Dean is lost. Floundering and without any clue who is he, what he should do, or how he can undo all that he’s done. All that he’s started. The taste of too much whiskey makes his lips tingle and, when his breath reaches his nose, he knows that he’s reeking of it. Drowning in it because, really, that’s just the parallel that he needs right now. Dean Winchester is fucking drowning. He feels like his heart’s just continually being ripped out of his chest and he clings to the desperate belief that pain means there’s got to be something left of his soul inside. He doesn’t know. But he wants it to be true.
This, however, this he knows. It’s been a while, years in fact, but it’s surprising and horrible and just really sad how little it’s changed. Sam used to have nightmares. Given their occupation, their lives, it doesn’t sound like much. But, when he’d been very, very small, he’d go to sleep for Dean easy as could be in fuzzy pajamas, the kind with feet. He must have been three when it started. Right about the time that Dad started leaving Dean alone with Sam for long periods of time, come to think of it. There’d be Sam, all crazy with his curls – holy God, did the kid have curls there for a while – sprawled out and clutching ‘The Pokey Little Puppy’ or ‘Scuffy The Tugboat’ which had been his favorite. He’d sleep and Dean would have the night to himself. Which, at the very grown up age of seven had been really sort of terrifying. It’s hard for him to remember what he did to fill the hours after Sam went to sleep. He cleaned and he organized their meager possessions. He remembers doing endless bits of wash in endless motel bathrooms and hanging socks and Spiderman Underoos to drip from towel racks. He read comics and he watched crappy TV. Mostly Dean remembers trying not to feel so useless and so scared. It had been hard on him then. He hadn’t really known what to do with himself. Most nights he’d gone to bed, completely, utterly, wide awake and not tired, but unable to think of what else to do.
But, eventually, sleep he did. Restless sleep with restless dreams. It was if his body would not let him go down deep enough, far enough to really rest. Dean slept lightly and he waited. Every night for almost a year and a half, he would wake sometime between three and four in the morning. Sleep befuddled at first and terrified. Dean had been terrified when it had started because it sounded so … awful. Sam woke him up with screams. Not just scared screams, but screams like the world was ending for him, for Sam Winchester personally. Screams that spoke of more heartache and loss than a three year-old could even imagine.
It had scared Dean absolutely shitless because it wasn’t normal. Couldn’t have been normal. He’d been so freaked out that, after waking Sammy up and hugging him really, really hard while the kid had looked at him in sleepy, wide-eyed adoration, Dean had called Pastor Jim. Nightmare, the generally wise and sage PJ had told him. Just a nightmare and then he’d called Dean ‘String Bean’ a couple of times until Dean had been so busy insisting that he was not a scrawny, string bean sort of boy, but, in fact, a very strong boy that he’d forgotten he’d called in a blind panic.
When the dreams came nightly, when Dean had almost lost it right when his Dad had come in all wrung out and tired with that small smile of his, the label of nightmare was traded for night terrors. Little Sammy, his father explained, had night terrors. Fit all of the classic signs and he was sure he’d grow right out of it. No big deal. Don’t worry, kiddo. Dad said it, his voice low, rumbling and reassuring, but Dean didn’t miss how his father, too, had scooped Sammy up in a near panic and how wet his eyes had looked when he first heard the kid just wailing in loss and agony and sorrow.
Sam clung to him or to Dean if he got there first. And he was inconsolable. One or the other, he or Dad, hell sometimes both of them, would rock the kid and shush him. Smooth his hair, kiss his brow, and tell him it was all right. Shh, Sammy. Shh, now. It’s all right. I’m here. I’m here and nothing’s going to get you.
Filled: A Toy Store Is No Place For a Red-Painted Tugboat 1/?
This, however, this he knows. It’s been a while, years in fact, but it’s surprising and horrible and just really sad how little it’s changed. Sam used to have nightmares. Given their occupation, their lives, it doesn’t sound like much. But, when he’d been very, very small, he’d go to sleep for Dean easy as could be in fuzzy pajamas, the kind with feet. He must have been three when it started. Right about the time that Dad started leaving Dean alone with Sam for long periods of time, come to think of it. There’d be Sam, all crazy with his curls – holy God, did the kid have curls there for a while – sprawled out and clutching ‘The Pokey Little Puppy’ or ‘Scuffy The Tugboat’ which had been his favorite. He’d sleep and Dean would have the night to himself. Which, at the very grown up age of seven had been really sort of terrifying. It’s hard for him to remember what he did to fill the hours after Sam went to sleep. He cleaned and he organized their meager possessions. He remembers doing endless bits of wash in endless motel bathrooms and hanging socks and Spiderman Underoos to drip from towel racks. He read comics and he watched crappy TV. Mostly Dean remembers trying not to feel so useless and so scared. It had been hard on him then. He hadn’t really known what to do with himself. Most nights he’d gone to bed, completely, utterly, wide awake and not tired, but unable to think of what else to do.
But, eventually, sleep he did. Restless sleep with restless dreams. It was if his body would not let him go down deep enough, far enough to really rest. Dean slept lightly and he waited. Every night for almost a year and a half, he would wake sometime between three and four in the morning. Sleep befuddled at first and terrified. Dean had been terrified when it had started because it sounded so … awful. Sam woke him up with screams. Not just scared screams, but screams like the world was ending for him, for Sam Winchester personally. Screams that spoke of more heartache and loss than a three year-old could even imagine.
It had scared Dean absolutely shitless because it wasn’t normal. Couldn’t have been normal. He’d been so freaked out that, after waking Sammy up and hugging him really, really hard while the kid had looked at him in sleepy, wide-eyed adoration, Dean had called Pastor Jim. Nightmare, the generally wise and sage PJ had told him. Just a nightmare and then he’d called Dean ‘String Bean’ a couple of times until Dean had been so busy insisting that he was not a scrawny, string bean sort of boy, but, in fact, a very strong boy that he’d forgotten he’d called in a blind panic.
When the dreams came nightly, when Dean had almost lost it right when his Dad had come in all wrung out and tired with that small smile of his, the label of nightmare was traded for night terrors. Little Sammy, his father explained, had night terrors. Fit all of the classic signs and he was sure he’d grow right out of it. No big deal. Don’t worry, kiddo. Dad said it, his voice low, rumbling and reassuring, but Dean didn’t miss how his father, too, had scooped Sammy up in a near panic and how wet his eyes had looked when he first heard the kid just wailing in loss and agony and sorrow.
Sam clung to him or to Dean if he got there first. And he was inconsolable. One or the other, he or Dad, hell sometimes both of them, would rock the kid and shush him. Smooth his hair, kiss his brow, and tell him it was all right. Shh, Sammy. Shh, now. It’s all right. I’m here. I’m here and nothing’s going to get you.