[ Voices On the Edge of Nowhere ] - SPN, Gen

[mickeym]

Title: Voices On the Edge of Nowhere
Pairing: None; it's gen
Rating: G
Spoilers/Warnings: none; takes place pre-series
Disclaimer: They're not mine; that honor belongs to Kripke, et al.
Notes: Originally written for the spnflashfic 'souvenir' challenge. We've seen in the episodes how well Dean doesn't do with Sam gone; I don't think that's a recent development, either. Many huge thanks and hugs to geneli4 and raynedanser for on-the-fly beta duty extraordinaire. Y'all rock. *smooches*

Enjoy the story :)





The hotel, sagging and age-worn, sits right off the highway. Thin walls do nothing to keep out the lonely whine of tires on pavement, and when the bigger rigs fly by it seems as though the whole structure wobbles and shakes.

It's dark in the room, only thin ribbons of moonlight filtering in through threadbare curtains to lend any light at all. Dean blinks once or twice to clear the sleep from his eyes, wondering when he dozed off. Last thing he remembers was staring at a crack that zig-zagged from the ceiling down the wall and the scritch of pen against paper behind him, where Dad was writing in his journal.

But the light is off now and Dad's soft snores add a low bass rumble to the highway music trickling in.

It's chilly in here, in a way that has nothing to do with air-conditioning, or seasonal temperatures, or anything else. Anything except the emptiness on the other side of the bed. No one to kick him, jerking and mumbling through dreams and nightmares; no one to sigh or mutter sleepily, or curl against Dean's back.

He closes his eyes, but there's no escaping there. He can't stop thinking; if anything, he thinks more while his eyes are shut.

Why don't we have a mommy?

Where does Dad go, when he goes away? Why's he gone all the time?

Will you play checkers with me?

I'm scared, Dean.

D'you want the prize?

How come no one else believes ghosts are real?

Dean rolls over and pulls the pillow over his head, trying to block out the whispers, Sam's voice slip-sliding through his memories. First steps, first words, first day of school, first shotgun fired, first time at target practice, first Latin lesson, first hunt, first first first. So many.

Sleep is gone, and Dean wants it back. He doesn't want to miss Sammy as much as he does; wishes he could act like Dad, shove stuff down inside and not have it bother him.

God, can't you play something that isn't going to make my ears bleed?

You jerk, you put Nair in my shampoo?

I gotta go, man. I can't -- won't -- live this life forever.

Don't you want something different? Something more? Something else?

Dean couldn't answer those questions, because he loves this life. Loves hunting, loves hunting with his family. Loves taking evil down, making the world a little safer for everyone else.

He didn't think he would ever have to choose between the life he loves and the brother he loves more than life. He didn't think Sam would ever choose.

Dad shifts in the other bed, mumbling something too softly for Dean to hear. Or maybe he's not even saying words, just making noises.

Restless noises from the crib stuck in the corner of the bedroom they all crowd into now, and Dean can't stand it. He slips out of the bed he's sharing with Daddy -- also restless, and noisy with bad dreams -- and climbs up and into the crib with practiced ease. Tucked against Dean's body, Sam settles back into sleep, and Dean follows him, breathing in the scent of baby powder and shampoo and warm, sleepy Sammy.

Sammy, sulking at the kitchen table, lower lip stuck out in a pout because Dean won't play games with him. Not understanding Dean doesn't want to do math homework or book reports, but that he has to.

Big, sad eyes and gentle fingers, lower lip caught between his teeth as Sam sewed Dean up. Sammy's only twelve, still chubby and uncoordinated, but he does careful, neat stitches, hands steady as he works. Dean closes his eyes and lets himself float over the waves of pain and the bite of the needle into his skin.

Dean slides out of bed quietly and picks his way across the small room to where his duffle is. It only takes a minute to sift through the contents until his fingertips snag on worn, soft cotton, finding the t-shirt easily, even in the dark. He spares half a second to wonder if Sam's noticed yet that the shirt is missing then draws the shirt out of his duffle and ducks into the bathroom, closing the door before turning the light on.

He feels stupid, pulling the worn, oversized shirt over his head. There are lines he's probably crossed here, because even with Dean's expanded definitions and understanding of 'weird', this is really out there, but the shirt smells like Sam. It smells like home and safe and love, and Dean scrubs a hand over his face, then knuckles his stinging eyes impatiently. For Chrissake, he's almost twenty-three years old, and here he is, crying like a baby because his little brother left to go to college.

Do you hate me for this? Are you mad?

Dad said--not to come back. If I leave. But--I gotta go, Dean. I have to.

The worst thing about it is, Dean wants to be mad at Sam; wants to hate him for leaving. For leaving him. He can't do that, though, because all he's ever wanted was for Sam to be safe and happy.

"No, Sammy. 'M not mad, and I don't hate you."

Dean says the words aloud softly, watching his reflection in the mirror. He looks tired, his eyes red from smoke and too much to drink earlier, too much grief, and not enough sleep.

Sam hugs him at the bus station; hangs on tightly until Dean thinks he's going to suffocate--and can't bring himself to care. Hugs and holds on like he's not going to let go, and Dean stands there awkwardly. It isn't until Sam shifts, begins to draw away, that Dean grabs back, pulling Sam tight against him. He breathes in the scent of sun-warmed skin, Sam's shampoo and aftershave and wonders how it's possible to feel so cold, even while the sun beats down on him.

Dad's still out cold when Dean creeps out of the bathroom. Night's giving way slowly to dawn; beyond the curtains the darkness isn't quite as dense. Dean slides back under the covers and curls in on himself, letting the comforting scent of the shirt settle around him.

~fin~

Comments

[leighm.livejournal.com]

God, this is heartbreaking. I love how they are so broken.

The absence of Sam is clearly felt through Dean here:

He breathes in the scent of sun-warmed skin, Sam's shampoo and aftershave and wonders how it's possible to feel so cold, even while the sun beats down on him.

They are so wonderfully tragic, it's addictive.

Wonderful.

[mickeym.livejournal.com]

They're incredibly broken, aren't they? But I think together, they heal themselves and each other.

Thanks for reading, and for commenting--I really appreciate it :)