feet and follows his brother out through the open door. Outside the diner the morning sun hits him square in the face and his eyes water almost instantly. He groans and shields them with his hand, scanning the street for Dean. He can see the familiar shape disappear in the side street where they parked the car and follows him, forcing his aching body into a slow jog.
“Dean, stop.”
He can’t really make out details, but he knows Dean flips him off while he’s opening the door to the driver’s side. Dean won’t talk to him, he’ll ignore him and, as pathetic as it sounds, right now that’s more than he can handle.
“Dean, wait, please.” His voice has died down to a croak by now and he’s actually out of breath from jogging a few steps. Dammit, this is too much-
“Why?” Dean turns, glares at him and he’s getting really tired of being looked at like that. “Why should I? Are you gonna talk to me now? Or am I too fucking fragile to deal with what we both know is going on here?”
He staggers to a stop, swaying slightly. “You know?”
“God damn it, Sam, how fucking stupid do you think I am? You’ve only been screaming about Dad for days now. And how many headaches have you woken up with?” Dean is watching him over the hood of the car, one hand on top of it, the other hidden. Sam swallows, nods slowly, feeling like a complete jerk now. Of course Dean would have figured it out by now, he should have told him. He just… watching Dean those past two weeks he never would have guessed Dean noticed anything but his own pain.
He looks down, wishes for something to sit down on or at least lean on.
God, he screwed up.
“I’m sorry,” he sighs softly, “I didn’t think I- Man, I’m sorry…”
Some of the anger disappears from Dean’s voice, but he still sounds exasperated. “Don’t be sorry, Sam. Just talk to me.”
“They are hurting him.” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself and he and Dean both tense. Dean’s jaw works and he takes a step away from the car.
“Who is?” he asks carefully and the words sounds like they are hurting him, like he’s preparing to be shot. Sam knows he has to pull the trigger, has to be the one to tell him, to hurt him. His voice gives out, breaks on the first words, but he forces them out even though he’s almost choking on them.
“Mom… one of them looks like… looks like Mom…”
“No.” It’s barely more than a growl which turns into an angry shout. “Mom’s not there. It’s not her.” Dean is closing in on him, stalking over to him, rigid movements, hands clenched tightly at his sides.
“I know.” Sam whispers softly, and he does, he does, but knowing that doesn’t make it easier. Especially not when you draw the next logical conclusion. “The others… they are shapes… shadows, I think they can look like anyone.”
Like us, they can make themselves look like us and they can torture him wearing our faces.
He knows Dean is thinking the same, reads the shock, the horror in his eyes, in the way his shoulders start to shake.
“It’s Dad? You’re sure?” Dean’s barely holding back now and God knows Sam wants to lie, to tell him no he isn’t, it’s not him and everything will be all right.
But he can’t. And with his voice gone the only thing he can do is nod silently.
For a beat, Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t do anything. He’s as still as a statue, eyes a million miles away, focused on something Sam can’t see.
And then he whirls around, faster than Sam’s brain can track the movement and Dean slams his boot into a trashcan behind him. The resulting crash hits Sam’s overtaxed senses like a punch and he flinches so badly he staggers back. Again and again, in time with Dean’s kicks that just don’t stop. They reverberate through his skull and he wants to help, wants to do something, say something that makes it better. His reality shifts and he is back at Bobby’s junkyard, watching from a distance how Dean trashes his baby. He’d kept away from Dean back then, his brother had obviously not wanted him to watch, though he must have assumed Sam had suffered a sudden case of spontaneous deafness since, even halfway across the yard, there would have been no way he would not have heard the beating.
This is different, at least he thinks it is. And he tries to come up with something to help, something to say at least. Only, he can’t, he can’t focus, he can’t think and the pounding in his head and on the metal so doesn’t help.
So he does the only thing he can do, he walks over, sits down on the Impala’s hood, arms crossed in front of his chest, burning eyes closed against the searing headache and as close to Dean as he can without toppling off the car.
And then he waits.
He doesn’t know how long, loses track of time. The noise is hurting his ears, his head, and he just can’t stop flinching, but he doesn’t care, Dean needs this.
Eventually the side street falls silent.
Sam doesn’t move from his spot, doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t say anything. After a long time he can feel the hood dip, sense Dean next to him. His brother sits down, shifts until they are sitting next to each other, shoulders touching. Dean is breathing heavily, but calming down. Sam feels himself leaning toward him, fights the urge to let his heavy head drop onto his brother’s shoulder.
More time passes.
“Sam?” Dean’s quiet voice pulls him out of a semi-doze and he jerks slightly, blinking blearily.
“Hm?”
“Just how fucked up are we right now?”
Dean’s tone is serious, worried, but the angry edge is gone. And if he listens closely enough he can even detect some familiar affectionate teasing. He groans softly, tries to come up with an appropriate response.
“I don’t know about you, but if you can get me some sleep-some real sleep, I won’t stop you from doing what you had planned to do to my stuff back in Oregon.”
Dean pauses, then gives an almost chuckle. “That’s really bad, Sam.”
His head bobs up and down, can be a nod, can be him trying to stay conscious just a little while longer, he can’t tell anymore. “Yeah, yeah, I know…”
“You know we’re gonna find a way, right? We’re gonna find it.”
Dean’s not talking about finding a way to help him sleep, he knows that. And Dean knows he knows and he can’t really think more complicated thoughts than that right now. He simply nods his head again.
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
Another pause, then Dean moves, bumping his shoulder into Sam’s, pushes him to the edge of the hood.
“Now get your ass off my paint job and get inside, we don’t need any more people staring at you like that.”
Right.
Yeah, they’re going to find a way.
*** the end ***