Chapter Text
“How long have you thought about suicide?”
Glancing down at his slip-on shoes, Dean lets out a breath, down to the depths of his lungs. His hands feel like bricks, lead weights in his lap that simultaneously ache to move and long to sit still. The fingers on his right hand, he sinks his fingers into the leg of his sweatpants, staving off the tremor that no medication can cure. The couch might as well be concrete, cold and lifeless and offering little help to his already aching spine. There are only conventional painkillers in this place—not the good stuff, the stuff he’s been hoarding in his duffel for months.
Right now, all fifteen plastic orange bottles sit in a disposal bin at the Panama City Police Department.
Good riddance, his more rational brain thinks, while the other half begs for salvation from a craving he can’t scratch. A craving they won’t let him scratch. And for once, he can’t help but feel grateful for it.
“Maybe I should rephrase that.” Mrs. Carlisle sits back in her cushioned chair, an ankle propped up over a knee. She looks nice today, her sunset red hair barely touching her shoulders, her glasses framing her green eyes. Under the fluorescent lining, she’s practically shiny. Sometime between last night and this afternoon, she repainted her nails, dark purple replaced with blue and bright orange. She reminds him of so many people, all faces he wishes he could forget. “How are you feeling today?”
Another breath. Death rubs his eye with his trembling hand. “Better, maybe,” he says, every bit the truth. Better than he has been in a while, but not by much. “Haven’t been glued to the toilet today.”
Mrs. Carlisle nods, her lips neutral. No scorn, no amusement over his pain. “It’s good to see you out of your room, as well. I know we’ve only been talking for a little over a week, but compared to our first session, you’ve come a long way.”
Not long enough. “Just feel like there’s…” Dean waves his good hand, the other planted beneath his thigh. “Feel like I can’t get the words out. Like I’m not here.”
Her lips tug down somewhat. She scribbles a note onto the pad in her lap, then looks up. “It’ll take a while to adjust to the medication. Are there any symptoms you don’t think you can tolerate?”
What a loaded question. “Can’t tolerate anything,” he huffs and hangs his head back. “But I’m… I’m fine. I’m dealing with it. Haven’t gone blind yet, so I guess that’s a plus.”
Again, Mrs. Carlisle scribbles something. Whatever she’s noting, he doesn’t want to read. “The purpose of counseling isn’t solely to help you ‘deal’ with what you’re going through. It’s meant to help you be mindful of it so that the weight doesn’t solely rest on your shoulders. Yes, you’re dealing with it, in your words, but it’s how you learn to cope that determines the outcome.”
A sigh. “You saying I should think positive thoughts?”
“I’m saying it wouldn't hurt,” Mrs. Carlisle chuckles. Papers rustle. Dean closes his eyes and resists the urge to lie flat on the couch. Lying down means the possibility of sleep, something he craves even more than the pills. “Do you understand what the Baker Act is?”
That phrase. The two words everyone throws around like darts directly into his back. “Means I’m here until y’all let me go,” Dean mumbles. He clenches his good hand into a fist, too tired to do much else. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself.”
Vaguely, he can imagine her nodding. “I know, and after our discussions here and in group, I don’t disagree with you. But every time I approach the topic, you close off. It’s like I’m looking at a different person.”
“I’m not…” Dean starts, then shakes his head. Whatever he wants to say, the words don’t come, no matter how hard he fights. “I’m tired,” he tries again. “I’m… I’ve been tired for so long. But that doesn’t mean I wanna kill myself, Jesus.”
Lifting his head, he finds Mrs. Carlisle looking at him, a mixture of concern and wonder in her eyes. “What were you trying to do, then?”
Sleep, Dean thinks. I didn’t wanna wake up. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t thinking.” He palms his face, fighting off a sob. “I can’t even remember what happened.” The last he can recall, he woke up with a horrible ache in his stomach and an IV drip in his arm, and Sam looking down at him like he couldn't decide between murdering him or bursting into tears. Sam refuses to tell him what went down, and the nurses and counselors can only help so much with what little information they have to go on.
“Do you remember what caused your distress? Before you collapsed,” Mrs. Carlisle asks.
“Yeah.” Dean clears his throat. “Yeah, I… I just can’t talk about it. I don’t…”
“That’s alright.” Mrs. Carlisle leans forward, setting her clipboard to the side. “We don’t have to solve the world’s problems today. I know we’ve spoken about you entering a day program.”
“I know.” Dean wraps his arms around his middle, hunching over into himself. Not out of pain, but just—the need to feel something, to let his body know that he isn’t truly as alone as he feels. “Sam’s… He called this morning, said he signed the lease. Said we’re gonna live by the beach ‘til you guys bolt my head back on.”
“That’s great news.” She offers him a smile, one Dean can’t return. “But it’s not my job to ‘bolt your head on.’ I’m here to offer guidance and to act as a sounding board. I want you to want to get better, Mr. Winchester. I can’t begin to fathom what you’ve experienced in your life, but I have an inkling of a feeling.”
Dean chuckles and shakes his head. “Honey, you don’t have a clue.”
“Oh, I do.” Mrs. Carlisle scoots her chair closer. “My father was Simon Rateliff. Now, you probably don’t remember him, but he knew your father well.” Dean looks up, heart attempting to lodge itself in his throat. The first feeling he’s had in two weeks, and it’s fear. “He grew up hunting, and would’ve dragged me into it as well if it weren’t for myself and my mother giving him an ultimatum. Either quit and be a father, or my mother would leave.”
“Take it he quit?” he asks, and Mrs. Carlisle nods. Hunters don’t quit—but then again, Mrs. Carlisle is living proof that flies in the face of this assertion. “How’d he handle that?”
She shrugs. “About as well as you’d expect. He drank, smoked like a chimney, but he was there, and that’s what mattered. Lung cancer got to him before the monsters ever could.”
Dean locks eyes with his trembling hand. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Mrs. Carlisle stands, her chair creaking. “Don’t be. I got thirty years to spend with my dad that I wouldn’t’ve if he’d’ve kept at it. What I’m saying is, I understand where you’re coming from. You were personally recommended to me by the emergency staff, who claimed you might be a difficult case.” She pats his shoulders, squeezing his sweatshirt. “I don't think you’re difficult. You’ve never had the space to talk about what you’ve been through. All of that trauma, you’ve never been able to unpack or properly process.”
All of that trauma. If only she knew the half of it. “You letting me go today?” he asks.
Mrs. Carlisle hums an affirmative. “Should you agree to the day program like we discussed, you’ll report here from eight every weekday morning until five in the afternoon. It won’t be exciting or glamorous, but you’ll be able to talk to people like yourself, and we’ll try to keep your mind occupied. Plus, on Fridays, we have an open kitchen. Bring in whatever ingredients you want, and we all make breakfast for each other.”
She’s right—based on the group sessions and mindfulness exercises and yoga, of all things, life at the West Florida Rehabilitation Center isn’t exactly the brightest star in the sky, but it’s there, and it seems to be working, at least for now. “I’ll come,” he says. It feels like an admission of guilt. “I get weekends off?”
“Of course, you get weekends off.” Mrs. Carlisle squeezes him again and gathers up her clipboard. “I’ll see you Monday, Dean, bright and early.”
Rather than thank her, Dean nods and sits there, on that stupid blue couch with its plush cushions and overstuffed pillows. If allowed, he would curl up and sleep there, just to avoid having to call Sam and pack his things. His things, being a few pairs of clothes and a toothbrush. No phone, no weapons, no outside medications, just the essentials. What he wouldn't do for a nap on a bed that doesn't smell of clinical detergents.
He needs to get up. He needs to move, but he aches, from his neck to his toes. Standing has never been an issue before now, but just making his way to his feet some days feels like a monumental feat. One hand to his cane and the other braced on the couch, Dean pushes up once, twice. He nearly stumbles on his way up, but manages to keep his feet under him. His spine twinges. He hurts.
The thought of atonement crosses his mind as he leaves the room, heading down a beige-painted hallway toward his room. Atonement isn’t a strong enough word, though. This is punishment for not doing what he could. For all the lives he couldn't save—for the one life he cared the most about, now gone, without a scrap of cloth to remember him by. Without him, the world is cold; without him, Dean is alone.
I’ve always been alone.
-+-
Once or twice during their daily phone calls, Sam mentioned that the house he bought was on the ocean and within walking distance of the beach, but never anything more. Not what it looked like or if it was on stilts, if it had working plumbing, if it was a tent in the sand. Even on the car ride over, Sam refuses to mention it, probably hoping to surprise him—or, kill him and dump his body into an inlet, either one.
US 98 winds along the Florida coastline for what feels like ages, following the beach most of the way until they pass through Tyndall Air Force Base. After that, the scenery opens up, and the mangled remnants of pine trees pepper the earth, some twisted with their tops still bent, others dying and in need of a bulldozer. The wind blows sand across the roadway from the dunes, pushed up closer to the shoulder than they probably were years ago. In the distance, Dean watches the clouds roll in along the horizon. The sun shines, and he closes his eyes, forehead pressed to the window as he chases its warmth.
He must doze, or at least nod off. After a while, Sam wakes him with a clap to the shoulder; Dean startles, blinking directly into the shadow of a… shack. The listing probably called it a cottage, but all Dean can see is a hurricane hazard. The back porch faces the dunes, and the front door sits beneath a deck framed by a steep staircase. Wrought iron chairs and a table sit both atop the deck and on the bottom floor. The light blue paint blends into the sky, and the even bluer tin roof reflects the sun. Quaint, almost, but too small compared to the bunker.
On the other side of the street, two other houses rest, currently only constructed of wooden beams and joists. “They were supposed to start construction before Michael,” Sam says, unbuckling his seat belt. “The hurricane took out everything that they’d already built, and this was just completed last month. We’re technically the first owner.”
“Whoopee,” Dean sighs.
Sam grabs Dean’s bag from the trunk while Dean forces his body out of the passenger seat. He stabs his cane into the sand, jaw set as fire licks up his spine. It shouldn't hurt this bad. Stab wounds and bullets never tore him apart in the past, but the wound to his back grates at his nerves, leaving him with an ache that painkillers barely touch. Opioids helped. Pills take his mind off of it and help him function, and without them, he can barely move. His hand won’t stop shaking, his legs refuse to walk, and for all of his waking hours, he waits until the next time he can sleep.
“Hey,” Sam starts. Dean jerks his head up, blinking up at the concern on Sam’s face. “You good?”
“Not really,” Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes and offers a hand. He guides Dean up by the forearm, helping him to his feet, then gets an arm around his torso, bearing Dean’s weight.
Even without the cane, walking through sand is a chore, but Sam keeps him steady until they reach the concrete patio. At that point, he lets Dean go, and Dean stands and waits for him to fish the keys out of his back pocket.
The Bunker always smelled of mothballs and mildew, no matter how many candles he lit or how many portable air filters he used. Even his room, formerly a place of sanctuary, smelled like decaying books and dust. Once inside, all Dean smells is paint and the residual scent of two-by-fours. Sunlight pours in through the glass windows on the other side of the home, bouncing off of the hardwood floors. To his right is a living area and the kitchen, connected by an interior doorway. The dining room, Dean suspects, is closer to the back porch, based on the small table and chairs sitting in front of the picture windows.
On his left, Dean finds a staircase leading to what he presumes is a bedroom and bathroom, and another room beneath, the door perched open and sunlight pouring in. “Figured you’d want the downstairs room,” Sam says, walking ahead. “Our furniture won't be here until tomorrow, so I’ve been renting some stuff until then.”
Dean follows him and steps foot into a fairly spacious room, with a queen mattress spread out parallel to the windows along the far wall. The sheets look nice, rented or not. Just looking at his makeshift bed, the tension in his shoulders eases, aided by the fact that he has his own bathroom. No more communal showers, just his own space where he can sit in the bathtub and fall asleep in his own filth.
Part of it feels right. The other part of him is so used to living out of the Impala or in a subterranean dungeon that it can’t get past being able to see the sun without having to step outside. “Can’t believe we’re gonna live in Florida,” Dean complains, to Sam’s resulting laugh. “Seriously, man. Fuckin’ Florida, of all places.”
“It’s better than Alaska,” Sam says, which—true. He sets Dean’s bag by the bed and leaves, waiting for Dean to follow him.
Together, they walk to the back room, then outside through the sliding glass door, onto a porch mirroring the opposite side of the house. But here, Dean can see the ocean beyond the dunes and the waves crashing against the shore, with no tourists or locals for miles. The only company he has is Sam and a seagull walking the shore—and a black kitten, barely the size of his palm, currently bounding across the porch in search of Sam’s leg. The moment it sees Dean, it runs for him, digging its claws into his sweats and clawing its way up to his waistband. Dean swaps his cane between hands and grabs the kitten, its tiny mewls like music to his ears.
“I haven’t named her yet,” Sam laughs. Dean looks down into her eyes, her pupils dilated into slits while she yowls and searches for solid ground. He opts to hold her against his chest instead, and she rubs her face against his shirt, gnawing at it with her teeth. “I found her a few days ago. Haven’t seen her mom anywhere.”
Just like us, then. “I missed having a little guy,” Dean says, soft. Miracle only ended up staying for a month after Dean’s last hospital stay. Sam took her to the vet shortly after, and her microchip led to a family in Bellaire whose daughter missed her precious Susanna dearly. In Dean’s hand, the kitten purrs, ceasing her attempt to tear a hole in Dean’s shirt and instead rubbing her face into the spot, like just her existence might heal something in his chest. Deeply, he wishes it did. “What were you thinking for dinner? And please don’t say takeout. I need something that hasn’t been sitting under a heat lamp.”
“God, no,” Sam chuckles. Happiness is a good look on him. Two weeks apart, and Dean missed seeing him like a phantom limb. “I brought your recipe book along, and I wanted that vegetable soup you make every winter. Think you can walk me through it?”
Yes, please. “Yeah.” Dean waves toward the kitchen with his cane. “Get me a chair and I’ll bring Miss Purrs-a-Lot with us.”
-+-
Sam can cook, thankfully, or at least he doesn’t burn the bottom of the pot, which Dean counts as a plus. Seated at the dining table—a set of outdoor wrought iron furniture brought inside until the movers arrive—Dean pokes at his soup, his appetite still not what it used to be. Years ago, he could eat his weight in whatever someone put in front of him. Now, he can barely stomach half a sandwich before he loses interest.
For a first try, though, Dean might let Sam continue manning the stove if he keeps cooking like this.
“So what’re you on?” Sam asks out of curiosity. To his side, he reads this week’s copy of the Beachcomber. Purely for leisure, no hunts in sight. It feels strange, Dean thinks, to be able to sit at a table and talk about mundane things like pill regimens and whether Sam used enough chili powder.
Shrugging, Dean takes another bite. Warm broth settles his nerves, the tremor in his hand easing, just for the moment. “Methadone and an antidepressant. They tried to start a beta blocker for this,” he says, stopping to lift his hand, previously tucked under his thigh, “but it’s not working, so I threw those out.”
Sam nods like he understands, or at least can sympathize. The only medications Sam has ever been on are antibiotics and whatever painkillers Dean managed to score that week, and he never mixed them with alcohol. Dean, on the other hand… “How’re you feeling?” Sam looks up from the newspaper, concern furrowing his brow. “I mean, you sounded fine on the phone, but I know you. You like to hide shit.”
“Not my fault,” Dean mutters. He chews a hunk of potato, staring out at the ocean. “I’m… better, I guess,” he starts with, rather than diving into a potentially heartfelt discussion about why he buries his feelings deep within the recesses of his mind. “Just sleep a lot. They got me taking yoga twice a week, which sucks, by the way.”
“You could use the exercise,” Sam snorts a laugh. Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m just… I’m glad you’re here, Dean.”
Dean exhales a sigh. His soup is only halfway eaten, and he can’t stomach much more. It’s better than the cafeteria food, though; hopefully he can save the leftovers for tomorrow. “I’m tired, man,” he admits. Not for the first time in his life, but it feels like it. It feels like a confession. “Didn’t realize it ‘til I got in there. Between the fuckin’… withdrawal and the pain, all I wanted to do was sleep, but they’ve got me going to counseling and group meetings once a day and physical therapy, and I just wanna—I want my bed.” He stops short of a laugh. “I wanna go to bed.”
Long and slow, Sam lets out a breath through his nose. “I know,” he says. He pats Dean’s wrist, his touch doing nothing to ease the shaking. “Trust me, I know.”
“You don’t.” Dean can’t bring himself to look up, the stinging in his eyes too profound. Staying awake hurts, and in his dreams, he remembers a voice, remembers a face he longs to forget, if it means that his heart might hurt a little less. A ghost haunts him, and he can’t get rid of it, no matter how much he longs to. “You don’t… You can’t even imagine what this is like. Every morning I get up, and I… I don’t wanna do this anymore.” Sam’s face pinches, but Dean barrels on, his eyes wet, “I’m tired of dealing with it, of… dredging up my trauma. That’s not why I was taking the meds, it’s because the docs kept throwing them at me, and I just…” A laugh. “I forgot what it was like to be in pain.”
Sam relaxes his shoulders, slumping in his chair a bit. Nearly forty years old, and Dean still sees him as a child sometimes, hanging onto his pant leg and asking questions about why dad wasn’t there and why they couldn't go home. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks. Dean hates the sincerity in his voice. “You could’ve come to me, we could’ve figured something out.”
No, we couldn't. “It was my problem.” Dean leans back in his chair, his food forgotten. “And I was… I was dealing with it. It wasn’t fair to put that on you.”
“I saw you, Dean.” Sam rests his elbows atop the table. “Trust me, every day, I saw you with those… damn pills, and you never said anything. Look, I know you’ve been messed up with what happened to Cas”—Dean lowers his head—“but you had me. You still have me, if you need to talk. I don’t care if it’s about the weather, just—talk to me, Dean. Please.”
“I can’t.” Tucking his hands beneath his arms, Dean curls into himself, his eyes pinched shut. Chair legs scrape across hardwoods; a pair of arms wrap around his neck, and Dean breaks, his sobs soundless in the emptiness of their home. “I can’t do it,” he says between breaths. “I can’t do this anymore, Sammy.”
I can’t go on like this.
I can’t go on without him.
-+-
His bathroom has a vanity-length mirror, spanning from Dean’s hip to the ceiling and lit with four LED bulbs that offer the most unflattering light imaginable. Hands atop the sink, Dean stares at himself, the white glow illuminating every scar and imperfection he has, the silver streaks barely visible on his face and arms, newer slices and gouges still red and puffy.
The one to the middle of his spine, though, he doubts will ever look right, no matter how much cocoa butter or medicated ointments he uses. Back to the mirror, Dean looks over his shoulder and winces; he touches the knot, about an inch in diameter, and remembers how Sam pulled him off of the spike, and how his heart kicked back in the moment his knees hit the ground. After that, Sam called for paramedics—after that, all Dean remembers is pain, from the moment they stitched him back together and sent him home with a prescription for OxyContin. No warnings about over-use, no talk of interactions with other substances, just a slap on the back and a goodbye for all his trouble.
Somehow, the spike missed hitting his spine directly, but the nick to his vertebra left him with a weakness in his legs he still can’t quite shake. Supposedly, his gait will recover in time. But six months have passed, and Dean still ambles along with a cane, like the old man he never thought he’d be. Forty-one years old. “I’m ancient,” he tells himself in the mirror. Years ago, he might have laughed.
Warm water pours from the faucet and into the bathtub, filling the room with steam. Setting his cane against the wall, Dean takes the few steps necessary to turn off the tap, then dumps two cups of Epsom salts into the water. In the silence, he steps in and sinks in deep. His first bath in two weeks, and it might as well be heaven. Showers can only do so much; most of the time, Dean sat on the floor and wept, the pain of standing too much to bear.
Leaning his head back, Dean slips beneath the water, his knees and face breaking the surface. Quiet envelops him, and his tremor settles for the time being, his body calm, relaxed. His mind, however, wanders, bouncing from memory to memory until he forces it to come to a crawl, then a halt. “Cas,” Dean whispers to no one but himself. Castiel isn’t listening—Castiel isn’t here anymore. “Wanna let you know I’m… I’m okay.” He stops to inhale, then holds it, letting it out slowly through his nose. “Getting better. Still feel like shit, though. Just… wanted to let you know, if you get this.” A pause. “Miss you, man.”
Wingbeats don’t flutter in; the inescapable warmth of Castiel’s presence doesn’t greet him. Staring up at the ceiling, Dean weeps, his lip trembling, desperate to speak the words he longs to say. Has longed to say, for over a year. “I’m sorry I couldn't stop it,” he manages. “I’m sorry I couldn't…”
I couldn't save you, he thinks, and breathes. Not like you saved me.