Granted, Dean doesn't have a lot of experience with funerals that don't somehow involve gasoline and shrouds, but he does know Sam. He's had years to know Sam, and right now the one thing Dean knows about Sam is that he's close to breaking.
Maybe it's a luxury that Dean doesn't have to really care about Jess, or about her friends or her family. All he has to worry about is his brother, but there's people and miles that make it impossible to say anything or do the things he wants to. Dean can't reach out and touch, now, he can't pretend he's the big brother that can handle anything.
He wants to touch, and he can't. He wants to leave, get the road under them, a few thousand miles between Sam and those flames, and he can't.
He's useless, and the itch is burying itself under his skin. Do something.
"Sam. Let's go." Away. To Canada. Anywhere but here.
But they can't. They can only go so far before they're called back, and though the Impala's warm, he hates her for not just stealing them away, for letting that hard look settle so comfortably on Sam's face.
**
The only thing he can think of is getting them a room, getting them showers and food and sleep.
Sam's blank, slow. Every time Dean says something it takes a minute or two before he reacts, and if it's not an order to do something - get up, come on, through here - Sam doesn't respond. It's still new, Dean knows, his brother's still in shock, but there's too much of John in it, all those months of grief and rage. Sam, he wants to say, talk to me, tell me something, and he's half way afraid that Sam would. That maybe he'd open his mouth and spill everything out.
When he gets Sam ushered into their hotel room, Dean leaves him standing in the middle of it to go start the water. He sits on the edge of the tub and holds his hand under the stream. It's hot, steam moving and covering the faucet, and he watches his skin turn pink and red. He watches as his fingers curl with the pain and it's only when it stops, when his skin is numb that he pulls it out, adds cold into the mix.
It's still mostly hot, though. He thinks Sam'll like that - the chance to put his own burns on his skin, erase the fire, and come out as pink-stained as Dean's hand. Maybe it'll make his brother feel better, or maybe Dean needs it, maybe he needs to know that everything is gone, that it's just Sam, or will be, when every trace of that other life is gone.
"Sam, come on. Shower's ready."
Sam's there, and Dean almost jumps before he can stop it. He manages not to, but his heart beats wildly, aches in his chest. "Christ. Warn a guy."
Sam doesn't move, not an inch forward or away. He's still, so still, and Dean says, "You gonna get in?" There's still no response, and Dean leans over, tugs at the hem of Sam's shirt. "This has gotta go, you know."
Nothing.
And he's angry, suddenly so angry, that this is what they're reduced to, what some girl, some stranger, reduced them to. That he's here, in some creepy motel bathroom, having to strip his brother out of his clothes. "She had no right," he hisses, throwing Sam's shirt onto the toilet seat before attacking the buttons on Sam's jeans. "You hear me, Sam? You fuckin hear me?"
Sam's hand suddenly moves, covers his own and pushes it away. "I got the rest," and then Sam stumbles a step to the side, closer to the bathtub and the steam curling over the plastic curtain. "You can go."
Dean nods. It's convulsive, painful. "I just. I'm going to get some food." Vending machine snacks. Something close. "You just get clean." Don't do anything stupid, be here when I get back.
Sam's head is bowed, sweat-sticky hairs pressed to his neck. He doesn't say anything and Dean turns around. Leaves.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
carisma_sensei
FILLED - 1/3
Date: 2010-03-02 06:59 am (UTC)-------
They should leave.
Granted, Dean doesn't have a lot of experience with funerals that don't somehow involve gasoline and shrouds, but he does know Sam. He's had years to know Sam, and right now the one thing Dean knows about Sam is that he's close to breaking.
Maybe it's a luxury that Dean doesn't have to really care about Jess, or about her friends or her family. All he has to worry about is his brother, but there's people and miles that make it impossible to say anything or do the things he wants to. Dean can't reach out and touch, now, he can't pretend he's the big brother that can handle anything.
He wants to touch, and he can't. He wants to leave, get the road under them, a few thousand miles between Sam and those flames, and he can't.
He's useless, and the itch is burying itself under his skin. Do something.
"Sam. Let's go." Away. To Canada. Anywhere but here.
But they can't. They can only go so far before they're called back, and though the Impala's warm, he hates her for not just stealing them away, for letting that hard look settle so comfortably on Sam's face.
**
The only thing he can think of is getting them a room, getting them showers and food and sleep.
Sam's blank, slow. Every time Dean says something it takes a minute or two before he reacts, and if it's not an order to do something - get up, come on, through here - Sam doesn't respond. It's still new, Dean knows, his brother's still in shock, but there's too much of John in it, all those months of grief and rage. Sam, he wants to say, talk to me, tell me something, and he's half way afraid that Sam would. That maybe he'd open his mouth and spill everything out.
When he gets Sam ushered into their hotel room, Dean leaves him standing in the middle of it to go start the water. He sits on the edge of the tub and holds his hand under the stream. It's hot, steam moving and covering the faucet, and he watches his skin turn pink and red. He watches as his fingers curl with the pain and it's only when it stops, when his skin is numb that he pulls it out, adds cold into the mix.
It's still mostly hot, though. He thinks Sam'll like that - the chance to put his own burns on his skin, erase the fire, and come out as pink-stained as Dean's hand. Maybe it'll make his brother feel better, or maybe Dean needs it, maybe he needs to know that everything is gone, that it's just Sam, or will be, when every trace of that other life is gone.
"Sam, come on. Shower's ready."
Sam's there, and Dean almost jumps before he can stop it. He manages not to, but his heart beats wildly, aches in his chest. "Christ. Warn a guy."
Sam doesn't move, not an inch forward or away. He's still, so still, and Dean says, "You gonna get in?" There's still no response, and Dean leans over, tugs at the hem of Sam's shirt. "This has gotta go, you know."
Nothing.
And he's angry, suddenly so angry, that this is what they're reduced to, what some girl, some stranger, reduced them to. That he's here, in some creepy motel bathroom, having to strip his brother out of his clothes. "She had no right," he hisses, throwing Sam's shirt onto the toilet seat before attacking the buttons on Sam's jeans. "You hear me, Sam? You fuckin hear me?"
Sam's hand suddenly moves, covers his own and pushes it away. "I got the rest," and then Sam stumbles a step to the side, closer to the bathtub and the steam curling over the plastic curtain. "You can go."
Dean nods. It's convulsive, painful. "I just. I'm going to get some food." Vending machine snacks. Something close. "You just get clean." Don't do anything stupid, be here when I get back.
Sam's head is bowed, sweat-sticky hairs pressed to his neck. He doesn't say anything and Dean turns around. Leaves.