A Mask to Come Undone
Rating: PG13 (for language)
Spoilers: General spoilers for the S3 story arc
Disclaimer: Huh. I wish this was my day job.
Author's Notes: This is, thematically at least, a companion piece to The Whipping Dance but it is also intended to work as a stand-alone. Feedback and constructive criticism are, as always, warmly received.
Dean has a small scar that runs the length of his left eyebrow, the result of a neighbourhood football game that got a little rough back when they were kids. He wears cotton socks because he hates the feel of wool against his skin. He takes up the whole bed when he sleeps, flat on his stomach with arms and legs splayed, pillow punched into submission beneath his head. He's allergic to the cheaper brands of first aid tape. When he blushes, it starts below his ears and creeps slowly along his jaw-line to his cheeks. He has three dark freckles on his wrist, just above his watch. He only snores when he's drunk.
Sam remembers.
He has to remember.
There's no one else left who can.
A dusty little church somewhere on the coast of Maine. Fall, and it's as cold as fck. On his knees before the altar because the time for praying discreetly has long since passed. But the prayer in his heart doesn't translate to words because there are no words for the desperate ache, the desperate longing. He bows his head and his whole body trembles with it.
And then there are words; childish words, reflexive words.
God, give me my brother and I swear I will never doubt you again.
Mashed potatoes and thick steak, done medium-well. Pancakes with maple syrup - real Canadian stuff, none of that imitation crap. Fresh green apples. Jaffleswith creamed corn and cheese. Always butter, never margarine. Bacon. Eggs over easy. Extra onions on the burger and extra ice-cream with the pie. Peanut butter sandwiches on fresh white bread Twinkies. Barbeque chips. Pepsi, not Coke.The only personon the continental US who prefers the biscuit part of theOreo to the cream. Milk, straight out of the carton. Jersey Caramels.
His brother,a walking heart attack that won't have time to happen.
Sam remembers, and it curdles thick and sour in his gut.
On his knees, head bowed, scattered candles flickering gently. He mumbles the spoken prayer under his breath because there are other people here; it's Christmas Eve and it's the right thing to do, here in this church.
His entire body thrums with the unspoken prayer, the true prayer.
God, let me keep my brother and I will walk the path you've chosen for me and I will never shirk it again.
Dean's a pain in the ass to share a bathroom with. He squeezes the damn toothpaste in the middle of the tube instead of rolling the tube carefully up from the bottom. He's singularly unable to use just one towel if there are more available. He soaks the bathmat when he showers anddoesn't hang it up to dry. He rarely remembers to wash out the sink after he shaves. He never remembers to replace the toilet paper when he uses the last piece. He'll go apeshit if Sam uses his conditioner but he's got no problems using Sam's deodorant. He shaves with Dad's old straight razor. He sings - loudly, badly, and just to piss Sam off.
But sometimes, when Dean thinks he's got the hotel room to himself, he hits the shower and sings with his real voice - a clear, deep voice that sends shivers down Sam's spine because it's a piece of Dean, a piece of his soul, that his brother would never voluntarily share with anyone. Sam's heard it only a handful of times - three, maybe four - and each time he's slipped out of the room and returned a few minutes later, slamming the door deliberately and calling for Dean in a loud voice.
So many things to remember, his head aches with it all,but by God, he'll remember that.
God, save my brother and I will forgive you for not saving my mother.
God, save my brother and I will forgive you for not saving my father.
God, save my brother and I will forgive you for not saving my girl.
The faded Marine Corp t-shirt Dean wore til it quite literally dissolved in the wash. The ponytail he grew at fourteen, his one teenage rebellion. The biker boots he's worn into dust over the years. His watch, an 18th birthday present from their Dad. His handwriting – surprisingly neat and curved. The naked fear on his face at the thought of getting on a plane. The thumbnail on his right hand he split in half with an axe trying to cut wood. The small twitch in the corner of his left eye that means he's scared shitless but about to do whatever it is anyway.
Catalogue it, save it, remember it.
Another town, another church, another stolen hour spent on his knees in broken supplication.
God, give me my brother and I will never ask another thing from you, I swear it.
"It don't work like that, son."
He starts, lifts his head. Flushes a deep red when he realises he must have spoken aloud. "Sorry?"
The old priest smiles sadly. "God don't make bargains. The devil, he makes bargains. Ain't no faith in that, just an exchange of one thing for another. You ain't got a thingHe wants except your love, and that you have to be able to offer unconditionally."
"It's not enough." He blurts it out, then lowers his head, shame-faced.
"Oh, it's enough." The priest's hand is heavy on his shoulder. "God's love is tough love sometimes, but it's always enough."
Sam weeps.
What he writes in the journal he carries inside his coat pocket. The name of the first girl he loved. Three things he wished he could have saved from the fire (aw c'mon Sammy, what kind of question is that? Got you out, that's all that matters). How he makes peace with himself over the things he's been forced to do now that Dad, the only saviour Dean has ever had or wanted, is gone.
There are things Sam can't remember because he doesn't know, because he never asked, because he never took the time to listen.
He's angry. He's so, so angry.
Fuck you, God. I believed, and it wasn't enough.
Candles scatter. Hot wax splashes across the altar cloth, the tops of his hands. He pounds his fist into the stone til his knuckles split.
He stumbles down the stairs and throws up in the car park.
Dean has their arsenal laid out on the floor of the hotel room; the entire contents of the Impala's trunk lined up before him. He's drilling Sam on the idiosyncrasies of the various firearms; the best places to get ammunition; the most effective way to pack a rock-salt round; the correct rituals for turning tap water into holy water.
It's all stuff Sam knows, and they both know that. But it's something Dean can give him, a Winchester life-lesson he can impart without the emotion he loathes, and Sam's breath catches when he realises it. He closes his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed. Dean's boot hits the side of his, irritated concern. "Pay attention, man. You gotta remember this stuff, Sammy."
He fights back the urge to laugh, albeit a little hysterically, because there's so much he has to remember that it's all he can do to find room for it all. And he can't he tell Dean that if his brain has a finite capacity for storing things, he'll choose to remember the way the tip of Dean's tongue presses between his front teeth when he's concentrating really hard over the meaning of damned sigils carved into the handle of the machete.
His grief is an awful thing, a heavy, burning weight. It's a physical thing. It winds itself steadily, progressively around his heart and squeezes til it threatens to suffocate him. It floods his eyes and steals his breath and he can't control it and Dean watches it without comment because Dean can be an asshole sometimes but even he can't make light of this.
I don't have the strength to trust in You anymore. That is my failing, and I choose now to live without You because he's my brother and I will give him all that I have; there is nothing left to give to You.
Dean grounds him. He is all that is good in the world, even if he likes to think he's some of the bad, too. Dean anchors him. He is comfort, familiar, home. Dean saves him – from the dark, from the world, from himself.
Dean is everything.
This, he doesn't have to remember.
This, at least, Sam has always known.