Dean Winchester (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dudeimbatman) wrote2009-03-25 08:08 pm
dudeimbatman) wrote2009-03-25 08:08 pm
Entry tags:
But it's a problem I find [Living a life that I can't leave behind]
[Triangle]
Connect the dots. One, two, three and he knows that’s one too many. His thoughts are fuzzy around the edges, separated by oceans of morphine and continents of pain. Maybe that’s why he notices for the first time, they’re a triangle. Sam’s on his right side, elbows on his knees and he’s got that same worried look he had the night he had to go play a tree or some shit in the school play. Brooke is on his left side, her back curved against a chair like she’s been there forever. Maybe she has. He can’t remember anymore.
As soon as they see his eyelids flutter, they both push forward, weight teetering on the edge of the chairs. Sam moves forward so quickly, his chair grates against the tile floor.
“Relax, Hell’s already tossed me out and Heaven’s too damn afraid I’d take over. I’m gonna live forever, Kiddos.” He wishes it sounded more like the joke it is but funny thing about being choked nearly to death. It fucks with your voice and everything sounds James Earl Jones serious.
“Do you want me to call the nurse?” That’s worry wart Sammy, hovering like a first time mother while Brooke hangs back letting him.
Dean forces a smile and really it’s a twitch at the corners of his lips. “No, she’ll just give me some of that shit that puts me in lala land.” Not that lala land sounds so bad right now. His throat feels like Alistair iss shoving hot pokers down it. Oh wait, he knows what that feels like and this isn’t quite it but almost.
He’s still watching Sammy, looking for signs of what the hell happened out there in the kid’s eyes. He knows it wasn’t good because he can see the way the weight curves his baby brother’s spine and hunches his shoulders, like Atlas after a bad day—yeah he knows who Atlas is, as he’s constantly reminding people, he’s not stupid.
Brooke’s hand is cool on his forehead, skirting along his hairline and drawing his attention to her. She’s been crying, he can see the red in her eyes. He has to look away because that quiet fear threatens to break him. He brought this into her life; a normal life with the fence and the kid and the not-yet-but-soon dog. He can’t apologize because a part of him isn’t sorry—and this seems to be a theme with the Winchesters. It’s not fair to her and its not fair to him but then he stopped caring about fair to him when he was four years old and Sammy was crying in his arms. She’s trapped in this triangle; him and Sam and her and it cycles around and around like some lopsided and broken circle.
“I’ll…go tell the doctor you’re awake,” Sam says, his gaze flicking to Brooke and then back to Dean one last time. There are tears in his eyes and Dean wonders what the fuck happened once again. He’s pretty sure that whipped puppy look isn’t because he found out big brother tortured a demon. Or maybe it is and Dean’s just fooling himself.
“He alright?” Dean asks when Sam is gone but he’s still there in that room—always there, part of the broken, lopsided circle that is DeanBrookeSam. Or maybe it’s SamDeanBrooke—SamBrookeDean. He’s not sure anymore and he doesn’t know if it even matters. Or maybe it’s like a tide, and that’s all that matters. The way it washes up and then away, up and then away. Reverse it—away and then up—the world goes askew but then his would is already askew. He’ll have to talk to Castiel about changing the tide again.
Brooke squeezes his hand in hers, lightly, lightly because if he’s ever been fragile it’s right now. “He’s fine. Worry about you. “
But worrying about Sammy is what makes Dean’s world go round and Brooke’s along for the ride; oh what a bumpy ride.
“I’m sorry.” There’s the tears he’s been struggling with and where the hell is the nurse with the morphine that he didn’t want a few minutes ago.
Brooke shakes her head and moves closer to the bed, curling over him the way she does Matthew when she kisses his forehead at night. “Take it back. You don’t have anything to apologize for.”
If it were so easy. Take it all back. Back to Mom and back to Dad. Back to 1973 before the tide changed and the world went askew. Take back the fire and the way Dad was always gone. Take back Jess and Sam dying in his arms. Take it back. Take it back. Take it back and maybe there wouldn’t be a stupid lopsided, broken circle--triangle, his kindergarten teacher reminds him and Dean thinks he needs to remember so he can teach Sammy someday—Just Dean and Brooke—DeanBrooke; BrookeDean—but that feels wrong and weird so maybe he can just take back Sammy dying in his arms because that’s when the tide changed for him. That’s when up and away became away and up. The shortest distance between A and B is always a straight line but doesn’t the journey trump the destination and what fun is a straight line anyway? Besides, he doesn’t know what he is without Sam and he’s not sure BrookeDean would ever make it at all. Funny how he’s got more faith in something infinitely more broken and desperately more dysfunctional: SamBrookeDean.
“Can’t take it back.”
Connect the dots. One, two, three and he knows that’s one too many. His thoughts are fuzzy around the edges, separated by oceans of morphine and continents of pain. Maybe that’s why he notices for the first time, they’re a triangle. Sam’s on his right side, elbows on his knees and he’s got that same worried look he had the night he had to go play a tree or some shit in the school play. Brooke is on his left side, her back curved against a chair like she’s been there forever. Maybe she has. He can’t remember anymore.
As soon as they see his eyelids flutter, they both push forward, weight teetering on the edge of the chairs. Sam moves forward so quickly, his chair grates against the tile floor.
“Relax, Hell’s already tossed me out and Heaven’s too damn afraid I’d take over. I’m gonna live forever, Kiddos.” He wishes it sounded more like the joke it is but funny thing about being choked nearly to death. It fucks with your voice and everything sounds James Earl Jones serious.
“Do you want me to call the nurse?” That’s worry wart Sammy, hovering like a first time mother while Brooke hangs back letting him.
Dean forces a smile and really it’s a twitch at the corners of his lips. “No, she’ll just give me some of that shit that puts me in lala land.” Not that lala land sounds so bad right now. His throat feels like Alistair iss shoving hot pokers down it. Oh wait, he knows what that feels like and this isn’t quite it but almost.
He’s still watching Sammy, looking for signs of what the hell happened out there in the kid’s eyes. He knows it wasn’t good because he can see the way the weight curves his baby brother’s spine and hunches his shoulders, like Atlas after a bad day—yeah he knows who Atlas is, as he’s constantly reminding people, he’s not stupid.
Brooke’s hand is cool on his forehead, skirting along his hairline and drawing his attention to her. She’s been crying, he can see the red in her eyes. He has to look away because that quiet fear threatens to break him. He brought this into her life; a normal life with the fence and the kid and the not-yet-but-soon dog. He can’t apologize because a part of him isn’t sorry—and this seems to be a theme with the Winchesters. It’s not fair to her and its not fair to him but then he stopped caring about fair to him when he was four years old and Sammy was crying in his arms. She’s trapped in this triangle; him and Sam and her and it cycles around and around like some lopsided and broken circle.
“I’ll…go tell the doctor you’re awake,” Sam says, his gaze flicking to Brooke and then back to Dean one last time. There are tears in his eyes and Dean wonders what the fuck happened once again. He’s pretty sure that whipped puppy look isn’t because he found out big brother tortured a demon. Or maybe it is and Dean’s just fooling himself.
“He alright?” Dean asks when Sam is gone but he’s still there in that room—always there, part of the broken, lopsided circle that is DeanBrookeSam. Or maybe it’s SamDeanBrooke—SamBrookeDean. He’s not sure anymore and he doesn’t know if it even matters. Or maybe it’s like a tide, and that’s all that matters. The way it washes up and then away, up and then away. Reverse it—away and then up—the world goes askew but then his would is already askew. He’ll have to talk to Castiel about changing the tide again.
Brooke squeezes his hand in hers, lightly, lightly because if he’s ever been fragile it’s right now. “He’s fine. Worry about you. “
But worrying about Sammy is what makes Dean’s world go round and Brooke’s along for the ride; oh what a bumpy ride.
“I’m sorry.” There’s the tears he’s been struggling with and where the hell is the nurse with the morphine that he didn’t want a few minutes ago.
Brooke shakes her head and moves closer to the bed, curling over him the way she does Matthew when she kisses his forehead at night. “Take it back. You don’t have anything to apologize for.”
If it were so easy. Take it all back. Back to Mom and back to Dad. Back to 1973 before the tide changed and the world went askew. Take back the fire and the way Dad was always gone. Take back Jess and Sam dying in his arms. Take it back. Take it back. Take it back and maybe there wouldn’t be a stupid lopsided, broken circle--triangle, his kindergarten teacher reminds him and Dean thinks he needs to remember so he can teach Sammy someday—Just Dean and Brooke—DeanBrooke; BrookeDean—but that feels wrong and weird so maybe he can just take back Sammy dying in his arms because that’s when the tide changed for him. That’s when up and away became away and up. The shortest distance between A and B is always a straight line but doesn’t the journey trump the destination and what fun is a straight line anyway? Besides, he doesn’t know what he is without Sam and he’s not sure BrookeDean would ever make it at all. Funny how he’s got more faith in something infinitely more broken and desperately more dysfunctional: SamBrookeDean.
“Can’t take it back.”