Title: This is how we grieve - episode reaction after Supernatural s2e17 Heart
Author: Blackbirch
Rating: PG upwards due to hints of violence
Fandom: Supernatural canon, gen
Pairing: none
Wordcount: 811
Feedback: Yes please. Any kind you can give me.
Archiving: No. I repeat - no.
Disclaimer: All characters are copyright of their originators. No infringement intended, no profit made.
Story Notes: Originally posted March 25th, 2007
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He wakes every night to that gunshot. He never says but the way his whole body flinches, sitting straight up in bed and his hand like he’s grasping a gun tighter, arm tensing to take up the recoil. Then he sits there, his eyes dry but his whole body is gasping for air. Huge lungfuls that look painful to draw, like he’s forcing himself to take every breath, forcing the air down into his lungs when all he wants to do is stop breathing. Stop hurting. Stop remembering.
Sam’s a vocal guy, but never when it comes to hurtin’. Then he’s tighter than a clam, but the way he looks - speaks every word for him. He never was very good in hiding how he feels, tight as a bowstring and his face… His face always tells it all, because he’s so open with it normally. That smile that even makes me catch on, and I find myself smilin’ with him even when I’m in a mood to grump and bitch and whine. He did it when we were kids, always made jokes and never took me seriously when I tried to push him away. He always came back for more. I found it annoying, that little brat. Still do, even though I see it more for what it is now. He’s always been there for you, you know. More than I ever tell him. But he doesn’t say either. We’re both bad at that, but I think we feel it. We have our backs. Always will. Don’t need no girly moments and fluffy words for that. He knows. I know. All there is to it.
But lying here watching him, hurts. That I couldn’t be the one to do it instead. Isn’t that what an older brother does? Takes care of his little brother? Dad made that my mission in life, especially after his death. Take care of him, even kill him if needed to save him. But I don’t know how this time. We don’t hug, it’s painful to watch us try. Fucking embarrassing. Sling an arm over his shoulder, knuckle his head and a slap on his back. Then try not to look at each other. It’s not what he needs any who. Hugs from his brother is never gonna fix this. Time will eventually, clichéd as it is. But we know, that times take you further away from what hurts and it eases some of it. Just as long as you stop poking at it, it’ll grow mold in the back of your brain and be for a while. But Sam, when it’s fresh he just can’t stop poking at it. Making it bleed and milk the pain for all it’s worth, to feed the guilt I know that big freaky brain of his holds. This is one thing I can’t slap him across the back of his head and wake him out of. Helpless and damn, I hate that. Never been good with just watching. I’m a “do” kind of man, but here there’s nothing I can do. Trying to tell Sammy this was his only choice? Yeah right, that goes over well. Been there, done that, got the earful.
No, just take him with me, try to keep him busy and find something else to fixate his mind on. Moving on and never stopping, run from the bad memories. Running’s an old habit in this family. And we all know old habits die hard.
Tomorrow we’re going on a long drive up the north, I’ve got a rumored banshee for him to fixate on. I scan the clips and newspapers before he gets a chance, anything reminding him has to go. Selfish reasons you know, I could do with a good night’s sleep right about now. A whole night where I don’t have to hear him whimper, her name whispered, and that damn sitting right up in bed like the frigging Exorcist demon’s moved in with me. Then Sammy hiding his tears, and I hide I’m awake. No need for him to know I’ve already seen the tears before he’s even awake. Both of us are light sleepers, not sure if it by fear of something creeping up on us in the dark or training.
But the times he screams, and those painful deep breaths again, and he’s looking at me like he’s awaiting an interrogation… I just huff and make a point of turning around in bed. Give him time, and soon he quiets. But I doubt he ever falls asleep again. I knows that if Sam wants to talk about it, he will. Usually on a drive somewhere, and we can stop and yell at each other on a field somewhere. Get him to work it out of his system. When he’s ready. Old familiar patterns, sorrow’s nothing new.
This is how we grieve.
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