A/N: Okay so a bunch of you are waiting on something from me because you know what I'm working on nearly non-stop. Sorry, this isn't it. I loved what Dean had to say in last nights ep and the emotion I saw on Sam's face led me to wonder what he would think. What he would do. Here's my answer as he watches his brother. It's short I know but it's what came to me. Oh, and many thanks for any time taken to leave a review.
For those of you waiting for my next full length story, the wait is almost over. Thanks too, Merisha for the push to post. Glad you think it's worthy. You all should see the first chapter in the next couple days.
There is No Forgetting
He's sleeping. Not resting. There's a difference. I watch lights from passing cars flit though the dingy blinds on the windows of our motel room. Perk or downfall of the place being a hundred yards off the interstate? Who knows.
The lights on the tractor trailers show me what he's going through. The brighter beams and slower speeds show me his stiffened muscles, his rigid posture. His face twitches, mouth turned down in a grimace of pain. It's no wonder he wakes up tired and in pain, massaging the knot of tense muscles that is lodged in his neck. I see the shadow of the whiskey bottle on the floor as lights from another slow moving semi cast the inanimate objects in the room into stark relief, along with the dark smudges under his eyes.
The damn bottle. It's a coping mechanism. I snort, keeping my noises low. Don't wanna wake him. He can sleep through four lane traffic at all hours but if I so much as whisper his name he's awake, alert and shoving memories of the pit down deep in his gut to survive another day with a chunk of hell burning inside him. His head rolls, pulling my attention from the spot of darkness where I know the shadow of the bottle lurks, waiting to jump out at the next sweep of lights through our room. I hear him choking off a hoarse cry.
His voice triggers in my mind the memory of his earlier words. "The things I saw…there aren't words. There's no forgetting. There's no making it better. Because it's right here." I watched him touch two fingers to his temple. "Forever. You wouldn't understand and I can never make you understand. I am sorry."
I stand and walk over, picking up the bottle. I sit it on the nightstand and perch on the edge of the bed as I reach for him. He might not be able to forget his time in hell, but there's no way he's remembering and reliving alone. Not while I'm here.
"Dean, wake up."
Thanks again to anyone who hits that button! Love ya. catch ya soon.