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mickeymTitle: The Silent Language of Grief
Pairing: Dean/Lisa, references past Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Words: ~1300
Spoilers/Warnings: Coda to 6x01, so assume spoilers for that ep.
Disclaimer: Sadly still not mine.
Summary: Dean's still grieving.
A/N: Many, many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
britomart_is for beta-duty on this. It's a lot more complete, and more powerful, thanks to her input and suggestions. You rock, honey. *hugs*
Dean watches from the driveway until Sam's car is nothing but a flash of black turning the corner, then he turns back into the house, into his home, to call Lisa.
"So you're staying?" Her tone is wary, uncertain.
"Yeah." He clears his throat. "I'm staying." There's silence on the line for a moment, then Lisa says softly, "I'm glad."
He's glad too. Mostly. In the part of him that isn't screaming for his brother.
Dean closes his phone on "see you soon", and glances around the kitchen. It's meant to be warm and welcoming, colors chosen to make it feel that way. On one wall is a corkboard with pictures of the three of them up alongside Ben's softball practice schedule from last spring and due-dates for homework assignments; Lisa's on-going list of things that need doing around the house as well as a couple of recipe cards she got from friends, and his own hastily scrawled notes to remind him to check the oil in Lisa's car, and show Ben how to oil the chain on his bike, or pick up some fertilizer for the lawn. It's family space.
Right now it doesn't feel warm or welcoming, and Dean's never felt as alone as he does at that moment.
~~~~~
It's a long drive to Bobby's, and he's as out of practice for long-distance drives as he is for hunting. His knees ache from holding the same position for so long, and his ass is numb from sitting. The truck eats up the miles quickly, but even listening to the radio doesn't offer much to distract him, and he keeps coming back to Sam. Sam's face. Sam's face when he told Dean goodbye, body already lighting up from the demon blood thrumming through him. Sam's face just before he threw himself into the hole in the ground. Sam's face swimming into focus when Dean blinked awake, his brother standing tall and strong, whole, telling Dean he was real, he was Sam.
How long have you been back?
About a year.
Bon Jovi comes on the radio, and Dean turns the volume up, hoping it'll push the memories and the words away; sings at the top of his lungs until he remembers the sing-along with Sam, and his throat closes up again.
Three hours and six radio stations are behind him, and the words don't go away. They hide in the jumble of his thoughts, jumping out to ambush him when he drops his guard and lets his attention wander.
About a year. About a year. About a year.
Sam's back. He's alive. He's beautifully, vibrantly alive, strong and warm when Dean hugged him, his eyes and mouth smiling. Dean remembers those eyes and that mouth smiling at him through the years, the different stages Sam went through, growing into a smart, self-assured man; the man Dean loves more than life itself. Brother, lover, partner, friend, foe – Sam's been them all, and always will be.
You wanted a family.
I wanted my brother.
He tries to forget how much he tried to forget. How much it hurt – still hurts, really. It's been too quick, too much has happened too fast for him to really process that he doesn't need to grieve for Sam any longer.
You coming with me?
No. I'm going back for Lisa and Ben.
You said--
I changed my mind.
Dean wonders if he would've changed his mind if Sam came to him sooner. If it didn't seem so much like abandonment in the guise of caring. If he'd actually had a fucking choice.
Would Sam have ever revealed himself, if monsters hadn't forced his hand? Dean swallows down the nausea that thought brings, his throat dry and sore; still the bitter taste of bile rises, rises, a tidal swell until he shoves it back. It burns down his chest, into his stomach, and he chases it with the last swallow of whiskey from the mostly-empty bottle stashed under the seat.
It doesn't help still his thoughts, and it doesn't make the words stop repeating in his head about a year about a year about a year, but it does make it a little easier to ignore them.
~~~~~
Bobby is silent, radiating apology and determination, sorrow and guilt. He smiles at Ben and Lisa, says goodbye quietly, and if his arm jerks where he nearly claps a hand on Dean's shoulder, well. In time, maybe, Dean will forgive and forget.
Maybe.
The drive back home is just as silent as the drive over, leaving plenty of time for those words to play out in his mind again, spinning faster and faster until he's dizzy inside his head, grief warring with betrayal.
Keep in touch, you hear?
Of course.
Lisa breaks the silence a couple hours into the drive. "Why aren't you going with Sam?"
Dean glances at her, at Ben asleep against her shoulder, and shakes his head. "Because I don't—want to."
"Bullshit," she says, softly. "You were ready to go earlier. What changed?"
"Yeah, but that didn't mean I wanted to. I thought…I had to. I just, I realized—I want to be here. With you."
"Want to be? Or should be?" Her voice is soft, but the words cut bone deep, shredding him inside. Why can't she leave it alone?
"Some of both," he says finally, staring straight ahead. He isn't lying, exactly, but Dean knows he's not telling her the whole truth. He cares about Lisa and Ben a lot; might even admit to himself he loves them, after a fashion. But one year of domesticity can't cancel out a lifetime of hunting, a lifetime of obeying his father's command to hunt down the things that lurk in the night. And if he doesn't love them the way he loves his brother, well, he does have an obligation to them, to keep them safe. He won't tell Lisa that, though, because he knows how it feels to learn you're coming in second to someone or something else.
He feels the weight of her stare and it burns almost as much as Sam's desertion. It isn't until she sighs and nods that Dean relaxes a little, and then her fingers are on the nape of his neck, soothing and gentle.
~~~~~
It's late when they get home; well past midnight. Ben's still out cold, so Dean carries him into the house and up to his room, then makes the rounds while Lisa gets him out of his clothes and tucked into bed. It's hard to look across to Sid's house, to remember what happened less than twenty-four hours ago, so Dean pulls the drapes and checks the locks, firmly pushing thoughts of Sid and Susan from his mind.
He's on his third whiskey when Lisa comes into the living room. "Getting drunk won't help," she says, bending to kiss his forehead.
"I know." He says it automatically, but doesn't believe it. It might not help in the long run, but for the moment, at least, it dulls the ache a little.
"Come to bed, Dean."
He nods and tosses off what's left in his glass, then follows her upstairs. In some ways, this feels like those first few nights, weeks, a year ago. He's numb right now, but he knows when the numbness wears off it's going to hurt like hell.
Lisa's soft against him, spooning back until he wraps his arm across her waist to hold her close, leaning in to breathe in her scent.
He and Sam never slept together much, not the whole night; they were both too big to fit comfortably in a regular double bed. But Dean remembers curling up with him sometimes, one of them holding the other for comfort, for reassurance, for grounding.
Even those memories hurt, now.
How long have you been back?
About a year.
You wanted a family.
I wanted my brother.
He still wants his brother. Problem is, his brother doesn't want him.
~fin~
Pairing: Dean/Lisa, references past Sam/Dean
Rating: PG
Words: ~1300
Spoilers/Warnings: Coda to 6x01, so assume spoilers for that ep.
Disclaimer: Sadly still not mine.
Summary: Dean's still grieving.
A/N: Many, many thanks to
britomart_is for beta-duty on this. It's a lot more complete, and more powerful, thanks to her input and suggestions. You rock, honey. *hugs*Dean watches from the driveway until Sam's car is nothing but a flash of black turning the corner, then he turns back into the house, into his home, to call Lisa.
"So you're staying?" Her tone is wary, uncertain.
"Yeah." He clears his throat. "I'm staying." There's silence on the line for a moment, then Lisa says softly, "I'm glad."
He's glad too. Mostly. In the part of him that isn't screaming for his brother.
Dean closes his phone on "see you soon", and glances around the kitchen. It's meant to be warm and welcoming, colors chosen to make it feel that way. On one wall is a corkboard with pictures of the three of them up alongside Ben's softball practice schedule from last spring and due-dates for homework assignments; Lisa's on-going list of things that need doing around the house as well as a couple of recipe cards she got from friends, and his own hastily scrawled notes to remind him to check the oil in Lisa's car, and show Ben how to oil the chain on his bike, or pick up some fertilizer for the lawn. It's family space.
Right now it doesn't feel warm or welcoming, and Dean's never felt as alone as he does at that moment.
It's a long drive to Bobby's, and he's as out of practice for long-distance drives as he is for hunting. His knees ache from holding the same position for so long, and his ass is numb from sitting. The truck eats up the miles quickly, but even listening to the radio doesn't offer much to distract him, and he keeps coming back to Sam. Sam's face. Sam's face when he told Dean goodbye, body already lighting up from the demon blood thrumming through him. Sam's face just before he threw himself into the hole in the ground. Sam's face swimming into focus when Dean blinked awake, his brother standing tall and strong, whole, telling Dean he was real, he was Sam.
How long have you been back?
About a year.
Bon Jovi comes on the radio, and Dean turns the volume up, hoping it'll push the memories and the words away; sings at the top of his lungs until he remembers the sing-along with Sam, and his throat closes up again.
Three hours and six radio stations are behind him, and the words don't go away. They hide in the jumble of his thoughts, jumping out to ambush him when he drops his guard and lets his attention wander.
About a year. About a year. About a year.
Sam's back. He's alive. He's beautifully, vibrantly alive, strong and warm when Dean hugged him, his eyes and mouth smiling. Dean remembers those eyes and that mouth smiling at him through the years, the different stages Sam went through, growing into a smart, self-assured man; the man Dean loves more than life itself. Brother, lover, partner, friend, foe – Sam's been them all, and always will be.
You wanted a family.
I wanted my brother.
He tries to forget how much he tried to forget. How much it hurt – still hurts, really. It's been too quick, too much has happened too fast for him to really process that he doesn't need to grieve for Sam any longer.
You coming with me?
No. I'm going back for Lisa and Ben.
You said--
I changed my mind.
Dean wonders if he would've changed his mind if Sam came to him sooner. If it didn't seem so much like abandonment in the guise of caring. If he'd actually had a fucking choice.
Would Sam have ever revealed himself, if monsters hadn't forced his hand? Dean swallows down the nausea that thought brings, his throat dry and sore; still the bitter taste of bile rises, rises, a tidal swell until he shoves it back. It burns down his chest, into his stomach, and he chases it with the last swallow of whiskey from the mostly-empty bottle stashed under the seat.
It doesn't help still his thoughts, and it doesn't make the words stop repeating in his head about a year about a year about a year, but it does make it a little easier to ignore them.
Bobby is silent, radiating apology and determination, sorrow and guilt. He smiles at Ben and Lisa, says goodbye quietly, and if his arm jerks where he nearly claps a hand on Dean's shoulder, well. In time, maybe, Dean will forgive and forget.
Maybe.
The drive back home is just as silent as the drive over, leaving plenty of time for those words to play out in his mind again, spinning faster and faster until he's dizzy inside his head, grief warring with betrayal.
Keep in touch, you hear?
Of course.
Lisa breaks the silence a couple hours into the drive. "Why aren't you going with Sam?"
Dean glances at her, at Ben asleep against her shoulder, and shakes his head. "Because I don't—want to."
"Bullshit," she says, softly. "You were ready to go earlier. What changed?"
"Yeah, but that didn't mean I wanted to. I thought…I had to. I just, I realized—I want to be here. With you."
"Want to be? Or should be?" Her voice is soft, but the words cut bone deep, shredding him inside. Why can't she leave it alone?
"Some of both," he says finally, staring straight ahead. He isn't lying, exactly, but Dean knows he's not telling her the whole truth. He cares about Lisa and Ben a lot; might even admit to himself he loves them, after a fashion. But one year of domesticity can't cancel out a lifetime of hunting, a lifetime of obeying his father's command to hunt down the things that lurk in the night. And if he doesn't love them the way he loves his brother, well, he does have an obligation to them, to keep them safe. He won't tell Lisa that, though, because he knows how it feels to learn you're coming in second to someone or something else.
He feels the weight of her stare and it burns almost as much as Sam's desertion. It isn't until she sighs and nods that Dean relaxes a little, and then her fingers are on the nape of his neck, soothing and gentle.
It's late when they get home; well past midnight. Ben's still out cold, so Dean carries him into the house and up to his room, then makes the rounds while Lisa gets him out of his clothes and tucked into bed. It's hard to look across to Sid's house, to remember what happened less than twenty-four hours ago, so Dean pulls the drapes and checks the locks, firmly pushing thoughts of Sid and Susan from his mind.
He's on his third whiskey when Lisa comes into the living room. "Getting drunk won't help," she says, bending to kiss his forehead.
"I know." He says it automatically, but doesn't believe it. It might not help in the long run, but for the moment, at least, it dulls the ache a little.
"Come to bed, Dean."
He nods and tosses off what's left in his glass, then follows her upstairs. In some ways, this feels like those first few nights, weeks, a year ago. He's numb right now, but he knows when the numbness wears off it's going to hurt like hell.
Lisa's soft against him, spooning back until he wraps his arm across her waist to hold her close, leaning in to breathe in her scent.
He and Sam never slept together much, not the whole night; they were both too big to fit comfortably in a regular double bed. But Dean remembers curling up with him sometimes, one of them holding the other for comfort, for reassurance, for grounding.
Even those memories hurt, now.
How long have you been back?
About a year.
You wanted a family.
I wanted my brother.
He still wants his brother. Problem is, his brother doesn't want him.
~fin~
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no subject
Date: 2010-09-29 07:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-10-06 05:11 am (UTC)