He's not surprised when the food stays untouched. He's not surprised when Sam sits against the headboard of his bed and stays there, staring blankly at the TV. Dean ends up turning it on, leaving it on whatever DIY show it lands on, just so Sam has pictures to stare at.
"I'm going to take a shower," he says, and shuts himself in before he can even start to expect a reply.
When he's done, nothing's changed in the room except for the TV program. Dean turns off the lights over the night table. "Get some sleep, Sam. You need it."
In the dim light from the TV, Dean can see Sam's body pressed against the headboard, chest rising and falling, rising and falling. Nothing changes.
**
A voice says I'm sorry.
Please.
I'm so sorry, Jess.
Jess.
"Fuck," Dean mutters. He's tangled in sheets, the ends wrapped tightly around his legs, and his neck aches from the flat pillow, but he rolls off the bed, manages to kick the sheets away from him. "Sam, wake up." He prompts himself up on the edge of Sam's bed, reaches over where Sam's slumped against his pillows. "Come on, Sam. It's just a dream."
He reaches out, then, hands brushing over his brother's neck, his jaw, up toward his face. "Sammy," and it's almost sing-song, pitched too soft, but Sam turns toward Dean's hands, towards his voice, and Dean says, "it's okay, Sam." His fingers trace lines and tension, over and over, and something builds in Dean's chest, sucks the air out. Laughter, Dean thinks, but it's too heavy, too choked. "Sam."
He stays like that, watching, hands braced to help Sam back into sleep, until morning bleeds in and turns the room gray.
**
The police come and go the next day. Sam's just as empty and monosyllabic with them, and it's left to Dean to explain what little he knows.
"How'd you know to turn back?" The short one asks. The pen's stopped scritching along his pad, and instead he starts tapping it, a dull thunk thunk that makes Dean want to reach over and jam the damn thing in his squinty little eyeball. As if he heard, the cop slaps the pen down one more time and then sticks it into his breast pocket.
"We hadn't seen each other for a few years," Dean grits out. "I was...a little reluctant to leave."
"Right." He flips the pad of paper closed, shoves it in its holder on his belt and stands, his partner shuffling forward. "We'll contact you if we have any more questions. You'll be staying here." It's not a question and Dean doesn't respond, just bares his teeth and waves at the door.
"Christ," he says when the door shuts behind them. "At least that's out of the way."
"They're not releasing her body until the cause of the fire's been determined."
Sam's staring into the middle of the room, dead ahead, and for once Dean's glad. He doesn't want to see Sam's face. "We're staying."
Sam doesn't say anything else, but his mouth gets tighter, grimmer.
Dean tells himself this is just the beginning, it'll get better. He can't quite make himself believe it.
FILLED - 2/3
"I'm going to take a shower," he says, and shuts himself in before he can even start to expect a reply.
When he's done, nothing's changed in the room except for the TV program. Dean turns off the lights over the night table. "Get some sleep, Sam. You need it."
In the dim light from the TV, Dean can see Sam's body pressed against the headboard, chest rising and falling, rising and falling. Nothing changes.
**
A voice says I'm sorry.
Please.
I'm so sorry, Jess.
Jess.
"Fuck," Dean mutters. He's tangled in sheets, the ends wrapped tightly around his legs, and his neck aches from the flat pillow, but he rolls off the bed, manages to kick the sheets away from him. "Sam, wake up." He prompts himself up on the edge of Sam's bed, reaches over where Sam's slumped against his pillows. "Come on, Sam. It's just a dream."
He reaches out, then, hands brushing over his brother's neck, his jaw, up toward his face. "Sammy," and it's almost sing-song, pitched too soft, but Sam turns toward Dean's hands, towards his voice, and Dean says, "it's okay, Sam." His fingers trace lines and tension, over and over, and something builds in Dean's chest, sucks the air out. Laughter, Dean thinks, but it's too heavy, too choked. "Sam."
He stays like that, watching, hands braced to help Sam back into sleep, until morning bleeds in and turns the room gray.
**
The police come and go the next day. Sam's just as empty and monosyllabic with them, and it's left to Dean to explain what little he knows.
"How'd you know to turn back?" The short one asks. The pen's stopped scritching along his pad, and instead he starts tapping it, a dull thunk thunk that makes Dean want to reach over and jam the damn thing in his squinty little eyeball. As if he heard, the cop slaps the pen down one more time and then sticks it into his breast pocket.
"We hadn't seen each other for a few years," Dean grits out. "I was...a little reluctant to leave."
"Right." He flips the pad of paper closed, shoves it in its holder on his belt and stands, his partner shuffling forward. "We'll contact you if we have any more questions. You'll be staying here." It's not a question and Dean doesn't respond, just bares his teeth and waves at the door.
"Christ," he says when the door shuts behind them. "At least that's out of the way."
"They're not releasing her body until the cause of the fire's been determined."
Sam's staring into the middle of the room, dead ahead, and for once Dean's glad. He doesn't want to see Sam's face. "We're staying."
Sam doesn't say anything else, but his mouth gets tighter, grimmer.
Dean tells himself this is just the beginning, it'll get better. He can't quite make himself believe it.