Sam didn't sleep. After an hour or two of tossing and turning he just gave up, lying still on the bed and staring at the woodgrain pattern on the wall.
A few hours in, just when he was drifting, he heard Dean shift on the other bed and pick his phone from the table between them. It was easy to recognize the series of keys denoting their fathers' autodial, and easier to count the moments it took to ring and ring and cut to voicemail.
Their father's voice was soft and distant, filtering out of the phone speaker. Dean's, when he spoke, was rougher, shaking. "Hey, Dad, it's me. I--"
He stopped. Sam closed his eyes, wondering what he could possibly plan on saying.
Dean apparently didn't know, either. He ground his teeth, moving on the bed and dropping his voice. "Look, I screwed up. Pretty bad this time. Missed something pretty important, and--" He paused. Exhaled. "--Sam got hurt. He's still not telling me most of it. I just, if you get this--" Pause. Shift. "God, I don't even know where to begin. But, your journal. That memory-eater thing. We killed it, but it got us both." Pause. Shift. Exhale. Sam was sure he heard him steady his breath; when he spoke again, his voice was rougher. "Look, Dad, if you get this, call me. Okay? Please."
He hesitated before he hung up, and even then it was another minute before he replaced the phone on the table.
Sam kept quiet. Kept still. It was easy enough to play dead, and Dean wouldn't want to know he was awake, anyway.
It was one of the rules of the job: sometimes, you didn't get rescued. Sometimes, rescues came too late. What their father--theirs, not Dean's, not someone nice and safe and removed--was going to do about any of this, Sam didn't know.
Maybe it was for external validation. Tell us what to believe.
Dean rolled over. Sam could nearly feel him staring at the back of his neck. He wanted to say that everything was fine, would be fine, had been fine, wanted to wrap it all up in that nice, safe denial. Nothing could change now, so why not just push it all away? His throat closed up.
"Sam?"
He closed his eyes tighter. Played dead. Nothing to say, no way to say it.
Dean exhaled. "Yeah," he muttered, rolling over again. "Me too."
Moments passed.
"I'm sorry."
Sam didn't make a sound. Dean grabbed the covers on his own bed, digging in. Trying to last the night.
Re: This may be the roughest thing I've written in three months. ...actually, it felt good.
Sam didn't sleep. After an hour or two of tossing and turning he just gave up, lying still on the bed and staring at the woodgrain pattern on the wall.
A few hours in, just when he was drifting, he heard Dean shift on the other bed and pick his phone from the table between them. It was easy to recognize the series of keys denoting their fathers' autodial, and easier to count the moments it took to ring and ring and cut to voicemail.
Their father's voice was soft and distant, filtering out of the phone speaker. Dean's, when he spoke, was rougher, shaking. "Hey, Dad, it's me. I--"
He stopped. Sam closed his eyes, wondering what he could possibly plan on saying.
Dean apparently didn't know, either. He ground his teeth, moving on the bed and dropping his voice. "Look, I screwed up. Pretty bad this time. Missed something pretty important, and--" He paused. Exhaled. "--Sam got hurt. He's still not telling me most of it. I just, if you get this--" Pause. Shift. "God, I don't even know where to begin. But, your journal. That memory-eater thing. We killed it, but it got us both." Pause. Shift. Exhale. Sam was sure he heard him steady his breath; when he spoke again, his voice was rougher. "Look, Dad, if you get this, call me. Okay? Please."
He hesitated before he hung up, and even then it was another minute before he replaced the phone on the table.
Sam kept quiet. Kept still. It was easy enough to play dead, and Dean wouldn't want to know he was awake, anyway.
It was one of the rules of the job: sometimes, you didn't get rescued. Sometimes, rescues came too late. What their father--theirs, not Dean's, not someone nice and safe and removed--was going to do about any of this, Sam didn't know.
Maybe it was for external validation. Tell us what to believe.
Dean rolled over. Sam could nearly feel him staring at the back of his neck. He wanted to say that everything was fine, would be fine, had been fine, wanted to wrap it all up in that nice, safe denial. Nothing could change now, so why not just push it all away? His throat closed up.
"Sam?"
He closed his eyes tighter. Played dead. Nothing to say, no way to say it.
Dean exhaled. "Yeah," he muttered, rolling over again. "Me too."
Moments passed.
"I'm sorry."
Sam didn't make a sound. Dean grabbed the covers on his own bed, digging in. Trying to last the night.