ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2010-07-27 08:35 pm
ratherastory) wrote2010-07-27 08:35 pm
Entry tags:
Roses in December (9/?)
Okay, so this wasn't exactly planned. I was totally going to work on other things, and then I kind of had an idea that wouldn't let go, and so, umm, this happened instead. *shrugs* I have given up trying to understand how my own mind works.
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
“So, Dean. How are you?”
Dr. Blaize reminds Dean uncomfortably of his mother. She's the same age that his mother would have been if she'd lived. Blonde, pretty, with a wide smile, she favours summer dresses with tasteful flower patterns, and keeps her hair in a neat braid. Her eyes are brown, which is a mercy. He leans back in his chair, crosses his bad leg over his good one to take the pressure off his ankle, folds his arms across his chest, and awards her the smile that, when he's lucky, practically melts the underpants off of willing women.
“I am just super, thank you for asking.”
She smiles, shakes her head at him. “Do we need to have this conversation all over again?”
“The one in which you tell me that I'll only get as much out of these sessions as I put in? No, I got it the first time. Shouldn't you be writing this down?” He pitches his voice a little sarcastically. “'Patient is combative and resistant to therapy.'”
“Is that how you think of yourself?” she doesn't move from where she's sitting elbows on her desk, chin resting on her hands.
He blinks at her. “Why would I?”
“I won't insult you by repeating your question back at you, but maybe that's something you should think about, in your spare time.” She ignores his derisive snort at the idea of spare time. “If you don't want to talk about you, how about we talk about Sam? How is he?”
Dean shrugs. “I dunno. He's... it's hard. I mean, it was okay after the first couple of days. You know, he had to adjust to the place, and all that. He still gets tired easily, but the pills are helping with the pain...” he chews on his lip, glances out the window at the blue September sky.
“And what about the rest?”
He makes a helpless gesture, unfolding his arms. “I can't tell! He's not the same. I mean, he is the same, and he's not, and that's the whole problem. I know him, you know? I raised that kid. He's Sammy, except that he doesn't remember being Sammy, and I can't... I used to put Sesame Street band-aids on his scrapes, and feed him soup when he was sick even when he insisted that I spell his name with the damned alphabet noodles before he'd eat it. Fuck! Sorry,” he rubs a hand over his mouth.
“Nothing to be sorry for,” Dr. Blaize says quietly. “It sounds like you still feel as though you should be able to fix this.”
He stares out the window, tries not to scoff. “Yeah, except I'm fresh out of Sesame Street band-aids.”
“So, explain to me why you, Dean Winchester, are supposed to do this all by yourself?”
“I always have.”
“What about your parents?”
Fuck. He doesn't want to talk about his mother with this woman. “Mom died when Sam was a baby, and Dad was working.”
“Mm-hmm. And now? Your brother has a team of doctors and his girlfriend as well as you. Do you think it's fair to either of you to think that you're alone in this?”
“I never said that.”
She just nods, and for the first time she jots something down on her legal pad while he fidgets. The silence stretches on, but she seems content to wait.
“He's depressed,” he blurts finally.
“Sam?”
He nods. “Classes are starting again tomorrow. He'd be starting his last year. Pre-law. Do you know how high he scored on his LSATs?”
“I do. It's very impressive.”
Dean pushes himself out of his chair, paces to the window. “It's just not fair, you know? He worked so hard for this... to get out.” He hopes she hasn't noticed his wince, shifts his weight to his good leg, leaning against the windowsill. “And now he can't.”
“Did he say that?”
He shakes his head. “No. But he's not the same. I know it's stupid to say that. I know he's can't be the same, not when he doesn't remember anything, bit it's... it's different, you know? He was a happy kid, always smiling. Couldn't get him to shut up. He wasn't even all that much of an emo teenager, except with our Dad. Now he spends whole days without opening his mouth.”
“It must be hard to see him like that.”
“Fuck,” he wipes a hand over his mouth again. “Sorry.” Somehow it feels wrong to be swearing in front of her.
“You don't need to apologize, Dean. In here, you can say whatever you want. You're safe, and nothing you say will make it past those doors.”
He snorts. “Safe,” he mutters, glancing at the unsecured door and window. The only way this place would be safe would be with a few extra lines of salt.
Her pen scratches some more on the paper. “You don't think so?”
“No offense, but no.”
She pauses, looks up at him, and he squirms under her gaze. Her expression is serious, now, brown eyes drilling into him as though she can see right past his skin through to his soul. “Where do you feel safe, Dean?”
“There's no such thing.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
“Do you want to tell me why?”
He shakes his head. “You wouldn't understand.”
“I'd like to. Why don't you explain it to me?”
Right. There's been quite enough of talk-about-Dean for one day, thank you very much. Dean pulls himself up, forces himself not to favour his leg. He jerks his head at the clock on her wall, smirks. “I think we're out of time for today. See you next week.”
He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, and lets himself out the door before she can call him back.
*
The start of classes isn't as busy a time as, say, after exams, but there's still a fair bit of work to be done even so. There are syllabi to prepare, course packets to assemble, notes to put together. It's Jess' second year as a TA, and by now she's figured out more than the basics of how to survive and get her own work done. Sam is out for the count, in a sleep that's more drug-induced than natural, but at least he's asleep. He's been withdrawn for days, unable to sit still or concentrate on anything, and he's snapped and apologized practically in the same breath so many times that she's stopped counting.
She cradles her head in her hands. She's already taken twice the recommended amount of Tylenol and the words are blurring on the page in front of her. It's been slightly less than a week since Sam's come home, and she supposes they're all adjusting as well as can be expected. They're going to have a barbecue on Labour Day, just like everything's completely normal. Sam always liked the idea of an annual barbecue, got excited about having a tradition all their own, as though it's the newest most exciting idea he'd ever had. Now, though, she's not sure any of them really want to have their friends over, force themselves to make small talk when all their friends are going to be talking about going back to class, about life carrying on. Dean doesn't want it any more than she does, but Sam's put a brave face on it, and she doesn't know how to uninvite everyone without making it seem even more of a failure on his part.
She hears the key turning in the lock as Dean lets himself in the front door, glances up from where she's spread her papers all over the sofa and starts to try to clear a space, but he waves her off, hangs up his jacket and disappears into the kitchen. There's a clinking of glass against glass, the sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing a couple of times, and when he comes back he's got a glass of whiskey in one hand and a bottle of Tylenol in the other, the bottle of Jack tucked under his arm. Jess didn't have to go in to work today, so he accepted to work a double today. The pay is good, the tips on Thursdays are even better, and they can use the money, but he looks exhausted, and he's limping more than she's ever seen him do before.
“How was it?” she asks mildly.
He sets down his drink, eases himself gingerly into the armchair he's essentially claimed as his own, and stretches out his bad leg with a grimace of pain. Dry-swallows more than the recommended dose of Tylenol.
“Enough to put me off civilian life forever.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Never mind,” he leans back in his chair, picks up his glass, closes his eyes. “Fuck. Remind me never to do that again —I probably won't survive another shift like that. We were short a waiter so I filled in part of the evening, and then some slutty chick in, like, six-inch heels got really wasted and kicked me.”
Jess giggles. “Sorry, it's not funny,” she apologizes as he opens his eyes to glare at her. “Why'd she kick you?”
“Not on purpose. She lost her balance on those stupid-ass shoes. Why do women even wear those?”
“I could subject you to a really long treatise about fashion in a male-dominated society, about how women have to endure countless hours of torture and insecurity in order to fit into some pre-ordained concept of female beauty entirely decided by the male gaze, but I'm guessing you wanted a more flippant answer than that,” she grins at him, and he snorts, returns her smile.
“Jesus, I should've known better than to ask. How come you're up so late?”
She waves vaguely at her papers. “Getting a head start on the semester. Soon I'm going to be up to my ears in grading papers and writing my own, and then there's law school applications...” she trails off, looks back at the bedroom door, left half-open just in case Sam needs her. She should be talking about this with Sam, not this stranger with eyes that look like Sam's sitting in her living room.
He empties his glass, refills it. He doesn't ever drink at work, she knows, not even when the patrons insist on buying him a drink, and she doesn't remember seeing him ever have more than a couple of beers at a time. “Law school, huh?”
“Yeah...” she shrugs. “It's a year away, but I kind of have to think about it now.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“I always wanted to go to Harvard. My scores are good enough, I think, and once I graduate I'll be able to pay back the exorbitant loans they'll probably want from me.” Sam would have scored a full ride, she thinks. They could have gone together.
“What about Sam?” He sounds angry, and maybe he should be. She shouldn't be planning her future when Sam doesn't have a past, but anger boils up inside her anyway.
“What about Sam?” she repeats flatly.
“You just going to sail off to Harvard, then? Leave him here?”
“Do you really want to have this conversation now?” she feels her voice going cool, distant. Damn, she really is becoming her mother.
“I don't want to have this conversation at all, but it looks like we're having it anyway. Are you going to stick out the year, or are you going to pick up and leave before then? I just need to know, so I can plan for it.”
“Oh, fuck you!” she's out of her seat, just barely remembers that Sam is sleeping in the next room, manages not to shout. “Where do you come off being such a self-righteous asshole? Where have you been for the past three years, huh? I don't remember you so much as calling, except for once, and you weren't there afterward. You didn't see how fucked-up Sam was after you hung up on him, and you weren't there to pick up the goddamned pieces. I've always been here for him, which is more than I can say for you!”
“He's the one who left!”
“No, asshole, your father kicked him out. I thought you were there, or weren't you listening?”
“It wasn't like that.”
“Not the way he tells it. You broke his fucking heart, and, frankly, I'm glad he can't remember that now. At least now he thinks you've always cared about him.” She stops, breathing hard, feels her heart trying to climb into her throat, and she'll be damned if she's going to cry in front of Dean Winchester. “Fuck this. I'm going for a walk. I'll take my cell, call me if there's anything.”
It takes all her self-control not to slam the door on her way out.
*
It's Saturday by the time Dean figures out that he really, really hates having Jess be mad at him. Okay, he figures that part out pretty quickly, but it takes a little longer to figure out that he doesn't want her to keep being mad at him. Mostly he hates the fact that she might be right. Not entirely right, because she knows fuck-all about him or his family, but, well. Sam isn't an idiot, he's sensed the tension in the air, but apart from some questioning looks he hasn't said anything. Knowing Sam, he probably thinks it's his fault, and right there is another compelling reason to fix this. If he can fix it.
Sam is on the sofa —it's becoming his favourite spot in the apartment— a book lying face down in his lap. He's been trying to stay awake for the past half-hour, but it's a losing battle. Dean leans over him, pats his good knee, and forces a grin.
“Sammy, give it up. Take a nap already. The book'll still be here when you wake up.”
Sam's eyes snap open again. “Feels like all I do is sleep,” he complains drowsily. “Barely managed two pages all morning. Can't concentrate.”
“It'll get better,” he says, wonders just when he started saying platitudes like that as a matter of course. The old Sam would have mocked him mercilessly for it.
“Just take it a day at a time, huh?” Sam rouses a bit. “You should totally start jamming Eye of the Tiger, there. Give me a rousing speech about overcoming adversity, all that. Maybe get me one of those motivational posters for the bedroom,” his eyes sparkle a bit, and Dean feels the knot in his chest ease a little bit. Maybe it's not just the old Sam who'd mock him.
“Shut up,” he manages. “Take a nap. I'm going outside to talk to Jess. Yell if you need anything.”
Sam's eyes are drifting shut already. “'Bout time you apologized.”
“Hey! What makes you think it was my fault?”
“Tell me I'm wrong.”
He sighs. “Bite me.” But Sam's asleep and can't appreciate the finer points of his razor-sharp wit.
He slips out the back door, makes his way over to the table where Jess is sitting, takes the seat opposite hers. She doesn't look up from where she's staring at a law book that looks bigger than his head, cigarette dangling between two fingers. He doesn't think she's seeing what's on the page.
“Okay, so maybe I was kind of an asshole with you.”
She does look up then, and fixes him with a stare. Takes a drag off her cigarette and blows the smoke to the side.
“Okay, a lot of an asshole. I'm sorry. I kind of get...” he twirls his hand in front of him. “I'm sorry, okay?”
She snorts. “Apology accepted. You need to work on your delivery, though. Next time, I expect chocolate.”
He blows out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. “Dad didn't mean to throw him out, you know.”
She takes another puff. “No?”
He shakes his head. “It was always like that, with them. As long as Sam was a teenager. Always going at it, and Sam never knew when to stop pushing.”
“What about you?”
He shrugs. “I never pushed.” He hesitates, drums his fingers on the table, then pulls his cigarettes from a pocket, lights one. “Look... what you said—”
She interrupts him. “I'm sorry too, okay? I was tired, I had a headache, you pushed all my buttons.”
“No, that's not —I don't want an apology,” he rubs the back of his neck. “You mentioned a phone call, and...”
“And you want to know what happened after.”
He nods. “I know it's not fair to ask you, but I don't remember much about it.”
She stares at her book for a moment, toys with her hair. “It feels weird, telling you about this when he can't tell you himself. I don't know if he'd even want you to know. Besides, he wouldn't tell me most of it. He was just really upset.”
Dean finishes his cigarette, feels his stomach coil. He doesn't remember most of that night, although he does remember making the call, remembers needing to hear Sam's voice and fumbling with his cell phone, hanging onto it like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood. “I was pretty fucked up.”
“Yeah, he said that. He was worried about you. I don't think I'd ever seen him that upset. I tried not to listen while he was talking to you, but...”
“I don't remember what I said.”
“Then that makes two of you. But he said afterward you told him not to bother calling again.”
“Shit,” he lets his head drop. “I can't have meant it. I was all fucked up on morphine, I don't remember what I said.”
She flips her book shut. “Is that when you hurt your leg?” He nods. “He would have come, you know, if you'd asked.”
“I know. It wouldn't have been fair.”
Jess tilts her head. “I don't get you. You uprooted your life for him. What makes you think it would have been too much to ask for him to come visit you in the hospital? We were on break, you know. Mid-semester. He could have come, and it wouldn't have cost him anything, and instead you told him never to call you again.”
He doesn't know how to explain it to her. Can't begin to figure out how to recount the days spent waiting for his Dad to realize something was wrong and to come get him, drifting in and out of consciousness. Trying to get even one bar on his cell phone. Toward the end he found himself thinking giddily that Sam would figure it out —he always figures it out when Dean's in trouble— and then in the hospital when his cell phone started working again he was pissed that Sam wasn't there when all he wanted was just to talk to him. He can't tell her any of it, anyway, because it's supposed to be a construction accident. That's the newest fiction.
“I dunno. I was just mad at him. And really high.”
“Yeah, I got that,” she smiles wryly.
“I can't even apologize to him now.”
She opens her mouth, but whatever she's about to say is forestalled by the sound of something smashing inside the apartment.
*
It seemed like a good idea at the time, is all Sam will be able to say in his own defense after this. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, isn't that what they say? Dean's outside, just a stone's throw away, talking with Jess. Sam can see them talking quietly, is watching them for signs of... well, anything. They must have had a fight of some kind on Thursday, or maybe early Friday morning, because it's felt like he's living in the middle of a very precarious truce for the past twenty-four hours. His brother and his girlfriend have been very careful around each other, more guarded than usual, kind of like a couple not wanting to fight in front of the kids, and it makes him somewhat irrationally want to throw a tantrum.
Instead he pretends not to have noticed, but he's relieved when it becomes obvious Dean's going to try to patch things up. He settles back on the sofa, trying to find a comfortable position, but like everything else it's not exactly designed to accommodate him. He finds himself wishing that he'd drunk less milk as a kid, or whatever it is that made him grow so damned tall. After a few minutes of wriggling he drops the book he was holding on the floor by accident, and sighs to himself, rolling his eyes. Even napping is a chore, it seems.
Sam sits up, testing for dizziness, but for once he feels okay. His head still hurts —hence the desire for a nap— but he's not dizzy. On the whole, it's been a pretty good morning. He retrieves the book from the floor, and a moment later is really grateful that no one's around to hear his really undignified grunt of pain as he moves wrong trying to straighten up again.
“Fuck,” he groans under his breath. So much for a good morning.
His head hurts more now, kind of a steady, low-grade throb. It's not so bad, but he can tell it's the kind that's going to get worse if he doesn't do anything about it. He looks back at the glass doors leading to the yard, sees Jess and Dean still talking. They probably think he's still asleep. Come on, he tells himself. It's, like, ten feet to the kitchen. Okay, maybe a bit more, but he's done this before, he can totally do it again. He picks up his crutches from where they're leaning against the sofa, pushes himself carefully to his feet. He's a lot stronger than he was even a week ago, absurdly proud that his arms don't shake anymore when he makes his way around on the crutches.
So far so good, he tells himself as the rubber tips hit the linoleum floor of the kitchen. He makes it all the way to the counter next to the sink, then leans there for a minute to catch his breath. He grins to himself: he's totally doing this, all by himself. Fuck, yeah. He unhooks one of the crutches from his right arm, braces himself against the counter, opens up the cupboard and pulls out a glass. He fills it up at the sink, then reaches for the small bottle of Vicodin, fumbles with the cap, and is even more pleased when he gets it open after the third try. Another couple of weeks, and he'll totally be able to open it in one shot, he tells himself sarcastically, popping the pills into his mouth and picking up the glass. He takes a sip of water, swallows, feels his fingers lose their grip, the glass slip-slide along his skin.
He lurches, tries to keep hold of the glass, feels himself falling toward the counter. The loose crutch clatters to the floor, the other preventing him from bringing up his arm to block his fall. He sees the glass shatter against the edge of the counter, a splash of red mingling with the spilled water, and the second crutch slides out from under him, leaving him flailing for balance. He feels his head collide with the counter as he goes down, lets himself slide against the cabinets to the floor amidst the shards of glass, dazed. Things go swimmy for a bit, and he blinks, trying to clear his vision enough to see the damage. It's a mess, he tells himself, and Dad is going to be so mad at him. His head hurts. He shuts his eyes again, until he feels a hand on his shoulder.
“Sam? Oh my God!” Dean is kneeling in front of him, smoothing his hair away from his forehead. “Did you hurt yourself? Sam!”
He looks at his hand, at the blood on the floor, swirling pink in the water. The broken glass is making pretty patterns there. “I didn't mean to make a mess, Dean. You won't tell Dad, will you?”
“What?”
“He's going to be so mad at me. I'm sorry I broke the glass, I didn't mean to. You know that, right? Please don't tell him, I'm sorry!”
Dean smooths a hand over his forehead again. “Okay, Sammy. I won't tell him, I promise. It's going to be fine, you hear me? It's going to be fine, I promise.”
*
Chapter 10
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
“So, Dean. How are you?”
Dr. Blaize reminds Dean uncomfortably of his mother. She's the same age that his mother would have been if she'd lived. Blonde, pretty, with a wide smile, she favours summer dresses with tasteful flower patterns, and keeps her hair in a neat braid. Her eyes are brown, which is a mercy. He leans back in his chair, crosses his bad leg over his good one to take the pressure off his ankle, folds his arms across his chest, and awards her the smile that, when he's lucky, practically melts the underpants off of willing women.
“I am just super, thank you for asking.”
She smiles, shakes her head at him. “Do we need to have this conversation all over again?”
“The one in which you tell me that I'll only get as much out of these sessions as I put in? No, I got it the first time. Shouldn't you be writing this down?” He pitches his voice a little sarcastically. “'Patient is combative and resistant to therapy.'”
“Is that how you think of yourself?” she doesn't move from where she's sitting elbows on her desk, chin resting on her hands.
He blinks at her. “Why would I?”
“I won't insult you by repeating your question back at you, but maybe that's something you should think about, in your spare time.” She ignores his derisive snort at the idea of spare time. “If you don't want to talk about you, how about we talk about Sam? How is he?”
Dean shrugs. “I dunno. He's... it's hard. I mean, it was okay after the first couple of days. You know, he had to adjust to the place, and all that. He still gets tired easily, but the pills are helping with the pain...” he chews on his lip, glances out the window at the blue September sky.
“And what about the rest?”
He makes a helpless gesture, unfolding his arms. “I can't tell! He's not the same. I mean, he is the same, and he's not, and that's the whole problem. I know him, you know? I raised that kid. He's Sammy, except that he doesn't remember being Sammy, and I can't... I used to put Sesame Street band-aids on his scrapes, and feed him soup when he was sick even when he insisted that I spell his name with the damned alphabet noodles before he'd eat it. Fuck! Sorry,” he rubs a hand over his mouth.
“Nothing to be sorry for,” Dr. Blaize says quietly. “It sounds like you still feel as though you should be able to fix this.”
He stares out the window, tries not to scoff. “Yeah, except I'm fresh out of Sesame Street band-aids.”
“So, explain to me why you, Dean Winchester, are supposed to do this all by yourself?”
“I always have.”
“What about your parents?”
Fuck. He doesn't want to talk about his mother with this woman. “Mom died when Sam was a baby, and Dad was working.”
“Mm-hmm. And now? Your brother has a team of doctors and his girlfriend as well as you. Do you think it's fair to either of you to think that you're alone in this?”
“I never said that.”
She just nods, and for the first time she jots something down on her legal pad while he fidgets. The silence stretches on, but she seems content to wait.
“He's depressed,” he blurts finally.
“Sam?”
He nods. “Classes are starting again tomorrow. He'd be starting his last year. Pre-law. Do you know how high he scored on his LSATs?”
“I do. It's very impressive.”
Dean pushes himself out of his chair, paces to the window. “It's just not fair, you know? He worked so hard for this... to get out.” He hopes she hasn't noticed his wince, shifts his weight to his good leg, leaning against the windowsill. “And now he can't.”
“Did he say that?”
He shakes his head. “No. But he's not the same. I know it's stupid to say that. I know he's can't be the same, not when he doesn't remember anything, bit it's... it's different, you know? He was a happy kid, always smiling. Couldn't get him to shut up. He wasn't even all that much of an emo teenager, except with our Dad. Now he spends whole days without opening his mouth.”
“It must be hard to see him like that.”
“Fuck,” he wipes a hand over his mouth again. “Sorry.” Somehow it feels wrong to be swearing in front of her.
“You don't need to apologize, Dean. In here, you can say whatever you want. You're safe, and nothing you say will make it past those doors.”
He snorts. “Safe,” he mutters, glancing at the unsecured door and window. The only way this place would be safe would be with a few extra lines of salt.
Her pen scratches some more on the paper. “You don't think so?”
“No offense, but no.”
She pauses, looks up at him, and he squirms under her gaze. Her expression is serious, now, brown eyes drilling into him as though she can see right past his skin through to his soul. “Where do you feel safe, Dean?”
“There's no such thing.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
“Do you want to tell me why?”
He shakes his head. “You wouldn't understand.”
“I'd like to. Why don't you explain it to me?”
Right. There's been quite enough of talk-about-Dean for one day, thank you very much. Dean pulls himself up, forces himself not to favour his leg. He jerks his head at the clock on her wall, smirks. “I think we're out of time for today. See you next week.”
He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, and lets himself out the door before she can call him back.
*
The start of classes isn't as busy a time as, say, after exams, but there's still a fair bit of work to be done even so. There are syllabi to prepare, course packets to assemble, notes to put together. It's Jess' second year as a TA, and by now she's figured out more than the basics of how to survive and get her own work done. Sam is out for the count, in a sleep that's more drug-induced than natural, but at least he's asleep. He's been withdrawn for days, unable to sit still or concentrate on anything, and he's snapped and apologized practically in the same breath so many times that she's stopped counting.
She cradles her head in her hands. She's already taken twice the recommended amount of Tylenol and the words are blurring on the page in front of her. It's been slightly less than a week since Sam's come home, and she supposes they're all adjusting as well as can be expected. They're going to have a barbecue on Labour Day, just like everything's completely normal. Sam always liked the idea of an annual barbecue, got excited about having a tradition all their own, as though it's the newest most exciting idea he'd ever had. Now, though, she's not sure any of them really want to have their friends over, force themselves to make small talk when all their friends are going to be talking about going back to class, about life carrying on. Dean doesn't want it any more than she does, but Sam's put a brave face on it, and she doesn't know how to uninvite everyone without making it seem even more of a failure on his part.
She hears the key turning in the lock as Dean lets himself in the front door, glances up from where she's spread her papers all over the sofa and starts to try to clear a space, but he waves her off, hangs up his jacket and disappears into the kitchen. There's a clinking of glass against glass, the sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing a couple of times, and when he comes back he's got a glass of whiskey in one hand and a bottle of Tylenol in the other, the bottle of Jack tucked under his arm. Jess didn't have to go in to work today, so he accepted to work a double today. The pay is good, the tips on Thursdays are even better, and they can use the money, but he looks exhausted, and he's limping more than she's ever seen him do before.
“How was it?” she asks mildly.
He sets down his drink, eases himself gingerly into the armchair he's essentially claimed as his own, and stretches out his bad leg with a grimace of pain. Dry-swallows more than the recommended dose of Tylenol.
“Enough to put me off civilian life forever.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Never mind,” he leans back in his chair, picks up his glass, closes his eyes. “Fuck. Remind me never to do that again —I probably won't survive another shift like that. We were short a waiter so I filled in part of the evening, and then some slutty chick in, like, six-inch heels got really wasted and kicked me.”
Jess giggles. “Sorry, it's not funny,” she apologizes as he opens his eyes to glare at her. “Why'd she kick you?”
“Not on purpose. She lost her balance on those stupid-ass shoes. Why do women even wear those?”
“I could subject you to a really long treatise about fashion in a male-dominated society, about how women have to endure countless hours of torture and insecurity in order to fit into some pre-ordained concept of female beauty entirely decided by the male gaze, but I'm guessing you wanted a more flippant answer than that,” she grins at him, and he snorts, returns her smile.
“Jesus, I should've known better than to ask. How come you're up so late?”
She waves vaguely at her papers. “Getting a head start on the semester. Soon I'm going to be up to my ears in grading papers and writing my own, and then there's law school applications...” she trails off, looks back at the bedroom door, left half-open just in case Sam needs her. She should be talking about this with Sam, not this stranger with eyes that look like Sam's sitting in her living room.
He empties his glass, refills it. He doesn't ever drink at work, she knows, not even when the patrons insist on buying him a drink, and she doesn't remember seeing him ever have more than a couple of beers at a time. “Law school, huh?”
“Yeah...” she shrugs. “It's a year away, but I kind of have to think about it now.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“I always wanted to go to Harvard. My scores are good enough, I think, and once I graduate I'll be able to pay back the exorbitant loans they'll probably want from me.” Sam would have scored a full ride, she thinks. They could have gone together.
“What about Sam?” He sounds angry, and maybe he should be. She shouldn't be planning her future when Sam doesn't have a past, but anger boils up inside her anyway.
“What about Sam?” she repeats flatly.
“You just going to sail off to Harvard, then? Leave him here?”
“Do you really want to have this conversation now?” she feels her voice going cool, distant. Damn, she really is becoming her mother.
“I don't want to have this conversation at all, but it looks like we're having it anyway. Are you going to stick out the year, or are you going to pick up and leave before then? I just need to know, so I can plan for it.”
“Oh, fuck you!” she's out of her seat, just barely remembers that Sam is sleeping in the next room, manages not to shout. “Where do you come off being such a self-righteous asshole? Where have you been for the past three years, huh? I don't remember you so much as calling, except for once, and you weren't there afterward. You didn't see how fucked-up Sam was after you hung up on him, and you weren't there to pick up the goddamned pieces. I've always been here for him, which is more than I can say for you!”
“He's the one who left!”
“No, asshole, your father kicked him out. I thought you were there, or weren't you listening?”
“It wasn't like that.”
“Not the way he tells it. You broke his fucking heart, and, frankly, I'm glad he can't remember that now. At least now he thinks you've always cared about him.” She stops, breathing hard, feels her heart trying to climb into her throat, and she'll be damned if she's going to cry in front of Dean Winchester. “Fuck this. I'm going for a walk. I'll take my cell, call me if there's anything.”
It takes all her self-control not to slam the door on her way out.
*
It's Saturday by the time Dean figures out that he really, really hates having Jess be mad at him. Okay, he figures that part out pretty quickly, but it takes a little longer to figure out that he doesn't want her to keep being mad at him. Mostly he hates the fact that she might be right. Not entirely right, because she knows fuck-all about him or his family, but, well. Sam isn't an idiot, he's sensed the tension in the air, but apart from some questioning looks he hasn't said anything. Knowing Sam, he probably thinks it's his fault, and right there is another compelling reason to fix this. If he can fix it.
Sam is on the sofa —it's becoming his favourite spot in the apartment— a book lying face down in his lap. He's been trying to stay awake for the past half-hour, but it's a losing battle. Dean leans over him, pats his good knee, and forces a grin.
“Sammy, give it up. Take a nap already. The book'll still be here when you wake up.”
Sam's eyes snap open again. “Feels like all I do is sleep,” he complains drowsily. “Barely managed two pages all morning. Can't concentrate.”
“It'll get better,” he says, wonders just when he started saying platitudes like that as a matter of course. The old Sam would have mocked him mercilessly for it.
“Just take it a day at a time, huh?” Sam rouses a bit. “You should totally start jamming Eye of the Tiger, there. Give me a rousing speech about overcoming adversity, all that. Maybe get me one of those motivational posters for the bedroom,” his eyes sparkle a bit, and Dean feels the knot in his chest ease a little bit. Maybe it's not just the old Sam who'd mock him.
“Shut up,” he manages. “Take a nap. I'm going outside to talk to Jess. Yell if you need anything.”
Sam's eyes are drifting shut already. “'Bout time you apologized.”
“Hey! What makes you think it was my fault?”
“Tell me I'm wrong.”
He sighs. “Bite me.” But Sam's asleep and can't appreciate the finer points of his razor-sharp wit.
He slips out the back door, makes his way over to the table where Jess is sitting, takes the seat opposite hers. She doesn't look up from where she's staring at a law book that looks bigger than his head, cigarette dangling between two fingers. He doesn't think she's seeing what's on the page.
“Okay, so maybe I was kind of an asshole with you.”
She does look up then, and fixes him with a stare. Takes a drag off her cigarette and blows the smoke to the side.
“Okay, a lot of an asshole. I'm sorry. I kind of get...” he twirls his hand in front of him. “I'm sorry, okay?”
She snorts. “Apology accepted. You need to work on your delivery, though. Next time, I expect chocolate.”
He blows out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. “Dad didn't mean to throw him out, you know.”
She takes another puff. “No?”
He shakes his head. “It was always like that, with them. As long as Sam was a teenager. Always going at it, and Sam never knew when to stop pushing.”
“What about you?”
He shrugs. “I never pushed.” He hesitates, drums his fingers on the table, then pulls his cigarettes from a pocket, lights one. “Look... what you said—”
She interrupts him. “I'm sorry too, okay? I was tired, I had a headache, you pushed all my buttons.”
“No, that's not —I don't want an apology,” he rubs the back of his neck. “You mentioned a phone call, and...”
“And you want to know what happened after.”
He nods. “I know it's not fair to ask you, but I don't remember much about it.”
She stares at her book for a moment, toys with her hair. “It feels weird, telling you about this when he can't tell you himself. I don't know if he'd even want you to know. Besides, he wouldn't tell me most of it. He was just really upset.”
Dean finishes his cigarette, feels his stomach coil. He doesn't remember most of that night, although he does remember making the call, remembers needing to hear Sam's voice and fumbling with his cell phone, hanging onto it like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood. “I was pretty fucked up.”
“Yeah, he said that. He was worried about you. I don't think I'd ever seen him that upset. I tried not to listen while he was talking to you, but...”
“I don't remember what I said.”
“Then that makes two of you. But he said afterward you told him not to bother calling again.”
“Shit,” he lets his head drop. “I can't have meant it. I was all fucked up on morphine, I don't remember what I said.”
She flips her book shut. “Is that when you hurt your leg?” He nods. “He would have come, you know, if you'd asked.”
“I know. It wouldn't have been fair.”
Jess tilts her head. “I don't get you. You uprooted your life for him. What makes you think it would have been too much to ask for him to come visit you in the hospital? We were on break, you know. Mid-semester. He could have come, and it wouldn't have cost him anything, and instead you told him never to call you again.”
He doesn't know how to explain it to her. Can't begin to figure out how to recount the days spent waiting for his Dad to realize something was wrong and to come get him, drifting in and out of consciousness. Trying to get even one bar on his cell phone. Toward the end he found himself thinking giddily that Sam would figure it out —he always figures it out when Dean's in trouble— and then in the hospital when his cell phone started working again he was pissed that Sam wasn't there when all he wanted was just to talk to him. He can't tell her any of it, anyway, because it's supposed to be a construction accident. That's the newest fiction.
“I dunno. I was just mad at him. And really high.”
“Yeah, I got that,” she smiles wryly.
“I can't even apologize to him now.”
She opens her mouth, but whatever she's about to say is forestalled by the sound of something smashing inside the apartment.
*
It seemed like a good idea at the time, is all Sam will be able to say in his own defense after this. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, isn't that what they say? Dean's outside, just a stone's throw away, talking with Jess. Sam can see them talking quietly, is watching them for signs of... well, anything. They must have had a fight of some kind on Thursday, or maybe early Friday morning, because it's felt like he's living in the middle of a very precarious truce for the past twenty-four hours. His brother and his girlfriend have been very careful around each other, more guarded than usual, kind of like a couple not wanting to fight in front of the kids, and it makes him somewhat irrationally want to throw a tantrum.
Instead he pretends not to have noticed, but he's relieved when it becomes obvious Dean's going to try to patch things up. He settles back on the sofa, trying to find a comfortable position, but like everything else it's not exactly designed to accommodate him. He finds himself wishing that he'd drunk less milk as a kid, or whatever it is that made him grow so damned tall. After a few minutes of wriggling he drops the book he was holding on the floor by accident, and sighs to himself, rolling his eyes. Even napping is a chore, it seems.
Sam sits up, testing for dizziness, but for once he feels okay. His head still hurts —hence the desire for a nap— but he's not dizzy. On the whole, it's been a pretty good morning. He retrieves the book from the floor, and a moment later is really grateful that no one's around to hear his really undignified grunt of pain as he moves wrong trying to straighten up again.
“Fuck,” he groans under his breath. So much for a good morning.
His head hurts more now, kind of a steady, low-grade throb. It's not so bad, but he can tell it's the kind that's going to get worse if he doesn't do anything about it. He looks back at the glass doors leading to the yard, sees Jess and Dean still talking. They probably think he's still asleep. Come on, he tells himself. It's, like, ten feet to the kitchen. Okay, maybe a bit more, but he's done this before, he can totally do it again. He picks up his crutches from where they're leaning against the sofa, pushes himself carefully to his feet. He's a lot stronger than he was even a week ago, absurdly proud that his arms don't shake anymore when he makes his way around on the crutches.
So far so good, he tells himself as the rubber tips hit the linoleum floor of the kitchen. He makes it all the way to the counter next to the sink, then leans there for a minute to catch his breath. He grins to himself: he's totally doing this, all by himself. Fuck, yeah. He unhooks one of the crutches from his right arm, braces himself against the counter, opens up the cupboard and pulls out a glass. He fills it up at the sink, then reaches for the small bottle of Vicodin, fumbles with the cap, and is even more pleased when he gets it open after the third try. Another couple of weeks, and he'll totally be able to open it in one shot, he tells himself sarcastically, popping the pills into his mouth and picking up the glass. He takes a sip of water, swallows, feels his fingers lose their grip, the glass slip-slide along his skin.
He lurches, tries to keep hold of the glass, feels himself falling toward the counter. The loose crutch clatters to the floor, the other preventing him from bringing up his arm to block his fall. He sees the glass shatter against the edge of the counter, a splash of red mingling with the spilled water, and the second crutch slides out from under him, leaving him flailing for balance. He feels his head collide with the counter as he goes down, lets himself slide against the cabinets to the floor amidst the shards of glass, dazed. Things go swimmy for a bit, and he blinks, trying to clear his vision enough to see the damage. It's a mess, he tells himself, and Dad is going to be so mad at him. His head hurts. He shuts his eyes again, until he feels a hand on his shoulder.
“Sam? Oh my God!” Dean is kneeling in front of him, smoothing his hair away from his forehead. “Did you hurt yourself? Sam!”
He looks at his hand, at the blood on the floor, swirling pink in the water. The broken glass is making pretty patterns there. “I didn't mean to make a mess, Dean. You won't tell Dad, will you?”
“What?”
“He's going to be so mad at me. I'm sorry I broke the glass, I didn't mean to. You know that, right? Please don't tell him, I'm sorry!”
Dean smooths a hand over his forehead again. “Okay, Sammy. I won't tell him, I promise. It's going to be fine, you hear me? It's going to be fine, I promise.”
*
Chapter 10
ps
Re: ps
Re: ps
Re: ps
Re: ps
Re: ps
Weren't we just talking about this the other day? ;)
Also, you are awesome. Mad Jedi skills.