#still have a stab at the show under representing the impacts of traumatic events

[jamevaa]

Week 3 : Hurt/Comfort

The first few mornings, Sam would wake up and Dean would already be up, sitting extremely still by the side of the window, wherever that was in their motel of the night. His purgatory weapon, rough hewn, savage, barbaric, everything Purgotary was more than Hell, would lie across his knees.

"Hey," Sam would greet, and he could see the humanity inch back into his brother, like he struggled to fit into the wrong skin suit. A roll of the shoulders, flexing of the hands. A twitch in the cheeks, and then he would stitch a normal expression back together and return a "Hey" that sounded almost perfectly normal.

The pantomime worked, mostly. But not for Sam. Dean was very good at it, during the day. As soon as night fell, that colors bled out and the world became quiet, dark shades of grey, his eyes reclaimed a wild shine, simple in its drive. Predator or prey. Survival. 

Dean didn't sleep. Couldn't sleep, probably. His face grew sunken and sallow, cracks appeared in the human mask. They bled smoke and ash and normal people began to notice, edging away from Dean in the stores and diners, primal instincts recognizing something they could no longer define. 

Sam wasn't sure what to do. Wasn't sure if he could do anything. Dean had been tactile, at night, in private. He’d sit close enough to knock knees and elbows, would lean on Sam’s shoulder to look at the laptop, would try to burrow through his little brother's ribs like it was the only thing giving him the strength to wake up the following morning. 

Not so, anymore. Trust was buried in the grave between them and Dean stood resolutely on the opposite side. 

The only time Sam approached Dean, the moment he stepped beyond that invisible boundary, Dean squared up and lowered his brow on eyes wide and blown. Sam walked by to the mini fridge as if that had been his plan all along and didn't try again.

Sam didn't know what gave him the idea that night. Perhaps it was the war movie rolling in the background. When midnight came and went, Sam stood up and grabbed one of their knives, a long, curved blade. He placed a chair by the edge of the window where he could observe unseen and sat with the knife across his lap.

"I've got it tonight," he said. "Sleep."

Dean took a moment, sitting silent and still. Sam could feel him thinking, deciding if he could trust. Finally, slowly, he shut off the TV and settled down. After a short time he rose angrily, startling Sam, and got off the bed to sleep on the floor. No pillows, no covers, fully dressed. His back to the wall, his weapon in hand.

Sam wanted to scream, wanted to grab his brother and hold onto him until he stopped fighting, but he said nothing and looked out the window. At least Dean slept.