zombic_thoughts Night
Angst angst angst. Kind of some of the reaction to Jump the Shark. So, obviously, spoilers.
During the day, it was better. There were things to be done. Automatically, he was taking on the more physical tasks for a bit while Sammy was recovering from the blood loss, the way Sam had taken over them when Dean was again freely mobile after Alastair's beating, but not fully recovered. Unconscious, they didn't ever discuss that, because, heaven forbid either of them should admit he was still feeling a bit weak or the other comment that he should be careful. But doing it all the same, like Dad had taught them.
Dad.
During the day, it was easier to keep moving about it. Be angry with him, for lying to them (but it was to him that he'd lied, wasn't it?), for all the secrets he'd kept, for protecting the kid but not well enough, for depriving them of even the knowledge of family when it was all they ever had.
It was possible, even, to recall the damned pictures and be a little glad that he'd had a break, a few times in the couple of years or a little over. People who cared for him and he didn't have to have blood on his clothes around and he could smile around. Even if all the knowledge was still behind the smile, and all the horrors, and Bill Harvelle, and everything. It was still a smile.
Wasn't that what he himself had meant, originally, when he'd suggested to Cassie he could come back now and again, back after the whole mess in Missouri? He could get that.
During the day, it was easier to even take the comfort of his brother being there, of Cassie's understanding and reassurance, of seeing Sam have somebody who could distract him from whatever thoughts brought out that closed-up look in his eyes, and help him, right there. Easier to function and be steady and move forward, in whatever direction forward was. Even when he was wondering if any of it would make sense ever again.
But at night, when all he could hear was even breathing (or uneven. Not like he was the only one who had nightmares. He wondered how long it would be before the girls started having them, at times. When the accumulation of what they saw would overflow their mental defenses and start slipping into their dreaming mind in ways too hard to handle.), it just hurt.
Different things at different times.
How neither of them had really trusted him.
No, he knew that he wasn't just a tool to be used and discarded in the meanwhile for either of them. (Used and ignored in the meanwhile, maybe. And not even that reliable of a tool, was he.) But it was...
I'm proud of you, son. The way you've always taken care of this family...
Not of the way he'd fought by his side. Not of the kind of person he'd turned out to be. Not for...
For fuck's sake, Dean. Not like the man had all that much time, right then.
He'd not hidden about Adam from both of them, not really. He'd hidden it from Dean, because Sammy was off trying to live a normal life, following his own thing.
Dean had never had his own thing. It was only embracing Dad's thing. Or what he had thought had been John's thing.
Stupid. Moron. Not smart enough.
Sam had been right. He was the better Hunter, just as John had been. Dean may have been the one who accepted it as his way of life at sixteen, but he still came up short. Whether because some things ended up more important anyway... (Shoot me, Sam. Do it, son! ... Don't you do it, Sammy. Don't you do it.) Or because he just came up short, over and over again. It didn't matter. It never would. He was a fake, a copycat. Trying to be like daddy, trying to be a real man, trying to be good enough.
And never succeeding, not like they could.
Look at me. Moping in the middle of the night. Proving the point precisely.
Both of them. Maybe for different reasons, but practically the same person.
It had been a compliment. John and Sam were always better than him and always would be. Determination and results that he couldn't match. Dedication. Doing the job right.
It had been a complaint, too. That they shut him out, despite how freakin' hard he was always trying. Not resentment, no. He'd worshiped John, and even with how much it hurt, and how angry he was, had been (Have you had an original thought of your own?), Dean wasn't giving up on the things he'd gotten from John. Not even after demonstrating amply that indeed, he came short in measuring up. Very, very short. Not made of the stuff of heroes, not like his father, not like his little brother. And he worshiped his brother too. When there was nobody to hear, he could admit it. The most important person in the freaking world, had been since Mom had died, and nothing could change it. Not the secrets, not the shutting out, not knowing what Azazel had done, not psychic powers, not fighting. Nothing.
But a complaint. Maybe he could do better if he knew some of the things they were keeping from him. Maybe he could come closer to earning their confidence, trust, whatever.
Maybe he could have saved another brother.
Yeah. Right. Like you could save the one you know about and were always trying to keep safe. You can never manage it, Dean. Get carried away hitting a ghoul and let your brother bleed till he'd almost passed out right there. Put him in danger by starting the Apocalypse. You're gonna lose that again, too.
Maybe they had good reason not to trust him. No, no maybe about it.
And he couldn't blame them.
It had been an accusation. But he knew better than to believe he had the right to make it. John had raised him - imperfect as it was, lacking things that he may have wished, John had kept them both alive, and had made people who at least tried to do some good out of them. Sam... Sammy was so much. Had done so much for him, for them. For the world. Saved his ass more times than he could count, in more ways than he cared to. At a greater cost for himself than he often dared to think.And had tried to do even more.
When Sam had said that he'd offered himself to the crossroads demon to be exchanged for Dean's place in Hell, Dean knew it to be true. There wasn't anything that Sam wouldn't do for him. Anything. And he was grateful, and he had no right to accuse anybody. Not his brother, of all people.
Except he wasn't letting him help. Try to help. Maybe he knows you'll fuck that up too, so why should either of you bother tying? It won't make anything better, will it.
It had not been an insult. Although he was sure that whatever he said, it could be seen there. So he'd just submitted to the inevitable. You take that any way you want.
Sam would anyway. All ways. Because try as he might, Dean wouldn't ever be as smart as his brother. As thorough. As strong. Sam would probably take that and overthink it every which way.
It didn't change any of the facts. Or that Dean had needed to say it. Even if just to acknowledge his own falling short.
It had also been you were right.
None of that changed anything though, did it.
It hurt, to know just how far he was from accomplishing anything decent. Righteous man, whatever. He had no right to fail but he was doing it anyway. (Wasn't that why the angels were keeping what he had to do from him too?) Whatever. Man it up, suck it up, try the best you can. Wasn't that what everybody else was telling him?
So maybe they were right, and it was what mattered.
Or maybe they were just stuck with him. He knew he wanted the Apocalypse to stop. Knew he wanted his brother alive and well and, yeah, if possible nearby, because damn, the Sasquatch was his family and that was his world, too. Knew he wanted this feel of Cassie's body against his, even if it put her in danger just to know of him, probably.
But maybe they were stuck with him because there was nobody better and more reliable around. And he was failing them all again.
Sometimes, he hated nights without a job to do. Sleep, when he could no longer fight it, brought the nightmares and memories more often than not. Not sleeping brought... all of this.
It didn't make anything better. He couldn't make anything better.
Fuck.
Yeah, he knew he was going to try anyway. Like he had all that much choice. Since not trying to do something was... even worse. He thought.
Maybe trying to do fuck was just going to make things worse. Maybe 'the only one who could finish it' meant the only one who could complete it. Maybe trying things made it all the harder for Sam.
In the daylight, or on a job, it was easier to just keep going.
It was bad when he had time to think.
During the day, it was better. There were things to be done. Automatically, he was taking on the more physical tasks for a bit while Sammy was recovering from the blood loss, the way Sam had taken over them when Dean was again freely mobile after Alastair's beating, but not fully recovered. Unconscious, they didn't ever discuss that, because, heaven forbid either of them should admit he was still feeling a bit weak or the other comment that he should be careful. But doing it all the same, like Dad had taught them.
Dad.
During the day, it was easier to keep moving about it. Be angry with him, for lying to them (but it was to him that he'd lied, wasn't it?), for all the secrets he'd kept, for protecting the kid but not well enough, for depriving them of even the knowledge of family when it was all they ever had.
It was possible, even, to recall the damned pictures and be a little glad that he'd had a break, a few times in the couple of years or a little over. People who cared for him and he didn't have to have blood on his clothes around and he could smile around. Even if all the knowledge was still behind the smile, and all the horrors, and Bill Harvelle, and everything. It was still a smile.
Wasn't that what he himself had meant, originally, when he'd suggested to Cassie he could come back now and again, back after the whole mess in Missouri? He could get that.
During the day, it was easier to even take the comfort of his brother being there, of Cassie's understanding and reassurance, of seeing Sam have somebody who could distract him from whatever thoughts brought out that closed-up look in his eyes, and help him, right there. Easier to function and be steady and move forward, in whatever direction forward was. Even when he was wondering if any of it would make sense ever again.
But at night, when all he could hear was even breathing (or uneven. Not like he was the only one who had nightmares. He wondered how long it would be before the girls started having them, at times. When the accumulation of what they saw would overflow their mental defenses and start slipping into their dreaming mind in ways too hard to handle.), it just hurt.
Different things at different times.
How neither of them had really trusted him.
No, he knew that he wasn't just a tool to be used and discarded in the meanwhile for either of them. (Used and ignored in the meanwhile, maybe. And not even that reliable of a tool, was he.) But it was...
I'm proud of you, son. The way you've always taken care of this family...
Not of the way he'd fought by his side. Not of the kind of person he'd turned out to be. Not for...
For fuck's sake, Dean. Not like the man had all that much time, right then.
He'd not hidden about Adam from both of them, not really. He'd hidden it from Dean, because Sammy was off trying to live a normal life, following his own thing.
Dean had never had his own thing. It was only embracing Dad's thing. Or what he had thought had been John's thing.
Stupid. Moron. Not smart enough.
Sam had been right. He was the better Hunter, just as John had been. Dean may have been the one who accepted it as his way of life at sixteen, but he still came up short. Whether because some things ended up more important anyway... (Shoot me, Sam. Do it, son! ... Don't you do it, Sammy. Don't you do it.) Or because he just came up short, over and over again. It didn't matter. It never would. He was a fake, a copycat. Trying to be like daddy, trying to be a real man, trying to be good enough.
And never succeeding, not like they could.
Look at me. Moping in the middle of the night. Proving the point precisely.
Both of them. Maybe for different reasons, but practically the same person.
It had been a compliment. John and Sam were always better than him and always would be. Determination and results that he couldn't match. Dedication. Doing the job right.
It had been a complaint, too. That they shut him out, despite how freakin' hard he was always trying. Not resentment, no. He'd worshiped John, and even with how much it hurt, and how angry he was, had been (Have you had an original thought of your own?), Dean wasn't giving up on the things he'd gotten from John. Not even after demonstrating amply that indeed, he came short in measuring up. Very, very short. Not made of the stuff of heroes, not like his father, not like his little brother. And he worshiped his brother too. When there was nobody to hear, he could admit it. The most important person in the freaking world, had been since Mom had died, and nothing could change it. Not the secrets, not the shutting out, not knowing what Azazel had done, not psychic powers, not fighting. Nothing.
But a complaint. Maybe he could do better if he knew some of the things they were keeping from him. Maybe he could come closer to earning their confidence, trust, whatever.
Maybe he could have saved another brother.
Yeah. Right. Like you could save the one you know about and were always trying to keep safe. You can never manage it, Dean. Get carried away hitting a ghoul and let your brother bleed till he'd almost passed out right there. Put him in danger by starting the Apocalypse. You're gonna lose that again, too.
Maybe they had good reason not to trust him. No, no maybe about it.
And he couldn't blame them.
It had been an accusation. But he knew better than to believe he had the right to make it. John had raised him - imperfect as it was, lacking things that he may have wished, John had kept them both alive, and had made people who at least tried to do some good out of them. Sam... Sammy was so much. Had done so much for him, for them. For the world. Saved his ass more times than he could count, in more ways than he cared to. At a greater cost for himself than he often dared to think.And had tried to do even more.
When Sam had said that he'd offered himself to the crossroads demon to be exchanged for Dean's place in Hell, Dean knew it to be true. There wasn't anything that Sam wouldn't do for him. Anything. And he was grateful, and he had no right to accuse anybody. Not his brother, of all people.
Except he wasn't letting him help. Try to help. Maybe he knows you'll fuck that up too, so why should either of you bother tying? It won't make anything better, will it.
It had not been an insult. Although he was sure that whatever he said, it could be seen there. So he'd just submitted to the inevitable. You take that any way you want.
Sam would anyway. All ways. Because try as he might, Dean wouldn't ever be as smart as his brother. As thorough. As strong. Sam would probably take that and overthink it every which way.
It didn't change any of the facts. Or that Dean had needed to say it. Even if just to acknowledge his own falling short.
It had also been you were right.
None of that changed anything though, did it.
It hurt, to know just how far he was from accomplishing anything decent. Righteous man, whatever. He had no right to fail but he was doing it anyway. (Wasn't that why the angels were keeping what he had to do from him too?) Whatever. Man it up, suck it up, try the best you can. Wasn't that what everybody else was telling him?
So maybe they were right, and it was what mattered.
Or maybe they were just stuck with him. He knew he wanted the Apocalypse to stop. Knew he wanted his brother alive and well and, yeah, if possible nearby, because damn, the Sasquatch was his family and that was his world, too. Knew he wanted this feel of Cassie's body against his, even if it put her in danger just to know of him, probably.
But maybe they were stuck with him because there was nobody better and more reliable around. And he was failing them all again.
Sometimes, he hated nights without a job to do. Sleep, when he could no longer fight it, brought the nightmares and memories more often than not. Not sleeping brought... all of this.
It didn't make anything better. He couldn't make anything better.
Fuck.
Yeah, he knew he was going to try anyway. Like he had all that much choice. Since not trying to do something was... even worse. He thought.
Maybe trying to do fuck was just going to make things worse. Maybe 'the only one who could finish it' meant the only one who could complete it. Maybe trying things made it all the harder for Sam.
In the daylight, or on a job, it was easier to just keep going.
It was bad when he had time to think.