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there-must-be-a-lock · 3 years ago

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Fine Lines - Part 4/4

Part of Coffee & Psychopaths, my Criminal Minds/Supernatural crossover!

Word Count: ~6630 this chapter

Warnings: Canon-atypical honest discussions of trauma and recovery. Touches on a lot of the same mental health issues as the first three parts; if you’ve made it this far, I doubt there’s anything here that will bother you too much.

A/N: With huge thanks to @stunudo @fangirlxwritesx67 and @percywinchester27, for looking this over and giving feedback way back when I was first starting to write it. The first chapter of this filled my “Season 8″ square for CM Bingo 2021; it has now been so long that this chapter fills my “Season 8″ square for @cmbingo 2022! Oops. Better late than never.

Pulls directly from the events of SPN 7x17, The Born-Again Identity, and 8x9, Citizen Fang. And while the timeline is different because of the way I diverged from canon, part of this is directly inspired by the end of CM 8x13, Magnum Opus.

Sam stands in front of the window. A shadow of a person looks back at him from the glass. When he lifts his hands, turns them one way and then the other, inspects them, the shadow does the same.

His fingernails will start breaking. His hair will start falling out. The idea should bother him.

It’s a funny thing, having a body.

He doesn’t feel particularly connected to his body, or to that reflected image in the glass. The body is heavy, leaden, slowly failing on him. Sam, meanwhile, feels thin and worn, like a breeze could blow him right out of his body. Maybe that would be better. He wouldn’t mind that.

He presses his thumb into his palm, and the throb of pain makes him feel, for just a moment, that he has some measure of control. Maybe he shouldn’t be hurting his body like this, but he doesn’t have the energy to care.

It’s just blood and skin, and it’s been used to do terrible things, both by Sam and by others: Meg, Lucifer…

The last time this body was really his, and his alone, he was six months old.

Sam thinks about giving up. He’s so goddamn tired. He’s tired of fighting monsters and he’s tired of fighting the evil thing in his head and he’s tired of fighting for control of his own body.

It’s the thought of Dean that pulls him back. Dean wouldn’t forgive himself. Hell, Dean wouldn’t know what to do with himself.

Dean wouldn’t accept it, more importantly. The only time Dean’s ever stopped fighting for him was when he was in the Cage, when heaven and hell hung in the balance. Even if he did find a way to end it, would Dean accept that choice? Or would Dean bring him back?

They always come back to each other.

Sam presses down on his palm, hearing Dean’s voice: believe in that. I am your flesh-and-blood brother, okay?

* * * * * * * * *

It’s after 2am when Spencer gets home. Maeve likes to keep the bedroom door open, and she’s a light sleeper, so he closes the front door carefully before tiptoeing through the dark living room to the kitchen. He turns on the oven light and pours a glass of water and makes himself drink all of it, standing there at the counter, and then he washes his hands, scrubbing with scalding-hot water until his skin is pink.

Spencer sits cross-legged at the table, but from there he can see his reflection in the window. He scowls at it and sits on the floor instead, with his back to the counter, and the linoleum is cool under him as he tries to breathe.

He curls up into a ball, hugging his knees to his chest, dropping his forehead, trying to let the tears out as quietly as possible. It almost hurts, holding back the deep wracking sobs, but he manages; there’s only the occasional gasping breath to give him away.

He’s so fucking tired of dead bodies.

It’s just like this, sometimes, after a bad case; his skin crawls and his bones ache like they’re tired of holding him together. It’ll pass. He knows how to take care of himself when he’s like this: time and space, darkness and quiet, solitude. Solitude and a soft blanket.

It was never a problem when he lived alone.

Maeve is always so happy to see him, so sweet, so affectionate. She hugs him, wraps her arms around him and buries her face in his chest, and she lets out a barely-there exhale when she does it, when she’s pressed as close as she can, like a sigh of relief that he’s really home. Even if it’s the middle of the night, she’ll reach out for him, still half-asleep, and snuggle close.

Most of the time, it’s wonderful. Spencer’s not a fan of touch, but she’s an exception; he feels so lucky to be able to touch her. She’s gotten used to his quirks — she knows not to sneak up on him, not to touch from behind him, to give plenty of warning. She understands, to the extent that anyone can understand a thing without feeling it themselves.

Tonight, though — and on other nights like it — the idea of another person’s body against his makes him feel sick and panicky, the sort of panicky that makes it difficult to breathe, let alone talk… or explain what’s wrong.

It was a couple months ago that they first ran into this problem. Spencer recoiled from Maeve’s welcome-home hug, and she got this raw, wounded look in her eyes. When he tried to explain, the words came out all wrong. She stared at him like he was crazy, and for a moment Spencer wondered if she was right.

They talked it out, and she asked if he would try to compromise, to meet her halfway. He said yes, but he’s still not sure what she wants from him. There is no halfway here. Either they’re touching, or they’re not.

The thing is, she gets anxious when he’s away. That first hug is her way of reassuring herself that he’s really there, solid and warm and breathing in her arms. He can see the effect it has on her, when he asks for space; she’s jumpy and unsettled, like it was worse to see him and not be able to touch than to be separated in the first place.

Last time, it made Spencer feel so guilty that he swallowed the discomfort and hugged her anyway. Then he had a full-blown panic attack, and she blamed herself, and everything was so much worse.

Touch, for her, is like coming ashore, like the first step onto solid ground. For Spencer, it’s like saltwater in his lungs. He wishes he could change for her, but he can’t. He spent thirty years trying and failing; his mind and his body have been at war for most of his life. He lost this battle a long time ago.

It’s easier this way, sitting on the kitchen floor and breathing through the shakes while she sleeps in the next room; it’s easier, but Spencer feels lonely, now, in a way he never did before she moved in. He was used to being alone, before she got here. Now he’s all too aware of the space between their bodies and what it means to each of them.

Sometimes he wonders if things weren’t better when he could love her from a distance.

* * * * * * * * *

Spencer’s arrival startles Sam out of his listless daze. He’s on the phone when he comes in, making a vaguely irritated face, and he immediately holds the phone out to Sam.

“It’s your brother,” he explains.

Sam takes the phone and sits on the edge of the bed, vision swimming with the exertion of the movement.

“Hey, Dean.”

“I think I found something,” Dean says gruffly. “I think… I think I found somebody who can help.”

“Yeah?” Sam’s too tired to feel anything at the pronouncement.

“We’re on the way, we’re just — we’ll be there in a couple hours. You just need to hang on a little longer. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Sam says.

“How’re you feeling?” Dean asks.

“Fine,” Sam says, because that’s what they always say. “See you soon.”

“Just… a little bit longer,” Dean repeats, and Sam closes the phone, handing it back to Spencer. His hands are shaking visibly.

“How are you actually?” Spencer asks, and Sam almost manages to laugh.

“Not great.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Will it do any good?”

“It might,” Spencer says, and Sam raises a skeptical eyebrow. “No, really. Even if it’s uncomfortable… in theory, trauma therapy is like inoculation: flashbacks become much less severe if patients can find ways to acknowledge those memories without being overwhelmed by them. It’s a difficult balance, but it you let them in a bit at a time—”

“Too late for that,” Sam says abruptly. “Already let him in. That’s the whole problem, here, right? I said yes. I let him in.”

Spencer gives him a sharp, searching look. “Doesn’t mean that you deserve this.”

Sam’s exhale is shaky.

“I know,” he lies.

Spencer studies him, frowning, but doesn’t press the issue.

“I brought a book,” he says, and pulls it out of his messenger bag. “Figured… might help to get out of your head a bit? Focus on someone else’s life.”

Sam almost manages a smile at that, but he can barely concentrate on Spencer, let alone words.

“Not sure my eyes will focus long enough to read, honestly.”

“I can read out loud,” Spencer says.

Something about that offer twists deep in Sam’s chest, and his vision goes misty for a moment. When was the last time someone read to him?

It was years ago, and Sam remembers it all too well. He’d been sick and miserable. Dean had put on a brave face, but he couldn’t hide the way he kept looking out the window, wondering if their dad would come back.

* * * * * * * * *

“Thank you again,” JJ says, hugging Spencer tight, and then she hugs Maeve too. “You guys are going to make amazing parents someday.”

“My pleasure,” Maeve says.

Spencer adds, “Any time.”

He offers to drive, as they walk out, but Maeve brushes him off, just like she always does. She’s smiling, and there’s a sweet faraway look in her eyes, illuminated in gold from the streetlamp, as she pulls away from the curb. She’s so beautiful; it still takes him by surprise.

“What do you want to do tomorrow?” he asks.

“Not sure,” she says, and she sounds happy about it. “There’s that concert in the park in the evening, and the new exhibit at the science museum…”

“I just —” he starts, and then swallows his irritation. “I’d like to make a plan. There are things I need to do tomorrow. I have a list.”

“Let’s figure it out together tomorrow morning, okay? I have a list too, I just don’t want to make a plan until I see what the weather will be like.”

Spencer resists the urge to pull out her smartphone and open the weather app for her.

He knows he shouldn’t be so controlling. He’s trying, he’s been trying so hard to be better — to be more flexible — to let things go.

Compromise. He needs to compromise.

“First thing?” he asks.

“First thing,” she promises.

“Okay.”

She turns on the radio — preset to NPR — and holds her hand out across the center console, palm up. Spencer laces their fingers together, squeezing gently and then letting go before he starts thinking about germs.

“JJ’s right, you know,” she says softly, and gives him a quick smile. “You’re going to be such a great dad.”

Spencer watches her for a moment, his chest tight, barely able to breathe for how much he loves her.

“You think so?”

“God, yes. I hope they get your bone structure,” Maeve comments.

He’s never really thought about that, somehow, in all the time he’s spent daydreaming about fatherhood; he’s never tried to imagine what his kids might look like.

Now he can’t stop thinking about it.

The thought keeps him awake, later, even when Maeve is snoring next to him. Spencer tosses and turns for an hour before he finally slips out of bed, grabbing his phone, finding his robe in the dim glow of the nightlight and pulling it on over his pajamas before he tiptoes out carefully.

He goes to the kitchen and puts the kettle on, looking resentfully at the box of Sleepytime tea, before texting Sam: Are you awake?

He just needs to unwind for a couple hours.

A few months ago, if he needed to think something through, Spencer would’ve made himself some coffee, put on a record, and played chess for the rest of the night.

Spencer’s busy dumping sugar into his mug when Sam calls. He feels a little bit panicky, and he’s pretty sure no amount of chamomile is going to change that.

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Maeve wants kids,” Spencer blurts out.

There’s a long pause.

“Like… tomorrow?”

“No! God, no.” Spencer takes a sip of tea and burns his tongue.

“You want kids too. So… that’s good, right?”

“I really, really do. But she’s the first person I’ve ever met who I can imagine wanting to procreate with. This is… it’s not theoretical any more,” Spencer says slowly, trying to find the right words. “She said she hopes they have my bone structure.”

Sam laughs. “Fair enough. Shit, those would be some smart kids.”

“It made me think about genetics,” Spencer explains. “The issue is — what if — there are so many variables, and — there are so many things that could go wrong with physical genes alone. There are so many genetic diseases, I don’t know —”

“Whoa, hey, breathe. Okay?”

“Flesh and blood is the least of it,” Spencer says. His throat is tight. “What if they get the other genes too? It’d be my fault, and there are things in my genes that — that I wouldn’t wish on anybody.”

Sam lets out a long exhale in a crackle of static. “There’s the good stuff, too.”

“But it’s out of my control. And I’m not sure if that’s better or worse than — the rest of it. The stuff I can control. You know?” Spencer takes a sip of tea, realizes he’s left the bag in too long, and spits it right back out. “Because it’s one thing to roll the dice on genetics, but if I have a choice and I make the wrong choice… statistically, children of divorced parents —”

“You’re not going to turn into your dad,” Sam says firmly.

“It’s not that easy, though, is it? We say we want to break the cycle of what our parents did to us, but you only have so much control over your attachment patterns.”

Sam hesitates. His voice sounds heavy when he says, “I know how you feel. I wish I could be more reassuring, but… I know how you feel.”

* * * * * * * * *

Spencer goes to get lunch — or is it dinner? Time doesn’t have much meaning in the psych hospital; the dull yellow lights are always the same.

When he comes back, the doctor is leaning over Sam, shining a light in his eyes, and Spencer feels cold all over, for a moment, before Sam stirs.

“I can’t give you any more medication,” the doctor is saying grimly. “The potential for overdose is too great.”

Sam holds a hand up in front of his own face, looking at it dazedly. His fingernails are bloody. He doesn’t seem to notice Spencer.

“We need to talk about surgical solutions,” the doctor says, and Spencer frowns. He knows he shouldn’t interrupt, but that’s wrong. Something is wrong here.

Spencer cuts in: “There are no approved surgical methods to—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence because he’s choking. There’s an oily dark smoke streaming into his open mouth, funneling down his throat, filling his lungs, thick and sulfur-scented. The doctor glances at him, and his eyes are pure black.

Spencer can’t breathe.

By the time he realizes what’s happening, it’s too late. There’s someone else in his body.

It’s nightmarish, the sensation of being paralyzed while another consciousness controls his flesh and blood. All Spencer can do is watch, horrified, as his own hands strap Sam to a gurney and start to wheel him down the hall.

* * * * * * * * *

Sam throws the ball — watches Riot run for it — over and over again.

He wonders if he should just leave, give Amelia and Don a chance — would that be the right thing to do? Probably. They’re married, after all.

He’s angry. It’s an uncomfortable sensation; it doesn’t sit right in his chest.

He doesn’t want to leave.

Jessica feels like a lifetime ago, like it was an entirely different person who fell in love with her, but Sam thinks about her all the time. She was his first real relationship, and she had to teach him, sometimes, how to be in a relationship. He worked so hard to unlearn the patterns he’d been raised with.

When they fought, his first instinct was always to leave, and Jessica called him on it: “Why do you do that?”

“I just need some time,” he said. “I just need to get away for a bit, so I’m not — I don’t want to be angry with you. I hate fighting with you.”

“I still love you,” Jess said, rolling her eyes. “A fight isn’t the end of the world, Sam. It’s okay to be angry sometimes.”

It took Sam a few minutes to breathe through the panic, but Jess just waited patiently, holding his hand, reminding him that they were okay — that she still loved him — that she wasn’t going anywhere.

Sam knew it went back to his family. Dean and John would dig in their heels when they were angry, get their hackles up and fight back twice as hard when they were backed into a corner — when they realized they were wrong. Fight or flight was a normal enough response. It’s just that Sam’s family fought harder than most. Get them to a certain point of anger, and it would only end one way; Dean always hit a wall or a pillow or a monster, but John wasn’t so careful.

Sam learned that lesson the hard way. He learned that the best way to de-escalate was to walk away before things really got bad.

“You’re not your dad,” Jess told him gently. “You can do things differently. We’re gonna fight each other sometimes, but at the end of the day, we’ll fight just as hard to make this work. Together. Right?”

Riot nudges his nose under Sam’s hand, and Sam scratches behind his ears before he throws the ball again. He’s sitting on the porch steps that he fixed himself; half of them were rotted through, when they moved in.

The last time Sam stayed in one place for this long, he was with Jess.

Maybe he shouldn’t be so surprised. Sam of all people should know that you can only run for so long before the past catches up with you.

He doesn’t want to leave. He doesn’t want to walk out. That’s just another Winchester pattern; he can do things differently.

This is worth fighting for.

Amelia comes out and sits down next to him. She looks stunned, still.

“Thought about what you're gonna say to him?”

“I've thought about it and thought about it, and I still don't know.”

Sam takes a deep breath. “Look, I'm sure you have a lot of people telling you what the right thing to do is here.”

“Sam.”

“He's your husband, Amelia,” he says helplessly. “But I don't... I don't want to do the right thing. I mean, this is the right thing, you and me. And maybe I'm going to hell for saying this, but I'm not ready to give this up.”

“Neither am I.” Her face softens, and she slips her hand into his. “Would it bother you if I just took some time to clear my head?”

“Oh.” Sam tries to breathe. “Um… of course. Uh, take whatever time you need. I can just — I can go, for a bit.”

“You don’t have to, maybe I can —”

“No. No, it’s fine.” Sam forces a smile. “Might be good. I’ll hit the road, head out to DC. Give you a week or two. Okay?”

“Thank you,” she says, and her eyes are sad, but she does look relieved. “Thanks. I think that’d be good.”

Sam never unpacked his bag, from the trip back in January. It’s a little too easy to leave.

The worst part is, he’s not surprised. The cycles of his life run the same way, over and over again, whether he likes it or not. The past will always catch up. Sam will always leave, or be left.

* * * * * * * * *

Spencer can’t shake the lingering smell of sulfur.

He goes to the bathroom and washes his hands, splashes water over his face… when he looks in the mirror, he half expects to see black eyes staring back.

But it’s just him. He raises a hand, flexes the fingers, lifts his chin defiantly at his reflection. He’s in control of his muscles again, but it feels like his skin doesn’t fit quite right — as if the demon stretched it out of shape, like a sweater that’s been on a cheap wire hanger too long.

When he gets back, Dean and Castiel are still at Sam’s bedside. Dean looks furious.

“What the hell do you mean you can't?” he snaps.

“I mean there's nothing left to rebuild.”

“Why not?”

“Because it crumbled. The pieces got crushed to dust by whatever's happening inside his head right now.”

“Are you really trying to just… magic this away?” Spencer asks incredulously. “That’s not how trauma works! You can’t just wall it up and pretend it doesn’t exist and then expect Sam to heal!”

“Why not? It worked the first time! If he hadn’t started poking at it —”

“So now it’s his fault?” Spencer exclaims.

“No! No, that’s not what I meant, it’s just — I’m just trying to protect him!”

“You can’t protect someone from the contents of their own head. Sam’s the only person who can choose what to do here.”

“You got any better ideas, Doc? Cause believe me, I’m listening.”

Spencer’s voice is cold and furious when he says, “I would’ve suggested listening to Sam, but it’s a little late for that.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that if your brother had been able to talk about what he experienced, maybe you could’ve avoided this in the first place!”

“Bullshit. He was tortured, Spencer, talking about that doesn’t just make it disappear!”

“Of course it doesn’t! Nothing can make that disappear. But that’s all you can do: you reach out, you connect, you talk, you process it… that’s how people heal: by learning how to let themselves be vulnerable. By rebuilding trust. Not by putting up more walls.”

“Now who’s the one saying this is Sam’s fault?” Dean barks. “Are you sayin’ that he deserves this for not talking about his feelings?”

“I’m saying maybe you need to think about why your brother doesn’t want to tell you things.”

Dean recoils like Spencer hit him. Then he pulls on his mask again, composes his features, and takes a step forward, making himself physically intimidating, like he wants Spencer to be scared of him.

“You’re out of line. You have no idea —”

“Look, I may not know magic, but I know psychology. The fact is… if everyone had someone to talk to — if they weren’t so afraid to ask for help instead of isolating themselves — I’d probably be out of a job.” Spencer forces himself to meet Dean’s glare without flinching. “Everybody puts up walls. Everybody tries to keep people out, or… protect people from what they’re dealing with. Whatever the reason, people think it’s safer that way. But the only way you can really get through the lowest points is by letting other people share the weight of whatever you’re trying to carry.”

Dean’s eyes are wide and startled and suddenly filled with tears, like that cut much deeper than Spencer intended it to. It’s hard to watch the way Dean looks down, turns away, shoulders heaving as he takes a deep breath.

“Maybe there’s something I can do,” Cas says thoughtfully. Spencer and Dean both turn to him. “Maybe… I can share it.”

* * * * * * * * *

Spencer arrives at Alex’s not long after Sam does. He gives Sam a genuine smile when he raises a hand in greeting, but it’s easy to see that he’s distracted; it’s like there’s a storm cloud over his head as he settles at the counter.

Alex just made a fresh pot of coffee. She passes them both mugs and sits across from them before saying to Sam, “So? That must’ve been a helluva shock. How are you feeling?”

Sam shrugs. He explained the basics of the situation to both of them on the phone, but he doesn’t really want to think about Amelia right now; the drive cleared his head, and there’s no point bringing all those anxieties back up.

“Guess that’s up to her,” he says softly, and shakes his head like he can physically shake the worry off. “How about you?” he asks Spencer. “How’s Maeve?”

Spencer gives him a weak impression of a smile, fidgeting with his coffee mug, turning it around in his hands. “She’s… good. Fine. She’s been at a conference, but she’ll be back tonight.”

Sam and Alex exchange a quick look.

“Do you miss her?” Alex asks, and her voice is gentle but her eyes are sharp.

“Not as much as I probably should,” Spencer says guiltily, and then he shakes his head and insists, “I love her, though. She’s the most incredible person I’ve ever met. Her mind is — she’s just — she’s brilliant. I feel like I could talk to her for the rest of my life and not get bored, but…” Spencer’s voice trails off. He shrugs, staring into his cup self-consciously.

“But?” Alex prompts.

Spencer hesitates. “When she’s here — when we’re just going through our lives together — a lot of the time I wish I was alone.”

“There’s a big difference between loving someone and being able to live with them,” Sam says wryly, thinking of Dean.

Spencer sighs. “I thought it’d get easier. I thought… maybe it would just take practice. Maybe I could change. Maybe when we learned how to communicate — but it’s like… the better we know each other, the harder it gets to live with each other.”

“I know you know this, but relationships are hard,” Alex says gently. “But you’re fighting for it. That’s all you can do, really.”

“How do I know when to stop fighting?” Spencer says, and the words burst out like he’s been holding onto them for a while. “Because I’m tired of it. I keep telling myself things will change, I’m trying to be optimistic, but at a certain point, optimism becomes delusion. What if fighting for the relationship means fighting against my own nature?”

“What do you mean by that?”

Spencer thinks about that for a moment. “I was doing some research, and I found a book—”

“Shocking,” Sam mutters, and Spencer cracks a smile.

“Well, it helped. It was about ‘love languages,’ and hers is touch. And that’s — that’s not —” He shrugs helplessly, then glances from Sam to Alex, like he’s silently pleading for them to understand. “That’s her love language, and to me it’s like speaking a foreign language. But that’s a flawed analogy, because I could learn a foreign language. Sometimes the idea of touching someone is just… I can’t.” He seems panicky just thinking about it, rubbing his palms on his corduroys like he’s trying to wipe them clean.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Alex says firmly.

“I know! I know that. I do. And it took me… years to learn that. It took me most of my life to learn how to be okay with myself.” Spencer takes a deep breath, shoving his hands through his hair, and the words start to come faster and faster. “There are parts of me that don’t fit, when she’s around; they don’t fit with what she wants, and I love her so much that I’ve started to hate those pieces of myself. And if I was fine to begin with… if I’m changing myself trying to fit her, is that self-improvement? Or self-mutilation?”

His voice breaks, and Spencer pauses, taking a deep shuddery breath, steadying himself.

Alex says, “If you don’t want to talk about it, Spencer—”

“No, it’s… it’s good, actually, it helps.”

* * * * * * * * *

They try to make Sam stay twenty-four hours for observation, but he sneaks out after twelve solid hours of sleep and one last look at Cas, still catatonic, through the window. Sam doesn’t like leaving him there, but there’s no other option, so they get in the car and start driving.

The rumble of the engine soothes him in a way that none of the psych meds ever did. Sam balls his jacket up against the window and settles in to get some more sleep.

“Hey, before you knock out,” Dean says, and Sam can hear the hesitation in his voice, hear the rough, tight sound of the words, like Dean doesn’t actually want to be saying them.

“Yeah?”

“Doc said something —” Dean stops, glares at the rearview like it’s personally offended him, and clears his throat. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”

Sam makes a dismissive sound. “Yeah, Dean. Sure.”

“No, I’m — I mean it, Sammy. You were carryin’ around some shit that a goddamn angel couldn’t handle, and I didn’t even know until it was too late. But. There’s nothing you could say that would make me walk away from you. Okay?”

Sam’s surprised by the way that twists in his chest like a knife.

“Okay,” he says, trying to smile, but his voice sounds bitter anyway.

“I know I don’t necessarily have a great track record with that,” Dean says. His mouth twitches down at the corners, and Sam realizes he’s close to tears. “I always come back, though. You’re my brother. I’m not giving up on you, not ever.”

How many times have they made this promise to each other? How many times have they vowed to be more honest, to stop keeping secrets, to stick together and not let anything come between them?

Nobody else could ever hurt him the way Dean has over the years, countless times: with fists and lies and disgusted glances; by walking and driving away; by slamming the door behind him; by leaving Sam over and over again.

They fall into these patterns, and it’s not healthy. If it was anyone else, Sam would’ve given up a long time ago, but it’s Dean. He loves Dean more than breathing.

I won’t leave.

Those are the words Sam’s always wanted to hear. He wants to believe it. He wants to believe they can be better.

It shouldn’t be so difficult to live with someone he would die for.

“Love you too, Dean,” he says quietly, and settles in to get some sleep.

* * * * * * * * *

It doesn’t quite look right without her. There are reminders of her everywhere, now — memories she left in her wake. There’s the lamp they picked out together — empty spaces on the shelves — empty drawers in the dresser… Spencer sees her everywhere, even in her absence.

She took her bookshelf — the one Spencer made space for in his apartment when she moved in. They put some of his books in a box in the closet, to make room, and added the extra shelf, and together they reorganized their combined collection until it all fit neatly in their shared space.

He wasn’t home when she came with her parents to pack everything up. He came back from the trip to find Maeve’s bookshelf gone, and the books from it were stacked on the floor. There were empty spaces on the remaining shelves, formerly tidy rows of books falling down, tilted to the side.

Now Spencer has to rearrange everything; he has to put his life back the way it was. Nothing fits the way it used to.

He hauls out the boxes of his books from the closet and starts to pull them out, but he has to reorganize everything, and he doesn’t know where to start. Then he sees the book she gave him, “The Narrative of John Smith,” inscribed with the quote in her handwriting, and it hurts to look at, but it hurts worse to imagine throwing it away.

Spencer wraps his arms around the book, holding it close to his chest, and curls up on the couch.

It was almost anticlimactic, in the end. Maeve looked resigned, but not surprised.

“We did everything we could, right?” Spencer asked. “I tried. I tried so hard.”

“Yeah, Spencer. We did everything we could,” Maeve echoed sadly. Then she kissed him on the cheek and walked out the door.

This isn’t how a love story is supposed to end.

He never expected a fairy tale or a simple “happily ever after.” He knew it would be work. But he always believed that if they fought for it, they’d win.

They did everything right. Why wasn’t that enough?

He’s settling in for a nice little depression nap when he hears the knock at the door, and he sighs. Getting up to answer the door sounds exhausting, and dealing with a sympathetic friend sounds even worse.

“Spencer, I know you’re in there,” comes Sam’s voice.

“I’m fine,” Spencer calls.

For a moment, there’s silence, and then Spencer hears a quiet click and scrape, the door handle jiggling slightly. By the time he recognizes the sounds of a lock being picked, the door is swinging open. Spencer sits upright and glares over the top of the couch.

“What the hell?” he says, and it sounds whiny even to his own ears.

“It was either me with my lock picks or Derek with his boots,” Sam tells him.

Spencer scowls at him and flops back down, but Sam just comes around the couch and settles in an armchair, raising his eyebrows in a decidedly judgmental way.

Spencer burrows deeper into the couch before mumbling, “I’m fine.”

“Clearly.” He gestures vaguely at Spencer’s overall state of disaster. “Why are you cuddling a book?”

“It’s not just any book,” Spencer says morosely. “It’s the book she gave me when — when we were supposed to meet up for the first time, and she wrote a quote inside, and… what if that was it? I mean, there’s nobody else like her.”

“Just because there’s nobody else like her, doesn’t mean there’s nobody else out there for you,” Sam says quietly. “It’s not about finding the perfect person. Nobody’s perfect. It’s about… the way you fit together.”

“I miss her,” Spencer confesses, and his voice breaks. “I know we didn’t fit, but I miss her anyway. Is that stupid?”

“No,” Sam says, without hesitating.

Spencer sits upright, with what feels like a massive effort. He pushes his hair out of his eyes and frowns down at the book, trying to find the right words.

“I was so lonely,” he says softly. “I told you, the first time we met; it’s lonely being the smartest person in the room. It’s lonely feeling like you can’t share parts of yourself.”

Sam gives him a sad little smile. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

“So when I found someone who was like me, I thought that was it. I thought I’d found somebody who would stay. I really believed she was my soul mate.” He shrugs helplessly. “Why couldn’t that be enough?”

Sam frowns, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped between them. His eyes go distant and his forehead wrinkles, and finally he offers, “Because you’re more than a soul.”

Spencer blinks at him a few times, surprised by that.

“What do I do now?” he asks, throat scratchy.

“You pick everything up and try again. You learn from it. What else can you do?” Sam shrugs. “But first things first. Let’s get you showered and caffeinated and we’ll go from there.”

“That sounds exhausting,” Spencer mutters, and flops down dramatically again.

Sam sighs. “Do I need to speak your language? Uh… love activates the ventral tegmental area of the brain and releases high levels of dopamine, and right now you’re experiencing physiological withdrawal the same way you would from an addiction. The best way to make yourself feel better is to engage in activities that will stimulate dopamine production. My brother would probably recommend beer and strippers, but — somehow I don’t think that’s what you need.”

“That’s irritatingly logical,” Spencer grumbles.

“You shower, I’ll make coffee. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Spencer puts the book down gently, gets to his feet, and shuffles toward the bathroom. His body feels too heavy.

He starts the shower, waits for it to heat up, and undresses quickly. The scalding-hot jet of it feels good on the tight muscles of his shoulders. Spencer sighs, breathing in the steam, and starts to clean himself up.

Life would be so much easier if he was only a soul.

Spencer’s been living in this body for decades, now. He knows it; he knows that those are his scrawny arms under his palms, his skin under the lather of soap, his flesh and blood — this body is part of who he is, but he’s not sure he’ll ever feel fully connected to it, let alone love it.

He gets out of the shower, towels off, and goes to brush his teeth. The mirror is fogged over; he wipes it with one hand and immediately wishes he hadn’t. Maybe it’d be easier to love himself if the face looking back at him in the mirror wasn’t quite so familiar.

Spencer looks down at the porcelain as he finishes brushing his teeth. He goes into his room and searches in the dresser for clean clothes — he hates seeing the empty spaces there.

When he goes to the kitchen, Sam is standing in the middle of the room, phone held to his ear, mouth slack with shock, face pale.

“Uh-huh,” he says. He doesn’t seem to notice Spencer. “Yeah. I’ll be there soon.”

He hangs up, staring numbly down at the phone in his hand.

“Everything okay?” Spencer asks.

“That was Dean.”

Spencer blinks at him a few times. “Your brother?”

“Yeah.” Sam’s smile is shaky. It stretches, cracks, goes crooked.

“I thought —”

“Apparently not,” Sam says, with a brittle, high-pitched laugh. “What am I — shit. I gotta go.”

“Just like that? What about Amelia?” Spencer asks quietly. “What about… everything?”

“I don’t know. I guess… I’ll figure it out.” Sam digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, taking a deep breath. He looks unsteady on his feet as he moves toward the door, steps jerky and mechanical. “It’s Dean. We always come back to each other.”

Part of Spencer wants to remind Sam of everything he’s built for himself, without Dean. Sam might not admit it, but Spencer knows how much it means to him, to have built a life for himself that doesn’t revolve around hunting — doesn’t revolve around his past, or anyone who might hold it against him.

Part of Spencer wonders if it’s healthy, the way that Sam’s willing to drop everything, without question, and drive across the country to go back to a brother who’s left him behind so many times.

But the truth is that all he feels, in this moment, is jealousy. He’s not sure what it’d be like, to love someone that much — to be willing to forgive them, just like that, over and over again.

Sam gives him a quick, tight hug and says, “Thanks for everything.”

“Of course.” Spencer lifts a hand in an awkward little wave. “See you soon.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, and he sounds surprised to find the words coming out of his mouth: “I’ll be back.”

Spencer’s surprised to find that he believes it.

The door closes behind Sam with a sharp, abrupt sound.

Spencer looks around at the mess again, and he feels very alone. He sits down next to a pile of books, so overwhelmed that it’s hard to breathe for a second.

He pulls out his phone and dials, and when Derek picks up, he says, “I think I need some help.”

* * * * * * * * *

There is only one serious question. And that is: Who knows how to make love stay?

-Tom Robbins

#cmbingo22 #criminal minds fic #supernatural #criminal minds #spencer reid #sam winchester #crossover #spn x cm #cm x spn

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