I've had writer's block for so long that I'm shocking myself with how easy my writing is coming lately! This plot bunny struck me at the same time as Hands and Feet did, but I decided to do that one first to give this one more time to stew. Since I had such a great time doing Sam's first person POV last fic, I decided to try Dean on for a size this time around! This should be about three parts, set in season one after Dead Man's Blood but before the events in Salvation. Yay for John! (except he's not very likable for a good portion of this story. Bear with me? *shy smile*) Thank you, wonderful readers!
"Their foot shall slide in due time…" -Deuteronomy 32:35
I was so relieved, so god damn thankful, that they weren't at each other's throats for once that I let my guard down. It's been a rough few days after all, what with sorting out the vampire nest (I still can't believe that they actually exist, by the way), coming together as a family again, and confirming the legend of the colt.
It boggles my mind, the fact that this ONE gun can kill anything supernatural. Dad reckons that if he were to exist, it could perhaps kill the devil himself. I at least got a good chuckle out of that one, despite the glare he sent my way before smiling right along with me. Sure, Dad's a hard ass, but he just loves to make me laugh. Too bad he can't be that way with Sammy. I never could and never will understand that sharp edge our father takes when addressing Sam, the stiffness in him, the weariness in his gaze. Thinking on it now, it is almost as if he has a difficult time being for my little brother what he already easily is for me: a pillar to lean on, a companion.
I'll never know why exactly. It pulls at my gut to see them argue, to see them throw insults and slam doors, to see them each give me apologetic smiles in the aftermath while I support each of their residual anger and resentment towards one another. I'm used to the role of mediator of course, but have never been, nor will ever be, ok with the reality that there's really nothing I can do to mend their rifts.
But, at last, everything is ok for once. No one is fighting, no one is angry. Or at least it had seemed that way only hours before now. You can't blame me for what happened, you see. Me and Sammy, we've been dealing with non-stop shit all by our lonesome for practically the entire year. The list is long: Jessica, our MIA father, visions, oh, and let's not forget all the ghoulies and ghosties and long legged beasties. So it is totally, completely, undeniably not my fault that I didn't leap to inform Dad of Sam's psychic whatever the second we finally got some peace and quiet.
We'd been tired, ok. And I wasn't sure when or how exactly it happened, but Sammy and Dad? Well, unbelievably, they appeared to be on even ground for once! You don't know how much of a miracle that is. So yeah, I'd wanted that to last for a bit, I'd wanted to take a breather, I'd wanted to sit down, have a beer, and catch a few Z's before stirring the god damn waters by presenting Dad with a situation in which his reaction couldn't be predicted.
I know how much Sam's been dreading telling him. He's been so open with me, so vulnerable, about this sudden onslaught of power, but I know there is still a lot he keeps inside. I see the fear in his eyes, the raw insecurity, all piled on top of the freaking self hate. Can you believe that? Sam, who wears his heart on his sleeve and shares it with everyone and their dog, Sam, who doesn't have a bad bone in his whole freaking body, Sam, who feels guilty when I use his computer for... 'certain' things, thinks he's something to be hated? It pains me, beyond reason, that my little brother doubts himself so much, doubts his own goodness. He doesn't see in the mirror what I see when I look at him, he doesn't see just how impossible it is for him to be anything but kind, or caring, or generous. No matter what I've said in the past out of anger.
Sometimes, I wish I had the ability, and the courage, to just plain tell him this. I never quite get the right words out. I know when the time comes I'll be able to though, because I'll be damned if I can't protect him, even from his own mind. I think that's another reason this caught me so off guard, because while I was mentally prepared for the 'little brother self loathing' reaction after informing Dad of his mysterious visions, I most certainly WAS NOT prepared for our father not to be backing me up, or, for that matter, not to be present at all.
My thoughts are the most violent right now towards Dad than they've ever been before in my entire life, worse than the epic Stanford fight, worse than the time Sammy broke his leg on a hunt years ago and the bastard had freaking yelled at him. These memories fuel my fury even more. It blinds me, drenches my vision in red and sets a ringing inside my ears.
I want to punch something…anything. I want to hear it as something breaks by my own hands, as something shatters and proves that I do, in fact, have an influence, that I do, in fact, have some semblance of control.
Because it never god damn feels that way.
Spinning…my life's been spinning for twenty two years.
And it's only getting faster.
"Dean…" the gentle murmur pulls me, so rapid it's incredible, head first from my rage and back to the here and now. I look down at my fingers, at the nails digging into Sam's wan arm due to my relentless grip, at the wide, hazel eyes shining with concern, at the vivid bruises scattered and pronounced on his bare chest. I release my hold on him immediately, pulling away as if I might impart some terrible disease.
Sam and Dad had gone to grab us some late dinner earlier. It'd been my innocent suggestion, I'd been hoping they'd bond more, talk a bit, you know, father and son style. I was shamelessly happy to be together again, to be a family again. I should have insisted I go with them; actually, I shouldn't have opened my fat mouth to begin with. Still…not my fault! How was I supposed to know they'd get jumped by the neighborhood thugs? How was I supposed to know Sam's little 'telekinesis' stint hadn't been a onetime deal after all, and that he'd 'mind fuck' the gun from the attacker's hands moments before it could blow Dad's brains out? How was I supposed to know?
Damn it all. Damn the whole situation, damn Dad and his inability to stick around long enough to be what we need him to be and damn me for expecting him to do it this time. I'd gotten that one beer, you know. I had been taking the last, delicious, joyous sip right before there'd been a soft rap on the motel room door, which didn't make sense at the time because Dad had brought a key along with them.
Groaning, but amused, I'd dragged myself from the chair and pulled the door open, "What? Lose the god damn key already, old man?" I'd been grinning, still buzzing with the bliss of it just being the three of us once more.
It hadn't been Dad, though, and turns out I got there just in time to catch an armful of collapsing little brother.
"Whoa, whoa, Sammy? Sam? Hey, come on, are you hurt? What happened? Sam! Hey, what's going on? Where's Dad?"
I remember there'd been a moment, after I'd managed to practically carry Sam to the closest bed, in which he'd weakly shook his head and I'd been downright terrified. My hands had been searching for injury, trying to figure out what was wrong, all the while questioning my little brother frantically. I'd stopped, ignoring the gasp of pain elicited when I'd unintentionally pressed against Sammy's ribs when my fingers curled roughly in his shirt. "Where's Dad, Sam?" My voice had been like nails, grinding and unforgiving.
Sam had blinked up at me, mouth hanging open slightly as if he were searching for what to say or maybe just too scared to say it. I'd shaken him then, not thinking very clearly, "Where is he? What happened, god damn it, tell me!"
Tears had filled Sam's giant, doleful eyes, his arms limp at his sides and not attempting to push me or my painful hold away. "I-I don't know."
"What do you mean you don't fucking know?"
Sam half choked, a garbled sob catching in his throat. That's when I realized what I'd been doing and I'd at once released him, appalled. "He-he left…I-I don't know where."
My mind had become much more amenable to reason then, and as I began to shush my brother and calm him, I didn't much like the scenario playing out inside my head. Turned out, everything had been going great, until they'd taken a short cut through the back alley on the way to the motel. Sam had trembled slightly throughout the entire story he told, as if he were about to explode with sheer emotion. Three men had attacked them, caught them off guard and knocked them around a bit. Sam had been down for the count, but Dad had broken one guy's nose and was about to break the third man's as well when he surprisingly had pulled out a pistol.
It wasn't anything we hadn't dealt with before: gun wielding maniac had demanded money; Dad called his bluff and said 'go screw yourself'. But I guess our genius father is losing the ability to be a decent judge of character because the safety had promptly been switched off, and from his position on the ground Sam had seen the now very pissed off man's index finger twitch towards the trigger. "I yelled out, told him to stop. And…and it was just like when I moved that cabinet, Dean…"
He hadn't looked at me then, instead he'd been staring down at the bed sheets, expression one of utter shame. "What…what do you mean?" I'd known what he meant, of course. More than anything.
Sam had bitten his bottom lip, quivering, "The gun just-just flew from his hands, Dean. Right when it went off. It just…flew out of his hands! Just like that! I don't know how I did it." He'd finally met my eyes, expression heartbreakingly vulnerable and hazel orbs begging, pleading. I'm not sure what for. It's like he thought he'd done something terribly wrong. "I couldn't control it! I-I swear! He was…he was going to shoot, and I couldn't do anything else!"
I'd gathered him up into my arms then, not sure what else to do to comfort my little brother. I'd tried to quiet him, tried to get him to calm down and tell me where he was hurt before continuing. My attempts proved useless. "Dad…he looked at me like…like I was a freak, Dean. Like I was a different person." Sam whispered from where he'd buried his face into my shoulder, like he was trying to burrow himself a safe place to hide. My arms had tightened unconsciously around him, hands rubbing circles on his back. "I tried to explain, tried to tell him about…all that's happened, about the v-visions." Sam had sniffed, turning his face slightly to glance up at mine while gently shaking his head, "He pulled away when…when I tried to touch him. He just…just glared at me." His eyes lids had fluttered closed, "and then he…he just…just walked away, Dean! He just left! Didn't say a word."
"Listen to me, Sammy." I'd hushed. I needed to take care of him. He couldn't stand on his own two fucking feet and was virtual putty in my arms. Big brother alarms were going hay wire. "It's going to be all right, ok? We're going to figure this out, kiddo, I promise. But first, I need you to tell me where you're hurt."
Sam had swallowed, bangs blocking my view of his eyes. I'd desperately wanted to sweep them out of the way, but had managed to resist the beguiling urge. After all, I'd already beyond filled the chick flick quota for the entire year, probably the century. "Uh…just-just my ribs. Think a few might be broken. And," Sam had paused, as if reluctant to admit, "a migraine." We both knew what it was from. I remained tactfully silent on its apparent origins though.
I recognized the downplaying of an injury, of course, right off the bat. At least he'd been honest, because it so wasn't the time to be bull shitting me about his health. I'd had to cut away his shirt, the fantastic bruising revealed underneath leaving me breathless and furious all over again. Three ribs broken, two cracked.
It had to be agonizing.
I'd kept up a steady rhythm of words, reassurances, and just kept on talking to Sam, making sure he stayed awake even though I'd already ruled out the possibility of a concussion. I just needed him to be awake.
When I'd finished wrapping Sammy's rib cage, hands lingering on his lax arm, he'd whispered, so quiet I nearly didn't hear, "Dad hates me."
And that's when I'd temporarily lost it. Because who am I kidding? This is all my fault.
I've always loved stories about John reacting badly to Sammy's psychic gifts, and many writing legends on this site have mastered it. Write what you love, eh? ;) Review? Hugs!