D+53. He’d managed to get him to sit up, drink some water – had shoved half a ham sandwich down his throat. The room still smells of flames.
“Up and at ‘em, Sammy.” Dean grunted, slinging a heavy arm around his neck in order to haul his thirty tonne brother to the small shower room. He desperately tried to not to think of Sam as a dead weight.
“Thanks Dean.”
Wrestling with the pair jeans to pull them off of lax legs, Dean froze – warily lifting his gaze to meet the eyes of his brother. What he met there chilled him. Devastated, tired brown eyes of someone who had done it all – and lost. In there, there was no Sam. No Sammy, just hurt and pain and loss and love.
“Don’t worry about it, Sam.”
Maybe, Dean thought as he helped Sam wash and change, they were both on the mend.
~ ~ ~ ~
D+65.
Dean thought about a new numbering system. Now was F-2. 8am on the morning of the funeral. Sixty five hours since that.
Dean had slept a little of the night – once he had slipped Sam some herbal sleeping pills and watched him drift off into a hopefully dreamless sleep – but his sleep had been plagued with fire. There was nothing poetic about it. Dante’s inferno had nothing on the flames that had seemed miles high – ominous and devouring, licking the stars with a mocking grin. Pungent and suffocating and hot. The screaming was what gave the fact he was dreaming away. Dean was sure no one had been screaming on that. F-4 and Dean realised, as he shot upright with the image of Sam being eaten by the blaze, that he was the one screaming.
Sam lay, mute on the other bed – beseeching his brother with a look that cries ‘I can still feel heat too.’
Dean only feels marginally guilty that he’s glad it was Jess in there, and not his brother.
~ ~ ~
F-1. 9am flashes on the bedside clock, the alarm set so that there was no chance either of them would miss the funeral. Dean is startled awake by the shrill alarm, wondering when he had fallen asleep. Sam is up before him for a change, staring mutely at a black tie. His shirt is on inside out, his pants on the duvet in a semi-crumpled heap. What little progress they made in the last twenty four hours seems to crumble at their feet.
“Up and at ‘em, Sammy.” Dean sighs, pulling Sam’s arms out of the shirt. Sam’s pliable, unfocused, allowing his brother to dictate him – just this once. Dean feels a twinge of something, something sick at the bottom of his stomach, as he thinks back to all the times Sam fought to show his independence. He doesn’t have the heart to call him up on it, and he knows he never will.
F-1/2 and they’re both dressed. The suits are borrowed; everything Sam had owned had been lost in the fire, the cotton crisp and white against pale skin. The jacket and tie is black. There’s a lump in Dean’s throat as he thinks of black, charcoal, fire fire fire fire fire, Sam. If Sam is thinking the same, he doesn’t show it.
Re: FILLED (:o) 2/3
“Up and at ‘em, Sammy.” Dean grunted, slinging a heavy arm around his neck in order to haul his thirty tonne brother to the small shower room. He desperately tried to not to think of Sam as a dead weight.
“Thanks Dean.”
Wrestling with the pair jeans to pull them off of lax legs, Dean froze – warily lifting his gaze to meet the eyes of his brother. What he met there chilled him. Devastated, tired brown eyes of someone who had done it all – and lost. In there, there was no Sam. No Sammy, just hurt and pain and loss and love.
“Don’t worry about it, Sam.”
Maybe, Dean thought as he helped Sam wash and change, they were both on the mend.
~ ~ ~ ~
D+65.
Dean thought about a new numbering system. Now was F-2. 8am on the morning of the funeral. Sixty five hours since that.
Dean had slept a little of the night – once he had slipped Sam some herbal sleeping pills and watched him drift off into a hopefully dreamless sleep – but his sleep had been plagued with fire. There was nothing poetic about it. Dante’s inferno had nothing on the flames that had seemed miles high – ominous and devouring, licking the stars with a mocking grin. Pungent and suffocating and hot. The screaming was what gave the fact he was dreaming away. Dean was sure no one had been screaming on that. F-4 and Dean realised, as he shot upright with the image of Sam being eaten by the blaze, that he was the one screaming.
Sam lay, mute on the other bed – beseeching his brother with a look that cries ‘I can still feel heat too.’
Dean only feels marginally guilty that he’s glad it was Jess in there, and not his brother.
~ ~ ~
F-1. 9am flashes on the bedside clock, the alarm set so that there was no chance either of them would miss the funeral. Dean is startled awake by the shrill alarm, wondering when he had fallen asleep. Sam is up before him for a change, staring mutely at a black tie. His shirt is on inside out, his pants on the duvet in a semi-crumpled heap. What little progress they made in the last twenty four hours seems to crumble at their feet.
“Up and at ‘em, Sammy.” Dean sighs, pulling Sam’s arms out of the shirt. Sam’s pliable, unfocused, allowing his brother to dictate him – just this once. Dean feels a twinge of something, something sick at the bottom of his stomach, as he thinks back to all the times Sam fought to show his independence. He doesn’t have the heart to call him up on it, and he knows he never will.
F-1/2 and they’re both dressed. The suits are borrowed; everything Sam had owned had been lost in the fire, the cotton crisp and white against pale skin. The jacket and tie is black. There’s a lump in Dean’s throat as he thinks of black, charcoal, fire fire fire fire fire, Sam. If Sam is thinking the same, he doesn’t show it.