Fic: Rewritten Tragedy 1/2
Sep. 3rd, 2007 01:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
faye_dartmouthSummary: Pieces of evidence he would sift through, time and again in the coming years, trying to figure out what he could have done differently, how he could have prevented the outcome.
A/N: This if for Round Four of the SFTCOL(AR)S summer fic exchange. This time I had the pleasure to write for Deanish. She requested an AU for IMTOD, but the details of which I will not divulge for risk of spoiling the fic. I must however warn this IS a deathfic. Thanks to
sendintheklowns for cheerleading, and to geminigrl11 for the wonderful (and fast!) beta. Spoilers for ALL of S2.
Disclaimer: I own so little here that it is laughable! So go ahead--laugh!!!
-o-
Sometimes it's hard to tell what to keep and what to kill
What of this makes us who we are
All that we love the most, all that we cannot let go
How much of change can we survive?
I'm here to re-write this tragedy
One line at a time
Hold on, I'm changing all the scenery
It's okay we'll be fine
Cause we know how this ends
We know there's a better story
from "Rewrite This Tragedy" by Sara Groves
-o-
He never should have let Sam drive the Impala.
It wasn't because he didn't trust Sam, no matter how much he may have joked to the contrary. It wasn't that he was that possessive of the car, either. Sure, it meant a lot to him, but it didn't come close to what Sam meant to him, what their dad meant to him, what family meant to him.
He never should have let Sam drive because he knew, remembered from that driver's ed. course he'd been forced to sit through. He knew that the most dangerous spot in the car was the driver's seat.
He knew that.
And yet, Sam had been the one behind the wheel.
Dean would never forgive himself.
-o-
Everything before was a blur, fast-paced, stop-motion life, events broken down into moments, glimpses. Surreal pieces of memory that he could patch together to tell the whole story. Pieces of evidence he would sift through, time and again in the coming years, trying to figure out what he could have done differently, how he could have prevented the outcome.
There was too much--too much and not enough.
The cabin and the car.
Dad and Sam.
Pain and pain and pain and Sam.
He could still feel his insides straining, pulling, ripping. He could still taste the metallic tang of blood.
He could still hear his father's voice, low and laced with anger, hatred, glee.
He could still see Sam wavering, Sam hesitating.
He could still feel his brother's solidarity.
Then nothing, bright and dark, brilliant and dull, encompassing and effusive and surely he must have died.
Death didn't matter. He could still see Sam.
Sam's bloodied face. Sam stepping next to him. Sam's hands dropping the gun.
Sam choosing to stay with him.
That was what hurt the most.
Sam standing by his side, telling him nothing was more important than family, and then the flash of lights, the sound of crunching metal.
And more nothing.
-o-
Dean woke up in the hospital, his dad by his side.
John looked small in his wheelchair, rumpled and unshaven, his arm in a sling.
Dean tried to speak, tried to say something, but found his throat nothing more than parchment.
Somehow, though, it was enough.
John looked up, surprised, relieved, and he smiled. "Hey, kiddo," he said, his voice soft and light, like a lullaby from long ago. "Good to see you awake."
The comfort was genuine, and that unnerved Dean more than anything else. He opened his mouth to ask a question but still, nothing came out.
John fumbled at the bedside table, coming up with a small spoon, which he raised to Dean's lips. Dean glared at him, hesitant to be fed, but as the coldness reached his lips, he realized how parched he was and did not resist.
"Easy," John soothed. "You had a tube down your throat for a few days."
The comfort vanished, and panic flared. He didn't even have to ask the question. His father held up a hand to shush him, pulling the spoon away.
"You're okay now, though," John assured him. "You had some pretty extensive surgery, and you're going to be off your feet for awhile, but they think you'll make a full recovery." John gave a lopsided smile. "They say you're pretty tough. Those injuries would have taken down a lesser man."
Something was wrong, something was missing, and, oh, God, where was Sam?
"Shh," John said, his hand resting on Dean’s head. "Sleep now."
Dean wanted to shake his head, to protest, because Sam should have been there, Sam would be there.
"Sleep."
His father’s voice was soft and insistent and with the drugs in his system, it was impossible to resist. He floated downward against his will, into a deceptively peaceful place that resounded with what wasn’t being said.
-o-
The next time he woke up, John was still there, but looking out the window now, bathed in pale sunlight that made him look even older.
Dean swallowed, finding it easier this time. "Dad," he croaked, licking his lips in vain. "Dad."
John turned, surprised, then smiled, rolling over to Dean’s side. "Hey there," he said. "You feeling better?"
Everything hurt, distantly, anyway, and everything was frayed around the edges. But it didn’t matter.
"Easy," John warned. "You’ve got a lot of stitches."
Dean wanted to scream, tell his father to shut up, because he needed to know.
"You had me worried there for awhile," John continued, obliviously. "I thought you had fallen asleep forever."
He swallowed again, garnering enough saliva to speak because he had to know. Nothing else mattered. "Where’s Sam?"
The question hung, undeniable and hard, and his father’s face froze.
In his chest, Dean felt his heart clench and his raw throat constricted. "Where’s Sam?" he asked again. "What aren’t you telling me?"
John sighed, grimaced, and he seemed to deflate. "Dean," he said.
And Dean’s world shattered.
-o-
Sam was alive, but not by much.
He'd smacked his head in the accident, hard against the dash. He'd been awake enough to call 911, but there was a complication.
There was always a complication for the Winchesters. Sometimes it was an unplanned element of the hunt--two ghosts instead of one. Sometimes it was a civilian showing up at the wrong time. Sometimes it was a demon who came out of nowhere to screw them over.
This time it was a blood clot. One too many hits to the head in a small amount of time and Sam's super-sized brain just couldn't take it.
Well, Dean didn't think he could take it either. Sam needed him, he needed Sam, and he would be by his brother's side if he had anything to say about it.
He didn't.
John wouldn't let him get out of bed and neither would the doctors.
"Sam's not awake, anyway," John tried to explain.
Dean didn't pout and he didn't sulk, but this was about as close as he would come. "I need to be there when he is."
John licked his lips. "Dean, are you not listening to me?" he asked, and his voice slipped from sensitive to frustrated. "Sam may never wake up."
John had been saying it all along, but not quite like that, and Dean felt his stomach drop to the floor.
"They're only detecting minimal brain activity," John explained. "He's probably brain dead."
Dean just stared, his mouth hanging open, trying to make sense of this.
"Do you understand?" John asked slowly, deliberately.
Dean couldn't nod and he couldn't shake his head because there was no way he would ever understand.
-o-
John relented a few hours later and coerced the doctor into letting Dean visit Sam. They all knew it was the only way Dean would accept what had happened to Sam.
The doctor hovered over Dean, checking his IVs and glaring at him, but let him go into Sam's room with his father.
Dean was stubborn and proud, relieved to finally see his brother.
At least until he actually saw his brother.
Sam was stretched out on a hospital bed, a thin sheet pulled up over his legs and folded at his waist. His long fingers were lax, limp at his sides. A pair of IVs piggybacked off his left hand, and a clip was attached to his right index finger.
He could see the steady rise and fall of Sam’s chest, but as his eyes lingered upwards, he blanched to see why.
A tube ran from Sam’s mouth, another from his nose, both taped down in haste over his brother’s pale face. A bandage wrapped his head, tightly and skewed, leaving Sam looking disheveled and uncomfortable.
Sam looked surreal, shrunken and still too big. Lifeless yet surrounded by activity.
He sat by Sam's side and stared, too shocked to cry, too scared to move.
John didn't say anything at all.
-o-
Sam was going to die. The doctors all thought so; the nurses all knew it. No one would quite say it, but Dean could feel the certainty growing in him too. He hated it.
It made his heart beat funny, made his lungs feel tight. It made his stitches ache, and his hands jitter.
Sam was dying.
Deep within him, the essence of who he was, everything he had, everything he knew, everything he was, rebelled.
Sam couldn't die. Not now, not ever. Not on his watch, not while he was alive.
He would save his brother.
He had to. It was his job, his life, the only thing that had ever mattered.
This was what they did. This back and forth, pulling each other back from the brink. He’d pulled Sam from the fire in Stanford. Sam had cured his failing heart.
Dean would take his turn again.
It was just what brothers did.
-o-
Dean needed access to a computer.
Now.
John looked weary as he shook his head. "The laptop’s totaled," he said.
"Then get a new one."
John sighed. "It’s not that simple. You need to rest."
"Sam is dying," Dean spat back. "And if you won’t bring me a laptop, I’ll go find one myself."
To prove his point, Dean tried to push himself off his bed. It was harder than he anticipated, and he felt woozy just sitting upright.
His father’s hands were restraining him before he got much farther. "Damn it, Dean, you need to heal."
Dean looked up in defiance. "I need to save my brother."
They maintained eye contact, both determined, unwavering, mirror images of each other. John finally broke the contact with a sigh, his eyes dropped to the ground. "I’ll take care of it," he said. "I’ve got a couple of ideas."
Dean sunk back a little, his eyes still wide and alert. "A faith healer?"
John just shook his head. "That was one in a million."
"It worked for me; it can work for Sam."
"I’ve kept my eyes open, believe me," John assured him. "But I’ve got a few other things. I just need to think a little."
"What do you have in mind?"
John hesitated, and Dean’s brow furrowed. His father wasn’t exactly an open man, but secrets during a hunt, an investigation, were never okay. This was a brainstorming process—one to save his brother’s life. And Dean couldn’t imagine why his dad was holding out on him.
"Dad?"
Chewing his lower lip, John rubbed his hand over his face. "I’m going to do everything I can, okay?" he said. "But you have to promise me something."
Dean waited for it, refusing to agree blindly.
"You need to sit here and heal," he said sternly. "I can’t have you risking your health, not with things the way they are."
"No," Dean said, pushing himself up again. "I need to be a part of this. I need to do this for Sam."
"Sam would want you to get better," John reasoned. Then he smiled a little. "Besides, you can trust me with your brother’s life, can’t you?"
There was only one other person in this world he trusted with his brother's life, one other person who understood what it meant to protect Sam.
If Dean couldn't do it, Dad would.
Dean could rest in that much.
-o-
John left on a Friday afternoon.
Dean stayed with Sam. The nurses finally capitulated to him on that point, and left him be.
Sam looked young and ill, his skin sallow, leaving the bruises and cuts as garish marks on his brother's attractive features.
He'd never admit it to Sam, but he'd spent hours studying his brother, memorizing him since the day Sam was born and his mom had said, "Look, Dean, this is your brother."
Since the night his dad had put Sam in his arms and said, "Take your brother outside, as fast as you can."
He knew Sam better than he knew himself, better than Sam knew himself.
So he sat with Sam, near Sam, murmuring to him, making crude jokes, just being with him, because he didn't believe Sam would leave him. Not this time. Not again.
Sam's floppy hair was obscured by a bandage, but it couldn't be completely contained. It peeked out around the edges, curling over the whiteness like only Sam's hair could.
The monitors beeped, the ventilator whooshed, and Dean held Sam's hand and promised him, "Dad's going to make this better, little brother. Just wait and see. Dad will make it right."
Sam found a miracle for him. John would find a miracle for Sam.
"Just wait and see."
-o-
John left on Friday morning.
Sam died Friday night.
Sam died on the hospital bed, surrounding by nurses and doctors, Dean's wheelchair shoved to the side. He died in a cacophony of sounds and noises, all obscuring the simple fact that Sam was dead.
Sam was dead.
They called his time of death, turned off the machines, and looked sadly at him.
Sam was dead.
They told Dean his brother was at peace now, that it was over.
Sam was dead and John was nowhere to be found.
They left him with Sam's body, wheeled him close and left him, for closure, for something, but Dean didn't know what.
He just sat there and stared at Sam's pale features that looked no different than just hours before.
No different. Same sunken hue. Same vivid bruises. Just a little blue in the lips around the tube.
Sam was dead.
There was no miracle. There was no victory. There was no more family.
Because Sam was dead.
-o-
Dean never remembered his dad coming back. He was just there, taking him to his room and keeping him there. John didn’t move from his spot next to Dean’s bed, just sat, face drawn and long, immobile and unwavering.
That was all there was to Dean, just the distant presence of his father, keeping them in the room, keeping him tethered to reality.
Because nothing else mattered.
The doctors came and went, saying pointless things, doing pointless tests. Nurses offered encouragement, praise, condolences—it didn’t matter. Dean didn’t want them. Dean didn’t hear them.
All he could hear was the sound of Sam’s heart monitor in a single, glaring monotone. The way it had matched the sound of the doctor’s voice as he pronounced Sam dead.
Dean was getting better. His dad was released. Sam was dead.
-o-
There was a silence now, deep and encompassing, that seemed to cover everything he did. It was a loss so deep he could barely feel it. He could barely identify it, because it consumed him whole.
His father was always there, though, by his side, walking with him out of the hospital, helping him into the car, driving him to Bobby's, where the older man welcomed them with silent grimness.
Dean let himself be led inside. He let himself be shuffled to a room. He let himself have food put in front of him.
The sun rose, the sun fell. It didn’t matter.
Sometimes, Dean remembered.
He remembered the days of his childhood, spent with Sam in sparse fields behind motels. He remembered Sam’s cheerful smile as he ran himself to exhaustion in circles, calling for Dean to catch him and squealing when he did.
He remembered Sam’s too-long hair over his eyes as a teenager, the way he'd slouched in the car on the way home from school.
He remembered the shy smile Sam always gave whenever Dean remembered to ask about school.
He remembered Sam.
It was all he had.
-o-
His dad was quiet, even quieter than usual. Different.
After dinner, he left the dishes on the table and wiped his hands on his pants. "Get yourself ready to go," he announced. "We’re leaving in ten."
Dean’s first reaction was to laugh. The order was so simple, but Dean hadn’t followed any orders, not since Sam disobeyed his last order.
But there was something in his father’s eyes, something sorrowful, something necessary, and Dean didn’t fight it.
He didn’t need to do anything to get ready, and five minutes was only two before he followed his dad out through Bobby’s junkyard.
The cars were shadowed heaps, lopsided and crumpled. They wove through them wordlessly.
The night was clear, with stars flickering amidst the wan light of the full moon. The air was crisp, and it snapped coldly in his lungs with every breath he took.
His father’s steps were strong, purposeful, and Dean tried to match his stride as they walked.
They kept going, beyond the boundaries of the dogs, beyond where he used to tell Sam he couldn’t cross when they were kids.
Dean recognized the field, flanked by wild and overgrown tress, dirty and splotchy even in the dark. He’d taken a girl here once, Emily Reese, and he’d gotten his hands up her shirt before she said no.
He’d been young then, young and happy.
He felt old now. Empty.
On the far end of the field, there was a stone structure. Dean didn’t remember it from his childhood, and it loomed ominously in the moonlight.
On top of the rocks, was a figure, swathed in cloth.
A body.
Sam.
Dean nearly stopped altogether. His stomach churned and his knees went weak.
Instinctively, his father slowed, catching his arm. "We need to do this, Dean," he said.
Dean wanted to yell, to fight, to rage against those words, but his father’s grip was too strong, and the reality was too inescapable.
He found himself moving forward, moving closer, the distance closing between him and his brother like it didn’t exist at all. He shook his father’s grip free and moved all the way to the body.
It was still, deadly still, and stiff. Dean could see that just by looking. His brother’s body was arranged, probably mummy-like under the tightly wrapped strips.
He wanted to see him, to pull away the cloth and remember. Just one last time. The look of his brother’s face, the curve of his nose, the shape of his lips.
It was an irrational thought, and he knew Sam wouldn’t look like Sam anymore. It had been long enough (too long), and Sam was dead. He had no idea how John had gotten the body, didn’t care, but now that it was here, Dean didn’t know what to do.
He didn’t know how to accept it. He didn’t know how to let go. He didn’t know how to make sense of it. That this was his brother, cold, pale, dead, wrapped in that sheet. It couldn’t be true. Dean had been there when Sam was born. Dean had seen Sam grow up.
Dean couldn’t see Sam die.
The hand on his shoulder was hesitant, unyielding. "Dean."
He shook his head.
"Dean, it’s time."
Dean swallowed a sob and shook his head again. It would never be time, not for this.
But he wasn’t strong enough, not to save Sam, not to resist. He was pulled away and left and Dean could only watch as his father moved forward, took his lighter from his pocket, and lit Sam’s wrapped feet.
The blaze was almost instantaneous, bright and hot, glaring in the darkness with a brilliancy that was humbling.
There was nothing left to do. Nothing left to say.
It was over.
It started with fire. It ended with fire.
John returned to his side, stood next to him, shoulder to shoulder in the darkness, bathed in the glow of the fire under the embers went out.
-o-
Dean would have stayed at Bobby's forever, living within the tiny confines of Bobby's sparse and faded spare room, but John had other ideas. One morning, his dad dragged him to the breakfast table and put a plate of eggs in front of him, loaded with pepper and bacon. John put the salsa next to his plate and shoved a glass of orange juice at him.
Dean just stared at the food, then at his father.
"You need your strength back," John said with a plaintive shrug. He plopped down in front of his own plate and shoveled in a bite.
The why on Dean's face was surely evident.
"We're taking a trip," John said, between chews. He picked up a link of sausage and ripped it in half. "I want you up and ready to go in thirty minutes."
Dean couldn't do much but stare, and stare some more. He'd been living in limbo, lost, in denial that there was still a world out there, a world that existed without Sam.
John reached over, pushing the plate at him a little more. "Come on, son," he said, his voice dropping low and gentle. "For me."
The request was so true, so simple, that Dean felt his hands moving without his knowledge, lifting the fork and poking it at the eggs.
They were easily speared and he put a forkful in his mouth, forcing himself to chew.
He could taste the egg, the seasoning, warm and flavorful on his tongue, and he tried not to think about how Sam's favorite breakfast was always French toast.
He shut down the thought, blocked the memory, and it took every ounce of strength he had. Because he didn't think he could be strong, not like John wanted, but he didn't want to be alone.
So in a half-hour, he needed to be dressed and ready to go, or face his nightmares alone.
-o-
Driving away from Bobby's hurt.
Dean kept his eyes trained on the side mirror, watching the landscape retreating, taking him farther and farther away from Bobby's strangely familiar homestead.
Farther away from the pyre where they'd burned Sam to ashes.
Farther away from the memories, the smell, the last place Sam's body ever was.
It didn't matter that he knew they'd be coming back, that this was just a small trip.
Because he knew when he got back, Sam wouldn't be there anyway.
-o-
The place John finally stopped was a rundown-looking bar in the middle of nowhere. It was dirty and a bit ramshackle and looked more than a little abandoned.
John's pace was strong and sure as they walked to the door, like he knew exactly where he was going. He pushed it open with ease, nodding at Dean to follow close behind him.
They make it only a few feet inside when someone flew at him, swift and accurate and he ended up with a sore nose and a gun in his face.
He straightened in time to see his dad with his hands on his head and Dean couldn't make heads or tails of why they were here at all.
There was a blond behind the gun on him, sneering and fierce. Two months ago, he would have made a pass.
He didn't have time to do anything, though--which he figured was good since he didn't know what he would have done anyway--before someone started talking.
"John? John Winchester?"
Dean couldn't see much, not with Blondie waving a shotgun in his face and his head still reeling from her sucker punch. She was little, but she clearly packed a wallop.
But Dean didn't need to see to hear the familiarity in the worn voice.
His father stood, stoic, hands at his side. "Ellen."
The blonde's eyes flicked to the side. "Mama?"
The gun wavered, and Dean finally craned his head to the side, catching sight of the stocky woman. She was clad in jeans and flannel, her face wreathed with a smile. "Well, I'll be damned," she said. "Put the gun down, Joanna Beth."
The girl looked hesitant, but complied, glaring at Dean.
Dean smirked back.
"You know them?"
"Jo, go get some beer," she said. "These two used to be like family."
Dean was happy not to have a gun on him, but he didn't know these women, and he didn't like that his father did.
It was another secret, another mystery, and Dean didn't think he could handle any more of them.
-o-
Luckily, the beer was good. It kept him from thinking too much as he listened for awhile. From what he gathered from the conversation, Ellen's late husband had hunted with John back in the day. Dean didn't remember, wouldn't remember, because John may have socialized some, but he kept his boys from it as much as he could.
Dean had never thought much about it, just like he'd never questioned most of what his father did.
But as he sat there, looking at his father's smooth interactions with Ellen, his fatherly joking with Jo, he suddenly wished for the family he'd lost, the family he'd never have again.
The family he'd deserved. The family Sam deserved.
He pushed his beer away and excused himself.
If Sam couldn't have it, neither should he.
-o-
John found him later, leaning against the outside of Bobby's van, staring off into the barren sunset. "You okay?" John asked, leaning next to him.
Dean squinted into the sun and thought of a thousand answers. "Yeah."
John said nothing, and Dean could feel the steady rise and fall of his father's chest next to his. He remembered being little, standing next to his dad, dreaming of being his equal, his partner. Just like this.
Only not at all like this. In his dreams, they were leaned up next to the Impala, Sam flanking them. Sam still alive.
"Why are we here, Dad?" he asked finally.
With a sigh, John shifted his weight. "I thought it might be good for you," he said. "They're good people. They were there for me times when I needed them."
"They're not family." They're not Sam.
He could hear his father swallow, restrained and measured. "Ellen thinks she has a hunt for us."
That made him angry, made him hurt. He wanted to scream and kick and cry and tell his dad no, not yet, not like this, not without Sam. Never without Sam.
But his father’s eyes were on him, steadfast, unwavering, testing.
Dean didn’t know how to say no, he never had, not to his father. That had always been Sam’s job.
Sam wasn’t here.
Wearily, Dean turned his eyes up to his father, meeting his gaze, submitting by his silence.
John smiled a little, his small victory clouded with sadness. He put a hand on Dean’s shoulder and squeezed.
All it made Dean do was hate himself.
-o-
Dean had never been scared of clowns, not once. He was never even creeped out by them--not their colorful suits, their curly wigs, or their perpetually smiling face-paint.
They had terrified Sam, though, for reasons Dean had never figured out. Sam was undaunted by ghosts and black dogs and any variety of unknown supernatural entities, but Dean would never forget the day he found Sam cowered beneath a table in a McDonald's.
Sam would be glad he wasn't on this hunt.
Dean couldn't bring himself to feel the same.
-o-
They screwed up, got some parents mad, scared a kid, and had an APB put out. It wasn't the first time, and Dean didn't even care to consider that it wouldn't be the last.
They ditched Bobby's van in some woods and took off on the back roads by foot. Dean was still tired, his muscles aching, still not up to snuff after the accident. But Dean didn't care, didn't tell his dad, just trudged along because he had nothing else to do.
The day was warm and the sky was blue, dotted with clouds. The fields were vast and the road was empty, and it made Dean feel alone.
He wasn't alone. His father trudged next to him, his pack slung over his shoulder as he walked with a slight limp. John talked, on and off, about the hunt, about anything, and he turned to Dean for affirmation.
Dean stopped. Stopped and stared.
John looked confused. "Son, I asked if that was alright with you?"
"Alright? Since when do you ask my opinion about anything?"
John cocked his head. "Dean, what are you talking about?"
"This whole good father thing," Dean said. "Where do you get off?"
"I'm trying to make sure you're okay, that you're dealing with Sam's death--"
It was so reasonable, so painfully, annoying reasonable that Dean couldn't take it. "I'm dealing with Sam's death just fine," he snapped. "You're the one who's acting all of a sudden like father of the year, asking if things are okay, if I agree with you, giving me everything Sam ever fought you for. Well, guess what, Dad, you can't make it right now. Sam's not here to appreciate it."
John's face went hard, a little blank and his eyes glistened. "Why are you saying this?" he asked, his voice raw.
Dean set his face, refusing to give in now. "You have to face it, Dad," Dean said. "You're just too little, too late. For me, and for Sam."
The flash of hurt in John's eyes felt good. Dean wanted him to hurt, wanted him to hurt like he did, like Sam had for years on years.
Without a word, John turned on his heel and stalked away.
Dean was alone.
Which seemed to be the way it always ended.
-o-
John came back less than an hour later, and Dean had almost brought himself to feel remorse. He didn't really want to hurt his father. He didn't really want to hurt anyone.
He just wanted Sam.
He had never realized just how much Sam kept him sane, how much Sam kept him happy, how much Sam kept him Dean until Sam was gone.
Dean figured he probably was, too.
-o-
Back in Bobby's junkyard, John smiled shyly as he led him out through the graveyard of cars. "It's not quite perfect," John explained. "But Bobby's been working on it for me, and we've got a good start toward getting it back to where it was."
They stopped, and behind his father, Dean could see a dusty, partially-constructed car.
The Impala.
The frame must have been straightened, and the outside had been replaced or smoothed. The hood was still missing, and there was only one door, but it was the Impala.
He’d always thought of the Impala as home, the one constant in his life. He knew his dad understood that, he knew that was why his dad was standing there, watching him, hoping to make him happy.
Dean swallowed bile and forced a smile. "She looks great, Dad," he managed.
John beamed, moving forward. "There are more parts coming in, and I thought we could rebuild her—you and me."
It was so right, so good, and so very wrong.
"We need to this, Dean," his father said. "We need to do this together."
Dean didn’t know how together meant anything without Sam.
"Dean," his father said, looking at him imploringly. "I know how difficult this is for you. I know how much you miss Sam. I miss him too." He let his head drop for a moment before he looked up again. "You were right—what you said about me, and I just hope that Sam knew I loved him before he died. It’s not easy, but I’m doing everything I can, Dean. Everything I can for you now. But you need to deal with this. Because I know you—and I know you’re not okay."
Dean just stared at him, stared through him to the endless sea of cars. His father held his gaze for a minute longer before sighing, dropping his head, and turning away. Dean watched as his figure retreated, heading toward the house, but still Dean couldn’t move.
I’m doing everything I can, Dean.
But it wasn’t enough, not for Sam.
I know you’re not okay.
And he may never be again.
-o-
The weeks were long and empty, so Dean spent them on the car, side by side with his dad, until they were grease-stained twins at Bobby’s table.
There was a certain excitement to that, one that even managed to eclipse the grief, if only momentarily.
Because there they were. John and Dean, father and son, united and on the road, with nothing but a classic car between them. As Dean sunk into the seat, feeling the warm leather against his body, it almost felt like before, like when he'd first been given the car as his very own.
The car hummed, throbbing the rhythm of the road that had always called to Dean.
For a moment, Dean forgot.
But just for a moment.
Because the rhythm skipped a beat, and the hum ached in his ears, and the leather was stiff, and Sam wasn't beside him.
-o-
He killed a vampire by slicing its head off with a chainsaw. It was slow and bloody and Dean just snarled a smile as the blade ripped slowly through the neck, exposing blood and muscles and gore. The thing twitched, its eyes open and scared and pleading, but Dean didn't stop. Dean didn't even hesitate.
When he looked up, he saw Gordon Walker, who looked more than a little relieved to have his butt saved, and his father, who looked more than a little unsettled.
It was then Dean felt the blood splattered on his face, felt it seeping through his clothes.
His face fell and he suddenly felt sick. He'd used violence before, he'd killed and maimed without thought or question. But he wasn't supposed to enjoy it.
Sam had taught him that.
Sam had watched for that, pulled Dean back for it, saved Dean from himself.
This time, Sam wasn't here, and Dean didn't know how to live with that.
-o-
His dad watched him the whole way out, but he didn't say anything. He even let Gordon take them out for a drink, though Dean could tell his father wasn't keen on the idea.
Dean didn't care. Dean kind of liked Gordon. He kind of liked Gordon's attitude. It was different. He could use different.
And he could use free beer.
The conversation was celebratory and easy, though John didn't laugh, not once. When Gordon called him Johnny-boy, John excused himself and told Dean with a pointed stare that he'd meet him back at the motel.
"He seems kind of off," Gordon observed. "Or is he always so conversational?"
Dean smirked. His dad was many things, but not conversational. "We're just having a rough time right now is all," Dean explained.
Gordon raised his eyebrows. "I'm sorry to hear that," Gordon said. "Anything in particular?"
His chest hurt with that question, and he found himself blinking back tears. He finished his beer in one swig and put it down, garnering some semblance of strength. "My brother died a few months ago," Dean said.
Gordon’s brows furrowed in sympathy. "I’m sorry."
Dean fiddled with his glass and shrugged.
"Losing someone's never easy," Gordon said. "I know this has to be tough."
Dean smiled tightly.
"I lost my sister when I was younger," Gordon went on. "It nearly killed me. Every day, all I could think about was her, how I should have saved her. How I had failed. It never made a difference, though. She was still dead."
A lump formed in his throat and Dean didn’t know if he could breathe.
"But you're doing the right thing, Dean," Gordon said. He leaned forward, letting his voice drop. "Sometimes all you have inside of you is the rage, the pain over what you lost. And if you let it, it can kill you. Or you can choose to use it--use it for good, for something better."
His vision narrowed, and his brain fumbled for coherence.
"You and I, Dean," Gordon said. "We're alike. We are what we are, and we use our pain to make us stronger. I can never bring my sister back. You can never bring your brother back. But we can kill every monster we find to make their deaths mean something."
And that, of all things, made sense.
He looked up, smiling a little, meeting Gordon’s gaze with a tentative hope, a bond from someone who got it. "It still hurts," he said.
Gordon emptied his mug and thumped it on the table. "And it always will."
-o-
When he showed up back at the motel again, it was late, and he fumbled for the door, hoping his dad would be sound asleep.
It was wishful thinking.
John was perched in the glow of the lamp, staring at the door.
Staring at him.
Dean opened his mouth to offer a lie of reassurance. He never had a chance.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" his father asked.
Giving his eyes a petulant roll of his eyes, he sighed. "I'm not a kid, Dad--"
"No?" John asked, rising from the chair. "You're my kid, Dean. Mine. And you're acting like a selfish brat."
He had heard those words before, out of his mouth, out of his father's mouth, but always directed at Sam.
They weren't pleasant, and suddenly Dean understood why his brother had a penchant for leaving.
He didn't need to take this.
He wouldn't.
He turned on his heel and stormed out the door, trying to slam it behind him.
There was no success on the last bit and he only made it five feet before his father caught his arm and spun him to face him. "You don't walk away from me," John seethed.
Dean tore his arm away. "Get off me!"
His father was livid, and he wasn't backing down. John had been tentatively, respectful. Giving Dean space.
Not this time. "This needs to stop," his father said. "Right now."
"What?" Dean snapped. "What needs to stop?"
John's eyes hardened, flaring with an anger Dean had never seen directed at him before. "You can't replace your brother with some nutjob like Gordon Walker."
That was all it took, the one unforgivable comment, the cold hard truth that Dean could never forget.
Without thinking, he lashed out, his fist strong and sure and solid against his father's face.
John reeled back, surprised, his hand going up to feel out the tender flesh on his jaw.
A surge of panic, of remorse, of confusion swept over Dean and for a horrifying second, he thought he might cry.
John held his fingers up, checking for blood, before he finally shook his head and looked at Dean. "You can hit me all you want, Dean," he said. "But it's not going to change anything. Sam's dead and you have to accept that before it destroys you."
Dean felt himself falling apart, his emotions collapsing in on each other.
He had nothing to say to that, nothing at all. There was nothing he ever could say.
Sam was dead.
And Dean didn't know how to accept it. He didn't even know how to care if it destroyed him.
His eyes were burning, and he turned away, slumped and defeated, moving toward the motel room without a word.
This time, his father didn't follow him, but Dean left the door open as he curled up on the bed and fell into heartbroken dreams.
Part Two
