FIC: Of Bastard Saints, 5
May. 12th, 2006 10:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: Of Bastard Saints
Authors: nilchance and beanside
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: We make no claim of ownership on the Brothers and Daddy Winchester. No infringement is intended, no money is made.
Author Notes: Set after the episode "Devil's Trap."
WARNINGS: Character maiming, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
“And how does that make you feel?” Dr. Freud asked Sam gently. “Your brother’s death?”
Sam knew his lines. He was supposed to spill it now, sum up his feelings in a neat package or, barring that, rip himself open. The doctor wanted the messy details: anger, abandonment, despair. Or hell, maybe he was just taking out what had happened in the asylum on this poor idiot. Sam shrugged and answered, “Sad.”
“Good. Can you tell me more about that?”
Sam slanted a look at his father. For a moment, they shared a “is this asshole for real?” sentiment that almost brought Sam into reach. Then he looked back at the shrink, gone again. “Not really. It makes me... sad that my brother is— dead,” Sam forced the word out.
Had to say the right things. It was bad enough that Chloe was looking at him oddly during
PT, wondering where the new intensity had come from. Dr. Jackass could put Sam away if he thought Sam was unstable. Could keep him from finding Dean, a motive which pretty much said that Sam was unstable. Knowing that Dean was probably dead, knowing that his faith was misplaced, Sam held on anyway, clinging with both hands to keep from drowning.
So, Doc. Can I get a pass from therapy today? I need to train so I can hunt the demon that totally didn’t murder my not-dead brother I’m supposed to be grieving. Did I mention that it possessed my father? And the trucker who ‘fell asleep behind the wheel’ was possessed, too? Or, that if my father's leg hadn't be so screwed up, you would've see the wound from where I shot him?
Yeah. That’d go over well. And for his next trick, Sam would tell Dr. Phil here that he could move things with his mind. Because he was chosen by fate to look like a goddamned paranoid-schizophrenic.
Apparently realizing Sam was done for the moment, the shrink turned to Sam's father. “And John, how are you coping with the loss of your leg?”
“With a wheelchair,” John drawled, his level stare daring the good doctor to keep prying.
Sam had a suspicious coughing fit and grabbed for the glass of water on his bedside table.
Dr. Feelgood looked like he was getting the idea that he’d lost control of this session the moment he decided to put his patients together to save time. Or carthasis, or whatever; John had no patience for shrinks, and Sam seemed to have lost his trick (developed from a lot of well-intentioned school counselors) of bludgeoning health professionals with sheer wide-eyed
earnestness. Sam had been the kind of kid who could make a nurse believe that he’d actually walked into that door. He’d been to a few eye doctors because of it, but better that than foster care. Like it was better to have his son bruised and trained than happy and vulnerable. It killed John to make that call, but it was a call that had to be made.
Before Dr. Headshrink could get any ideas about pestering Sammy, John cleared his throat and went on. “I’ll deal. That which doesn’t kill you—“ his voice faltered for a second. “Well. You get the idea.”
He glanced at Sam, silently warning him to play along with Dr. Jung for the time being. Sam just looked at him, toying with the little tokens on a chain around his neck. John had called Bobby and asked him to salvage the weapons locker in the trunk. Bobby had been decent enough to ask if there was anything else Sam might want. So Sam had a reminder of Dean, all tied up in the radio knob and a single bent screw with a dark splotch on it. John didn’t ask, and Sam didn’t tell him, if that was blood, mud or motor oil.
There was a lot John didn’t ask about these days, because asking got him shortly and brutally shut down. That door was closed. If Dean had been here, Sam might’ve-
John worried his wedding ring, rubbing it in circles around his finger. A nervous tic, like the way Sam was starting to fidget with the screw when he was anxious. A decent shrink, and John had met a few, would’ve caught that. Dr. Touchy-Feel was too busy making sure security was outside. John got the feeling he wasn’t the one the doctor worried about, because Sammy was getting the edgy look of a man about to climb the proverbial clocktower.
He’d raised the boys to be this driven, this intense about the hunt. He'd seen the ghost of Sammy left after the demon killed Jess, the slow burn of his fuse winding down shorter and shorter. But that hadn’t prepared John to see Sam now, all rage, all focus. Sammy was always the one with the easy smile, Mary’s smile, to crinkle up the corners of his eyes and coax John into smiling back. He’d been focused about getting the demon after it had killed Jess, but it seemed that Dean had pulled him back just enough that when the time came, when it was a choice between revenge and saving his family...
Sam hadn’t pulled the trigger. John wished sometimes that Sam had.
Dean would’ve been in the front seat. Crippled, yes, but alive.
Theirs was the sort of family clusterfuck that a shrink could spend years writing articles about, and John could already see the bastard’s mouth watering. But it wasn’t coming out, because the truth never did. They’d make up some bullshit story about a fire, the wreck, the fight over Sam leaving for college. A quick, easily fixed story. The shrink would buy it. They’d move on. And Sam wouldn’t get anything out of it. He’d still be waiting for Dean to waltz through the door.
There wasn’t a damned thing John could do to change that.
Dr. Glib squinted at Sam for a moment, like he could almost force things into focus. Then he set the tissue box on Sam’s table, like a silent demand. “Do you want to tell me about your brother?”
“No,” Sam replied simply. “Do you?”
“Sam,” John murmured, glancing at him sidelong.
Mouth tightening, Sam looked away. After a minute, he muttered, “Sorry,” and came back. His eyes were shining. It was a really good act, and John might’ve bought it if he didn’t know the mulish look on Sam’s face. “It’s just- really hard, y’know?” Sam asked, his voice hitching.
Dr. Walking Ad for Scientology nodded sympathetically. “Yes. Yes, grief is hard.”
No shit. You needed how many years of school to figure that out? This man didn’t know grief.
Sam sniffed. John had seen him pocket the pepper that came with lunch. Cheap trick, but hey, the classics held up. A moment later, Sam’s eyes started to water. He made a hitching noise and covered his face with one hand, bowing his head so that hair fell in his eyes. After that, the doctor would supply whatever reaction he wanted to see.
Yeah. John’s boy would’ve been one hell of a lawyer.
“Shh,” the doctor soothed, nudging the tissue box forward. “Let it out.” He glanced at John, prompting. Before he got any ideas, John turned away to awkwardly rub Sam’s back. When he felt the knobs of Sam’s spine, he winced and rubbed a little less briskly.
John’d been in the military, so he’d seen a lot of bullshit. And if this wasn’t the biggest bullshit performance John had seen in his life, he wasn’t sure what was.
Sam breathed deep, shaky, and leaned into John’s hand. Conveniently, it let him sniff a little more pepper. The noise he made was a smothered sneeze, but Dr. Gullible seemed to take it as a particularly explosive sob. John resisted the urge to roll his eyes at them both.
Finally, Sam sniffled and lifted his head. The tear streaks were impressive, particularly with the dark circles gouged under Sam’s eyes. If he didn’t crash soon, John would start sneaking Benadryl into his coffee. With a deep sigh, Sam reached up and scrubbed at his eyes. “M’sorry. Didn’t mean-“ His nose scrunched up, lips drawing back from his teeth. Little bastard still had pepper on that hand. “Oh God. I, um. I can’t-”
“Shh,” John warned. When Dr. Stalker looked his way, oddly, John busied himself with rubbing Sam’s back. “You don’t have to say anything.” Shut up now, Sammy, for Christ’s sake. This isn’t the Lifetime channel.
Sam sniffled again, wiping at his eyes with the other hand. “I know. It just hurts so much.”
Finally, the truth. Such as it was. “I’m sure,” John said dryly.
“It’s all right. Grief is a gradual process.” Dr. Buddha nodded sagely.
Thanks for the fucking update. Jesus. Like John needed pointers on still hurting years after the body cooled? He set his jaw, rubbing Sam’s back harder. Probably too hard.
Sam made a little noise again, a sad attempt at clearing his throat, and straightened with a hard sigh. Through the tears, his eyes slid to John’s and held them. There was a resolve in that look that didn’t bode well. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“Well, he is,” John bit off. When he felt Sam flinch, he took his hand back. “I know it’s hard, son, but-“
For a second, Sam looked at John like he was about to tell him to fuck off. Never mind the shrink or whatever agenda Sam was pushing. Then his eyes flicked to the doctor, catching himself just in time. His shoulders slumped. He stared at the floor, reaching up to fiddle with the chain. “I keep thinking,” he murmured, “that I should’ve done what you told me. If I did, he’d still be alive.”
If Sam had killed him. If the boys hadn’t come looking to be sure John was alive. If John had ordered them away from that last fight. If Sam had stayed gone. A lot of hypotheticals for Sammy to torture himself with in the small hours.
“Think that didn’t occur to me?” John asked tightly.
The look Sam gave John through his hair could’ve frozen an inferno. “Y’know, Dad? I really did.”
The room’s single window rattled a little. There was no wind outside.
Dr. Perceptive looked between them, suddenly uneasy. “Oh! I’m sorry, I lost track of time.
But you’re doing really well. Especially you, Sam. To come so far in one hour gives me hope for-“ he aborted a glance at John, slightly too late. “Well. I’ll just leave you two to-“
“Thanks,” John said tightly.
Sam lowered his hands from his face, his expression set as he held John’s stare. He didn’t glance away as the doctor left the room, pulling the door close to shut behind him.
There was a pause, long enough that the doctor wouldn’t see. Then the door groaned quietly closed.
John raised his hands and clapped slowly, sarcastically. “Hell of a performance.”
“Thanks.” Sam grabbed a handful of Kleenex, wiping at his face. It muffled his voice, but not the venom in his words. “Wouldn’t want any honesty to get involved. Not with us.”
“We’re not discussing this now. It’s not secure-“
“Would that be secure like your plan with Meg, or secure like the backseat?”
Damn. John had forgotten what Sam could be like when they fought. He looked at the ceiling, counted slowly. He made it to about four before his patience ran out. “Fine. You want to start this, boy, we’ll start it. I fucked up. We both fucked up. But figuring out who fucked up worse isn’t going to bring Dean back. He’s dead, Sam. I saw the backseat of the Impala before I passed out. I saw-“
“Stop,” Sam snarled.
“- that it was covered in blood. He was hurt bad to begin with, even before the truck hit us. The Impala was bent in half.” John shook his head, trying to lose the image of the crumpled car, the bloody upholstery, Dean’s desperate gasps for air. “He’s gone. Tearing each other up won’t help that, and it’d piss him off anyway if he knew we were doing it.”
Sam made a harsh noise. “And now you care what he wants?”
“Wanted,” John said. “And damned if Dean ever knew that himself. No. I know I’m the last person who ought to say this, and I won’t blame you if it pisses you off, but you need to hear it. Let it go. If you go hunting like this, that thing’ll tear you apart.”
“I’ll manage.”
“You goddamned well won’t!” John barked, his voice ringing off the walls of the narrow room. If he could’ve paced, he would’ve. Instead, he was stuck trying not to come across to Sam’s bed and shake him hard. “You’re in no shape-“
“I don’t care.”
“I can’t go in with you.” John leaned back hard against the unforgiving bedframe, using it to brace himself against the words. “I can’t protect you, and I will not lose you both.”
Sam turned away from him, rolling on his back to stare at the ceiling. For a minute, he was quiet. Then he drew in a deep breath, and John braced for screaming. He hadn’t braced for the low, almost gentle, “Dean’s the one who raised me, not you. Protected me. And neither of us could protect him when it mattered. The least I- I can’t give up on him.”
John grimaced, tightening his grip on the rails until his temper eased. When he could trust himself, he said, “That for him or you?”
Sam made a harsh noise in his throat. “You weren’t hunting that demon for Mom. None of us were. This has never been about the dead-“
“No. Not for her.” For Sam. For his boys. Because he’d looked at that thing bent over Sam’s crib and known somewhere deep that it had never been about his wife. But that wasn’t the sort of thing Sam needed to start kicking himself over now, and John wasn’t the one flinging any old resentments he could find. “Dean knew what we were fighting for.”
“- Because the dead don’t need it.” Sam didn’t move to look at John. “Dean was a soldier in your personal army. Is. Probably always will be.”
“Yeah. Dean figured that out.” John sighed. “Didn’t exactly turn him down when he was helping you look for it after Jess died, did you?”
That, Sam moved for, his head whipping around to glare at John. John had seen him move glasses and crack windows, but nothing came winging at him. The shine in Sam’s eyes was traitorous and real.
Standoff. From there it could only escalate to screaming nonsense or getting violent, but it never got this far. There was supposed to be another voice in the middle of it, pleading, shoving, mediating and making them stand down. As one, they realized that and sat there, staring at each other.
“Damn,” John murmured finally. “Fucking thing was right. Dean was the only thing keeping this family together. Never got a chance to tell him-...”
“Yeah," Sam answered, and didn't clarify if he was agreeing or admitting his own guilt.
Quiet.
Finally, Sam turned his head to look at John again. “I hate that fucking thing being right. We could try to... we could manage. Without him. If I’m wrong. Which I’m not.”
“Mm.” John shifted, easing into a place where he could lay down. Tonight he might actually accept the painkillers. He felt beaten. “Suppose we could work on that.”
“Maybe.”
“I don’t want you to be wrong, Sam. That’s not what-”
“I know.” After a moment, John heard Sam breathe out hard. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-“
John made a sharp, silencing gesture, and Sam shut up. Sammy didn’t mean the apology, and so John didn’t want to hear him lie for the sake of Dean’s absence.
More quiet. The door clicked open, letting in the bustle of the hallway.
Ceasefire on the Gaza Strip that was their screwed up goddamn relationship. John would’ve rather been back in the Marines than dealing with this. “Huh," he offered. "Look at that. We acted like grownups and shut it down ourselves.”
Sam snorted. “Let’s face it, we could use the practice.”
John hesitated a second. Shouldn't offer another shovel-full of false hope. Sam was neck-deep as it is. But if it kept him going for a while yet, just until he either found his feet or got to a place where he'd let John talk him down when the truth came... “Dean’ll be proud.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam look at him sharply. John didn’t look back, in case that set off another round. After a moment, Sam’s mouth twisted into a faint smile. “He’ll just be amazed there wasn’t IV dueling. Stabbing each other with pens. You know.”
“One of these days, he’ll learn to stand back and sell tickets.”
“Yeah.” Sam sighed, tugging the blanket up over his shoulders. He reminded John suddenly of the tired boy who’d wait up too late for him after hunting trips, blinking owlishly until John pushed him at a bed. John’s chest hurt. “God. Dad, I-”
Now that sounded like the beginning of a real apology. Few years ago, John would’ve listened to it, nodded and accepted it as due. Now... well. There was nobody around who could tell his boys the stupid, angry shit John had said after Mary died, when the numbness changed to fury. That was for the best.
“Shut up, Sammy.” John turned his head to look at him, and felt his own mouth tug in a smile. “Get some sleep. This isn’t Steel Magnolias.”
Sam actually laughed, briefly, and closed his eyes.
Score one for the old man.
Authors: nilchance and beanside
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: We make no claim of ownership on the Brothers and Daddy Winchester. No infringement is intended, no money is made.
Author Notes: Set after the episode "Devil's Trap."
WARNINGS: Character maiming, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
“And how does that make you feel?” Dr. Freud asked Sam gently. “Your brother’s death?”
Sam knew his lines. He was supposed to spill it now, sum up his feelings in a neat package or, barring that, rip himself open. The doctor wanted the messy details: anger, abandonment, despair. Or hell, maybe he was just taking out what had happened in the asylum on this poor idiot. Sam shrugged and answered, “Sad.”
“Good. Can you tell me more about that?”
Sam slanted a look at his father. For a moment, they shared a “is this asshole for real?” sentiment that almost brought Sam into reach. Then he looked back at the shrink, gone again. “Not really. It makes me... sad that my brother is— dead,” Sam forced the word out.
Had to say the right things. It was bad enough that Chloe was looking at him oddly during
PT, wondering where the new intensity had come from. Dr. Jackass could put Sam away if he thought Sam was unstable. Could keep him from finding Dean, a motive which pretty much said that Sam was unstable. Knowing that Dean was probably dead, knowing that his faith was misplaced, Sam held on anyway, clinging with both hands to keep from drowning.
So, Doc. Can I get a pass from therapy today? I need to train so I can hunt the demon that totally didn’t murder my not-dead brother I’m supposed to be grieving. Did I mention that it possessed my father? And the trucker who ‘fell asleep behind the wheel’ was possessed, too? Or, that if my father's leg hadn't be so screwed up, you would've see the wound from where I shot him?
Yeah. That’d go over well. And for his next trick, Sam would tell Dr. Phil here that he could move things with his mind. Because he was chosen by fate to look like a goddamned paranoid-schizophrenic.
Apparently realizing Sam was done for the moment, the shrink turned to Sam's father. “And John, how are you coping with the loss of your leg?”
“With a wheelchair,” John drawled, his level stare daring the good doctor to keep prying.
Sam had a suspicious coughing fit and grabbed for the glass of water on his bedside table.
Dr. Feelgood looked like he was getting the idea that he’d lost control of this session the moment he decided to put his patients together to save time. Or carthasis, or whatever; John had no patience for shrinks, and Sam seemed to have lost his trick (developed from a lot of well-intentioned school counselors) of bludgeoning health professionals with sheer wide-eyed
earnestness. Sam had been the kind of kid who could make a nurse believe that he’d actually walked into that door. He’d been to a few eye doctors because of it, but better that than foster care. Like it was better to have his son bruised and trained than happy and vulnerable. It killed John to make that call, but it was a call that had to be made.
Before Dr. Headshrink could get any ideas about pestering Sammy, John cleared his throat and went on. “I’ll deal. That which doesn’t kill you—“ his voice faltered for a second. “Well. You get the idea.”
He glanced at Sam, silently warning him to play along with Dr. Jung for the time being. Sam just looked at him, toying with the little tokens on a chain around his neck. John had called Bobby and asked him to salvage the weapons locker in the trunk. Bobby had been decent enough to ask if there was anything else Sam might want. So Sam had a reminder of Dean, all tied up in the radio knob and a single bent screw with a dark splotch on it. John didn’t ask, and Sam didn’t tell him, if that was blood, mud or motor oil.
There was a lot John didn’t ask about these days, because asking got him shortly and brutally shut down. That door was closed. If Dean had been here, Sam might’ve-
John worried his wedding ring, rubbing it in circles around his finger. A nervous tic, like the way Sam was starting to fidget with the screw when he was anxious. A decent shrink, and John had met a few, would’ve caught that. Dr. Touchy-Feel was too busy making sure security was outside. John got the feeling he wasn’t the one the doctor worried about, because Sammy was getting the edgy look of a man about to climb the proverbial clocktower.
He’d raised the boys to be this driven, this intense about the hunt. He'd seen the ghost of Sammy left after the demon killed Jess, the slow burn of his fuse winding down shorter and shorter. But that hadn’t prepared John to see Sam now, all rage, all focus. Sammy was always the one with the easy smile, Mary’s smile, to crinkle up the corners of his eyes and coax John into smiling back. He’d been focused about getting the demon after it had killed Jess, but it seemed that Dean had pulled him back just enough that when the time came, when it was a choice between revenge and saving his family...
Sam hadn’t pulled the trigger. John wished sometimes that Sam had.
Dean would’ve been in the front seat. Crippled, yes, but alive.
Theirs was the sort of family clusterfuck that a shrink could spend years writing articles about, and John could already see the bastard’s mouth watering. But it wasn’t coming out, because the truth never did. They’d make up some bullshit story about a fire, the wreck, the fight over Sam leaving for college. A quick, easily fixed story. The shrink would buy it. They’d move on. And Sam wouldn’t get anything out of it. He’d still be waiting for Dean to waltz through the door.
There wasn’t a damned thing John could do to change that.
Dr. Glib squinted at Sam for a moment, like he could almost force things into focus. Then he set the tissue box on Sam’s table, like a silent demand. “Do you want to tell me about your brother?”
“No,” Sam replied simply. “Do you?”
“Sam,” John murmured, glancing at him sidelong.
Mouth tightening, Sam looked away. After a minute, he muttered, “Sorry,” and came back. His eyes were shining. It was a really good act, and John might’ve bought it if he didn’t know the mulish look on Sam’s face. “It’s just- really hard, y’know?” Sam asked, his voice hitching.
Dr. Walking Ad for Scientology nodded sympathetically. “Yes. Yes, grief is hard.”
No shit. You needed how many years of school to figure that out? This man didn’t know grief.
Sam sniffed. John had seen him pocket the pepper that came with lunch. Cheap trick, but hey, the classics held up. A moment later, Sam’s eyes started to water. He made a hitching noise and covered his face with one hand, bowing his head so that hair fell in his eyes. After that, the doctor would supply whatever reaction he wanted to see.
Yeah. John’s boy would’ve been one hell of a lawyer.
“Shh,” the doctor soothed, nudging the tissue box forward. “Let it out.” He glanced at John, prompting. Before he got any ideas, John turned away to awkwardly rub Sam’s back. When he felt the knobs of Sam’s spine, he winced and rubbed a little less briskly.
John’d been in the military, so he’d seen a lot of bullshit. And if this wasn’t the biggest bullshit performance John had seen in his life, he wasn’t sure what was.
Sam breathed deep, shaky, and leaned into John’s hand. Conveniently, it let him sniff a little more pepper. The noise he made was a smothered sneeze, but Dr. Gullible seemed to take it as a particularly explosive sob. John resisted the urge to roll his eyes at them both.
Finally, Sam sniffled and lifted his head. The tear streaks were impressive, particularly with the dark circles gouged under Sam’s eyes. If he didn’t crash soon, John would start sneaking Benadryl into his coffee. With a deep sigh, Sam reached up and scrubbed at his eyes. “M’sorry. Didn’t mean-“ His nose scrunched up, lips drawing back from his teeth. Little bastard still had pepper on that hand. “Oh God. I, um. I can’t-”
“Shh,” John warned. When Dr. Stalker looked his way, oddly, John busied himself with rubbing Sam’s back. “You don’t have to say anything.” Shut up now, Sammy, for Christ’s sake. This isn’t the Lifetime channel.
Sam sniffled again, wiping at his eyes with the other hand. “I know. It just hurts so much.”
Finally, the truth. Such as it was. “I’m sure,” John said dryly.
“It’s all right. Grief is a gradual process.” Dr. Buddha nodded sagely.
Thanks for the fucking update. Jesus. Like John needed pointers on still hurting years after the body cooled? He set his jaw, rubbing Sam’s back harder. Probably too hard.
Sam made a little noise again, a sad attempt at clearing his throat, and straightened with a hard sigh. Through the tears, his eyes slid to John’s and held them. There was a resolve in that look that didn’t bode well. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“Well, he is,” John bit off. When he felt Sam flinch, he took his hand back. “I know it’s hard, son, but-“
For a second, Sam looked at John like he was about to tell him to fuck off. Never mind the shrink or whatever agenda Sam was pushing. Then his eyes flicked to the doctor, catching himself just in time. His shoulders slumped. He stared at the floor, reaching up to fiddle with the chain. “I keep thinking,” he murmured, “that I should’ve done what you told me. If I did, he’d still be alive.”
If Sam had killed him. If the boys hadn’t come looking to be sure John was alive. If John had ordered them away from that last fight. If Sam had stayed gone. A lot of hypotheticals for Sammy to torture himself with in the small hours.
“Think that didn’t occur to me?” John asked tightly.
The look Sam gave John through his hair could’ve frozen an inferno. “Y’know, Dad? I really did.”
The room’s single window rattled a little. There was no wind outside.
Dr. Perceptive looked between them, suddenly uneasy. “Oh! I’m sorry, I lost track of time.
But you’re doing really well. Especially you, Sam. To come so far in one hour gives me hope for-“ he aborted a glance at John, slightly too late. “Well. I’ll just leave you two to-“
“Thanks,” John said tightly.
Sam lowered his hands from his face, his expression set as he held John’s stare. He didn’t glance away as the doctor left the room, pulling the door close to shut behind him.
There was a pause, long enough that the doctor wouldn’t see. Then the door groaned quietly closed.
John raised his hands and clapped slowly, sarcastically. “Hell of a performance.”
“Thanks.” Sam grabbed a handful of Kleenex, wiping at his face. It muffled his voice, but not the venom in his words. “Wouldn’t want any honesty to get involved. Not with us.”
“We’re not discussing this now. It’s not secure-“
“Would that be secure like your plan with Meg, or secure like the backseat?”
Damn. John had forgotten what Sam could be like when they fought. He looked at the ceiling, counted slowly. He made it to about four before his patience ran out. “Fine. You want to start this, boy, we’ll start it. I fucked up. We both fucked up. But figuring out who fucked up worse isn’t going to bring Dean back. He’s dead, Sam. I saw the backseat of the Impala before I passed out. I saw-“
“Stop,” Sam snarled.
“- that it was covered in blood. He was hurt bad to begin with, even before the truck hit us. The Impala was bent in half.” John shook his head, trying to lose the image of the crumpled car, the bloody upholstery, Dean’s desperate gasps for air. “He’s gone. Tearing each other up won’t help that, and it’d piss him off anyway if he knew we were doing it.”
Sam made a harsh noise. “And now you care what he wants?”
“Wanted,” John said. “And damned if Dean ever knew that himself. No. I know I’m the last person who ought to say this, and I won’t blame you if it pisses you off, but you need to hear it. Let it go. If you go hunting like this, that thing’ll tear you apart.”
“I’ll manage.”
“You goddamned well won’t!” John barked, his voice ringing off the walls of the narrow room. If he could’ve paced, he would’ve. Instead, he was stuck trying not to come across to Sam’s bed and shake him hard. “You’re in no shape-“
“I don’t care.”
“I can’t go in with you.” John leaned back hard against the unforgiving bedframe, using it to brace himself against the words. “I can’t protect you, and I will not lose you both.”
Sam turned away from him, rolling on his back to stare at the ceiling. For a minute, he was quiet. Then he drew in a deep breath, and John braced for screaming. He hadn’t braced for the low, almost gentle, “Dean’s the one who raised me, not you. Protected me. And neither of us could protect him when it mattered. The least I- I can’t give up on him.”
John grimaced, tightening his grip on the rails until his temper eased. When he could trust himself, he said, “That for him or you?”
Sam made a harsh noise in his throat. “You weren’t hunting that demon for Mom. None of us were. This has never been about the dead-“
“No. Not for her.” For Sam. For his boys. Because he’d looked at that thing bent over Sam’s crib and known somewhere deep that it had never been about his wife. But that wasn’t the sort of thing Sam needed to start kicking himself over now, and John wasn’t the one flinging any old resentments he could find. “Dean knew what we were fighting for.”
“- Because the dead don’t need it.” Sam didn’t move to look at John. “Dean was a soldier in your personal army. Is. Probably always will be.”
“Yeah. Dean figured that out.” John sighed. “Didn’t exactly turn him down when he was helping you look for it after Jess died, did you?”
That, Sam moved for, his head whipping around to glare at John. John had seen him move glasses and crack windows, but nothing came winging at him. The shine in Sam’s eyes was traitorous and real.
Standoff. From there it could only escalate to screaming nonsense or getting violent, but it never got this far. There was supposed to be another voice in the middle of it, pleading, shoving, mediating and making them stand down. As one, they realized that and sat there, staring at each other.
“Damn,” John murmured finally. “Fucking thing was right. Dean was the only thing keeping this family together. Never got a chance to tell him-...”
“Yeah," Sam answered, and didn't clarify if he was agreeing or admitting his own guilt.
Quiet.
Finally, Sam turned his head to look at John again. “I hate that fucking thing being right. We could try to... we could manage. Without him. If I’m wrong. Which I’m not.”
“Mm.” John shifted, easing into a place where he could lay down. Tonight he might actually accept the painkillers. He felt beaten. “Suppose we could work on that.”
“Maybe.”
“I don’t want you to be wrong, Sam. That’s not what-”
“I know.” After a moment, John heard Sam breathe out hard. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-“
John made a sharp, silencing gesture, and Sam shut up. Sammy didn’t mean the apology, and so John didn’t want to hear him lie for the sake of Dean’s absence.
More quiet. The door clicked open, letting in the bustle of the hallway.
Ceasefire on the Gaza Strip that was their screwed up goddamn relationship. John would’ve rather been back in the Marines than dealing with this. “Huh," he offered. "Look at that. We acted like grownups and shut it down ourselves.”
Sam snorted. “Let’s face it, we could use the practice.”
John hesitated a second. Shouldn't offer another shovel-full of false hope. Sam was neck-deep as it is. But if it kept him going for a while yet, just until he either found his feet or got to a place where he'd let John talk him down when the truth came... “Dean’ll be proud.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam look at him sharply. John didn’t look back, in case that set off another round. After a moment, Sam’s mouth twisted into a faint smile. “He’ll just be amazed there wasn’t IV dueling. Stabbing each other with pens. You know.”
“One of these days, he’ll learn to stand back and sell tickets.”
“Yeah.” Sam sighed, tugging the blanket up over his shoulders. He reminded John suddenly of the tired boy who’d wait up too late for him after hunting trips, blinking owlishly until John pushed him at a bed. John’s chest hurt. “God. Dad, I-”
Now that sounded like the beginning of a real apology. Few years ago, John would’ve listened to it, nodded and accepted it as due. Now... well. There was nobody around who could tell his boys the stupid, angry shit John had said after Mary died, when the numbness changed to fury. That was for the best.
“Shut up, Sammy.” John turned his head to look at him, and felt his own mouth tug in a smile. “Get some sleep. This isn’t Steel Magnolias.”
Sam actually laughed, briefly, and closed his eyes.
Score one for the old man.
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Date: 2006-05-13 10:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-13 11:25 am (UTC)I'm glad you're enjoying it, though. Thanks for the kind words!