Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ Zhai'helleva, Ashke ❯ ...We All Fall Down ( Chapter 7 )

Chapter 7

 

There's a lot of things I understand,

And there's a lot of things that

I don't want to know.

But you're the only face I recognize.

It's so damn sweet of you

To look me in the eyes.

 

Flashback

 

“I wish you would come with me,” Jess said, fastening the clasp of her necklace and turning to face him. She wasn't pouting or whining—she seemed genuinely sad that once again she was losing this argument she and Sam had been having off and on for years now.

 

Sam sighed, and reached out to turn the little silver cross right. “Jess, come on. It's not such a big deal. Why does it matter whether I go or not?”

 

“Because it just does.”

 

Sam chuckled a little. “You know, we have this argument every week, and every single time you say that.”

 

“And every week you point that out.”

 

“And every week you point that out.”

 

“And then I give you up for a heathen and we forget the ugliness ever happened.”

 

“So we're pretty much right on schedule.”

 

“Exactly.” Jess grinned for a moment, then sighed and said, “Fine. Don't come. But at some point we're going to have to talk about why you're so against the whole idea.”

 

Sam simply looked steadily at her and said quietly, “You know why.”

 

Jess's eyes softened, if possible, even more. “Yeah. I know. Just…don't ever tell my parents.” Then she smiled and leaned down to kiss him.”

 

End Flashback

 

It's all right, I'm okay.

I think God can explain.

I believe I'm the same.

I get carried away.

It's all right, I'm okay.

I think God can explain.

I'm relieved, I'm relaxed.

I'll get over it yet.

 

For the rest of his life, Sam knew, there would be The Division. All events in his life would be split into two categories—Before Jess, and After. They would be separated by that little golden bubble of time with her, and they would be unmistakable.

 

And so this was the time of Division—and any kind of separation is usually painful. Sam had dealt with them before, of course, so many times as to stagger most minds—but like this?

 

Never.

 

It was like…a hole. A big, black, fathoms-deep abyss where all his insides ought to be, and he didn't know how to make it go away.

 

So he threw things, and he turned over things, and he destroyed everything he could get his hands on. The thuds and crashes and breaking glass gave voice to his pain, and so he reveled in it, though he knew he would pay for it later.

 

The distant little corner of his mind that could think clearly past the haze of red noted with a faint tang if interest that Dean wasn't stopping him. He probably should have been with all his older-brother instincts that were probably screaming at him to stop this madness now.

 

But he wasn't, and Sam didn't really care why. He just kept breaking things, in a mindlessness born of pure desperation to make something hurt as badly as he was.

 

Until he ran out of things to throw.

 

It caught him by surprise more than it did Dean, he was sure. He'd just thrown the motel-provided telephone across the room, and had reached back to the night table, where his searching fingers encountered…nothing.

 

Undaunted, he turned his attention to the beds—only to find that he'd already disassembled them. After going to the drawers and seeing that he'd already pulled them all out, he gave up at last.

 

He was standing in the middle of the room, unable to move or even think, when Dean's voice sounded behind him, his tone mild.

 

“So. Feel better?”

 

The scent of Vaseline

In the summertime,

The feel of an ice cube

Melting over time.

The world seems bigger

Than both of us,

Yet it seems so small

When I begin to cry.

 

Dean vowed then and there never to let Sam find out how much work it had taken to keep his voice light, as if he were inquiring about the weather rather than the sanity of his little brother. It just wouldn't do to be in any less than complete control—not for Sam, and definitely not for him.

 

But the truth was, he'd never been less in control not once in his entire messy life. This was the kind of behavior he'd expect to see in himself, or in John, maybe. Not in Sam. Never in Sam.

 

That, more than anything else, was enough to underscore exactly what has been lost here, and suddenly Dean was scared, which just plain sucked.

 

But there really wasn't any time to dwell on it right at this moment, because in the two seconds since he'd spoken, Sam had become a different man…again. He wasn't standing rigid anymore, like a cardboard cutout of himself, and as Dean watched, he turned.

 

For several moments, he just stared at Dean, his features sharp as chiseled stone, not saying a word.

 

Then he walked past his brother and left the wrecked motel room.

 

It's all right, I'm okay.

I think God can explain.

I believe I'm the same.

I get carried away.

It's all right, I'm okay.

I think God can explain.

I'm relieved, I'm relaxed.

I'll get over it yet.

 

Sam came back to the Dean-neatened motel room at about eleven, drunk off his ass and reeking of that which Dean had never been able to shove down his throat, and Dean's only real thought as he was manhandling his brother into bed was that he'd changed his mind—he never wanted to see Sam drunk again.

 

Because apparently, tequila did not have the same affect on Sam that it had on normal people. It didn't make him unduly aggressive or unusually happy. Instead it made him cry, and Dean would much rather have gotten in a fistfight with Sammy than watch him cry, any day of the week.

After several minutes of work, he had Sam lying down, and without much thought he stationed himself in the bed next to him.

 

He was fairly startled when Sam turned over and curled into him, burying his head in his shoulder, but the quick unfurling of irritation and Oh, God, not this, Sammy were more automatic than anything, and he was able to suppress it without much difficulty.

 

Shoving aside his thoroughly masculine personality was another matter entirely, however, and it was several minutes before he hesitantly slid an arm around Sam and tightened it.

 

 

It was a little awkward—more than a little, actually—to be participating in the ultimate of chick-flick moments and letting his drunk little brother cry all over him. But as weird as it felt, it also fell under the heading of Older Sibling Duty, which just…trumped all else.

 

Period.

 

I'm so much better than you guessed.

I'm so much bigger than you guessed.

I'm so much brighter than you guessed.

 

It took an almost unbearable length of time for Sam's body-wracking sobs to die down, but Dean didn't move once, not even to shift spots on the bed, in case that was enough to send Sam back into his deep and silent shell. Because even this was better than that damn shell.

 

Finally, though, the horrible sounds coming from Sam began to quiet until he was just lying there, shaking, his face still hidden in Dean's shoulder. From there, he slowly progressed to letting go of Dean, then to rolling onto his back, until they were once again separate people.

 

Dean didn't move away from him, though. He got the feeling that this wasn't all that had to be done—and he was right.

 

It was almost an hour before Sam spoke. His voice was deep and tired, and Dean looked over to find him blinking slowly at the ceiling, looking exhausted.

 

“Dean, where do you think she is now?”

 

Dean didn't answer right away. Between the shock of Sam actually speaking for the first time in a day and the question itself, he felt rather like the deer in the headlights. He simply didn't have any idea what to say.

 

“I don't know, Sam.”

 

Sam nodded, as if he hadn't expected anything else and went on, his voice hoarse and tired with disuse and exhaustion.

 

“She was really religious, ya know? She went to church every single Sunday, and she was always trying to convince me to go with her. I think she was hoping to convert me.” He chuckled for a second, then went back to staring at the ceiling.

 

“I wonder if it paid off for her. I wonder if there really is a Heaven, and she's there right now.” He looked down for a moment, then up again. “I know you don't believe in that kind of thing, but…it could happen.” Suddenly, he turned his head to stare up at Dean., and his eyes were desperate, pleading. “Right?”

 

Dean hesitated, trying to decide whether to tell Sam what he really thought, or lie. Then he squeezed Sam's shoulders again.

 

“Yeah, Sammy. It could happen.”

 

It's all right, I'm okay.
I think God can explain.

I believe I'm the same.

I get carried away.

It's all right, I'm okay.

I think God can explain.

I'm relieved, I'm relaxed.

I'll get off your back.

 

Around two in the morning, Sam pretended to go to sleep and Dean went back to his own bed. Sam listened for the sound of blankets being pulled up, for Dean's breathing to go deep and even, and then rolled onto his back and contemplated Dean's lie.

 

That it was a lie wasn't even a question. Dean simply did not believe in Heaven, and there was no reason to believe that had changed. But he'd wanted to make Sam feel better, and Sam appreciated it.

 

It hadn't worked, but he still appreciated it.

 

Unfortunately, Dean's thoughtful lie hadn't solved anything, and Sam still didn't know where his girlfriend was now. She had to be somewhere—Sam of all people knew that people weren't just gone when they…died. And besides, the idea of Jess being nowhere was…unacceptable. She couldn't be a ghost, or in Hell—those ideas were equally unacceptable.

 

There was only one real option left, regardless of whether Dean believed it or not.

 

And Sam prayed.

 

I think God can explain.
I think God can explain.

I think God can explain.

 

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Author's Note: Well, there it is! It's almost over now—just the epilogue to go, and that should be up pretty soon. I hope you review!