Sam Winchester [SPN} (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hunter_returns) wrote2011-10-15 03:37 pm
hunter_returns) wrote2011-10-15 03:37 pm
Entry tags:
A Worried Brother (s7)
Sam pulled away from the drivethrough window, stopping long enough to push back the little plastic lid and take a sip of the hot, bitter coffee. He glanced in the rear view mirror, checking on his fitfully sleeping brother in the back. He was pushing himself too hard, asking too much, and as usual, trying to do it all alone. The scotch had finally put him under long enough for Sam to haul his brother into the backseat.
The cup balanced on one leg, Sam turned the car back onto the highway. They had to drive most of the night if they wanted to meet up with Bobby on time, and Dean was in no shape to drive. Again. He switched the headlights on and accelerated, breathing in the warm smell of the coffee against the cool interior of the Impala.
He was trying not to let his frustration show, and the longer Dean insisted he was fine, the more frustrated Sam got. He wasn’t all right. He was coming apart at the seams, and he wasn’t letting anyone help him. Dean was back to that same self-destructive bent he had when he’d come back from Hell. Thinking he wasn’t worth saving and so wrapped up in self-hatred and guilt that he didn’t even see how much it was hurting the people that loved him.
He sipped at the coffee, letting the cup rest between his legs as he drove. Dawn was just starting to tint the sky a pale shade of blue. It was going to be one hell of a sunrise.
He’d told Dean the truth. He still saw Hell, still saw Lucifer, and there were still times when he had a hard time telling the difference between what was real and what wasn’t. But he was getting a handle on it. He felt better. He wasn’t laboring under any illusion – he’d never be all right. He’d always be a Grade A Freak, but at least he was managing. Sam.. couldn’t help but wonder if Dean resented him a little because somehow he’d made peace with his past, with everything that he’d done.
His mind amended bitterly that if the stubborn jackass would just talk to someone.. he’d probably feel better too.
But he wouldn’t. Because it was Dean and he didn’t know any other way.
So Sam drove on in silence. He drove, and he worried. He was losing his brother and he didn’t know how to save him this time.
The cup balanced on one leg, Sam turned the car back onto the highway. They had to drive most of the night if they wanted to meet up with Bobby on time, and Dean was in no shape to drive. Again. He switched the headlights on and accelerated, breathing in the warm smell of the coffee against the cool interior of the Impala.
He was trying not to let his frustration show, and the longer Dean insisted he was fine, the more frustrated Sam got. He wasn’t all right. He was coming apart at the seams, and he wasn’t letting anyone help him. Dean was back to that same self-destructive bent he had when he’d come back from Hell. Thinking he wasn’t worth saving and so wrapped up in self-hatred and guilt that he didn’t even see how much it was hurting the people that loved him.
He sipped at the coffee, letting the cup rest between his legs as he drove. Dawn was just starting to tint the sky a pale shade of blue. It was going to be one hell of a sunrise.
He’d told Dean the truth. He still saw Hell, still saw Lucifer, and there were still times when he had a hard time telling the difference between what was real and what wasn’t. But he was getting a handle on it. He felt better. He wasn’t laboring under any illusion – he’d never be all right. He’d always be a Grade A Freak, but at least he was managing. Sam.. couldn’t help but wonder if Dean resented him a little because somehow he’d made peace with his past, with everything that he’d done.
His mind amended bitterly that if the stubborn jackass would just talk to someone.. he’d probably feel better too.
But he wouldn’t. Because it was Dean and he didn’t know any other way.
So Sam drove on in silence. He drove, and he worried. He was losing his brother and he didn’t know how to save him this time.
no subject
"Everyone's got enough to worry about without me adding to it."That, and he didn't know what he could do to even start to make up for a lot of his guilt.
"No, I can't - as you said back in that damned room: I'm not the one with the psychic gig. But I should be able to do a better damned job of doing something when it does come."
no subject
Not going to be able to do what? Save the world again? Find Cas? Save or avenge him?
"You keep carrying it around like this and it's gonna break you apart. Me and Bobby.. we need you Dean. We need you together. Talk to us. Talk to him. Punch me out, kick the car, do something!"
Sam had learned to handle a lot of things. Watching his brother self-destruct was not one of them.
....It didn't start out this long >.(\
How about the fact that this whole goddamned mess is my fault. And Osiris was right: It was all my fault. If I had never pulled you back into the game in the first goddamned place, this domino effect shit never would have happened. All because I was too frigging weak to be alone; too scared of it.
Let's talk about all the people that have died instead of me, or 'for' me, When I shouldn't be alive in the first goddamned place. The fact that I keep getting pulled back into the game when I'm out of it, and the fact I'm starting to do doubt that when I do die, whether it's this thing that kills me or some other fugly, someone or something else will drag me back to another mess to clear up, and I'll just be expected too just give my goddamned life, death, and the little, tiny chance I have for some goddamned rest. And the fact I probably will.
What about the sleepless nights for the both of us? the fact that I need a goddamned drink to function anymore because the hole in my chest is so damned big, I can't feel anything else these days? And the fact is that the supports I had to keep it from swallowing me whole are dying, breaking apart, or goddamned disappearing one by one, and even if that wasn't my fault - which we both know at the end of the day it is - there's still not a goddamned thing I can do except take a goddamned seat, take another damned drink, and watch the goddamned show.
Lets talk, Sam. Because I'm sure that'll all change with a few words and some crying into my cereal. Talking will make the world's problems go away, make you sane again, build Bobby's house the hell back up, and bring Cas back.
Let's talk.
He took the bottle out of his jacket, and opened it. maybe the answer lies at the bottom of this bottle. Or the liver disease that the scientists warn you about. Probably not. My bet's on this one being frigging empty, too.
"I said what I had to say after the trial and you stopped the execution."
no subject
No. Dean was going to keep on internalizing, and he was going to have to watch his brother come apart at the seams because he was too damned stubborn to reach out for help.
A haze danced along just outside his field of vision. Reflexively, Sam rubbed at his palm. The stitches were long gone, it didn't even hurt anymore, but there was something about the gesture that reinforced what was real and what wasn't.
"Dean, it's okay. Look, you can't keep holding this in."