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The last few days of October shuffled by innocuously enough, but November came on with a vibrant urgency that had Dean in a chokehold, because against all odds, it snowed on November 1st. Ever since he’d come clean about his feelings for Cas, things had been peaceful, though not exactly comfortable, and he’d been cutting himself a little slack with his administrative work.
He and Cas had eaten breakfast and dinner together every day for the past week – which was notable not only for the implications in their relationship, but also because Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’s eaten both breakfast and dinner in the same day, let alone seven times in a row. He’d been sleeping better, too, and had slept over in Cas’s cabin three times. Somehow, just sleeping beside each other felt more intimate than anything sexual they’d ever done together. They hadn’t discussed it outright, but it was clear that Cas really wasn’t ready to sleep in Dean’s cabin any time soon, and Dean didn’t feel the need to press the issue. Things would go back to normal, or they wouldn’t, and it would take however much time it took.
And sure, Cas was still getting high most days, but Dean noticed how little he seemed to be drinking, how little he seemed to be using anything more potent that weed, and he chose to take that as improvement. As far as he knew, there hadn’t been any more casual sex, or orgies, or anything else like that either – though he had no idea if that had been Cas’s decision, or if people were afraid to approach him for those things, now that Dean was so obviously back in the picture. Again, he chose to take it as improvement, because Cas genuinely did seem happier. A little more present, a little more confident, a little more Cas.
All of this had almost been enough to make Dean feel like he himself was doing better, too. After all, he was eating and sleeping regularly, drinking less, worrying less. It was obvious that morale around camp was higher, that the mood when he entered a room didn’t sour like it had before. He was gaining back the kind of trust he’d started with – the hopeful kind, instead of the fearful kind. It felt good. He wanted to believe that was enough to mean that he felt good, because that’s how all of this was supposed to work, right? You find the problems in your life, you make adjustments as needed, and when the problems go away, you feel better. That’s how it’s supposed to work. Except, in his quiet moments, when he was alone with himself and his thoughts, he didn’t feel better.
He'd been able to ignore that lingering unease, mostly, until the first snow shattered his thin veneer of calm. Dean hadn’t slept over at Cas’s place that night, and part of him was glad, because he didn’t want Cas to know how wrecked, how delicate he was. But there was another part of him that wondered if it would have been comforting, to have Cas there with him as the panic kicked in. Selfish, he thought, even before he was done wanting that comfort, selfish, to wish he was here just for your benefit.
It had started like any other morning. He’d woken up in his own bed, thrown on his underwear, his pants, his shirts, his holster, his gun, his knife. He tugged on his socks, stepped into his boots, laced them tight. He’d stuffed his lockpicks in his interior jacket pocket. He thought about sticking his flask in there, too, and decided against it, which felt like progress.
And then, he’d stepped out onto the little porch of his cabin, and he stood stock-still. A crisp white layer of snow, probably an inch thick, covered everything, as far as the eye could see. It was still coming down, fat white clumps of snowflakes, congealing and packing on their way down to the earth. The sun was barely up yet, still hovering just over the horizon, shimmering behind a wall of translucent gray clouds. The only other people awake would be the scouts on watch, along with whoever was on mess duty this morning.
Sixty people are sleeping in tents, right now. The thought rattled around inside him like a bullet, ricocheting between his ribs. He came up with five things he could do, right now – that he had to do, right now, and then before he could decide on any of them to start with, he thought of five more, and ten more after that. Gather a snow-clearing crew, relocate spare bedrolls and cots to the unfinished barracks, conduct a medical sweep for possible environmental exposure, distribute reserve stock blankets and socks, roust up the work crew for the new barracks to stow the remaining materials somewhere out of the weather – maybe the garage? – or have them work double-time to get the insulation sealed, get the trucks cleaned and covered to stave off rust –
The list kept growing, and he couldn’t figure out what to do first. Everything was the most important thing. Making the wrong choice now could be a fatal mistake. Nothing’s gonna get done if you keep standing out here, freaking the fuck out, he chided himself. He turned on his heel and went back into his cabin, pulled out a notebook, and started organizing his thoughts into tidy little lists. Once he felt he’d thought of everything that needed done (over thirty tasks, all told), he started assigning individuals and crews to take on those tasks, and delegating the order of priority for each.
It only took him about 45 minutes to get it all down, but by the time he’d finished writing, his hands were shaking. The whole time he’d been working on this in the front of his mind, the backdrop to his thoughts was a constant, unrelenting chorus of criticism. You’ve been complacent, you knew this was coming sooner or later, you should have gotten another supply run in before this, there aren’t enough blankets and you knew that weeks ago, you should have had an emergency plan in place for an early snow or a late rainstorm, you’ve been slacking off with your boyfriend, you’ve been distracted, you’re going to let everyone down, you already have…
When he did finish his list of tasks and delegations, it took him a full minute to realize he was done writing, because he was so consumed by the vitriol of his thoughts. He stumbled up out of his chair, list in hand, and he headed out to set all these plans in motion.
By the time he got done meeting with and briefing everyone on their tasks, he’d spoken with almost every adult in camp, had been awake for four hours, and hadn’t eaten a single thing. He’d assigned himself to be with the construction crew, scrambling to install and seal the insulation. The work was hard, but it took up enough of his attention that his thoughts lost their critical edge. They finished the installation just as the sun was sliding down the sky again, and the crew helped move cots and bedrolls into the unfinished (but now insulated) space before they tapered off to the mess tent.
Dean went back to his cabin instead, and settled in at his desk with his copies of Chuck’s tally sheets, indicating changes to inventory that had occurred over the last 12 hours. He started reconciling the updates with the inventory records he kept, and then updated his ‘shopping lists’ for the next supply runs. It was well past ten o’clock by the time he finished, and his hands were shaking again, though this time it was more from exhaustion than stress (though Dean was plenty stressed). The mess tent was closed by now, so he didn’t bother trying to head over there for something to eat. Besides, his anxiety about supplies was ratcheted up so dramatically after hours of poring over account sheets that the idea of depleting resources further made him nauseous. Or maybe the nausea was more related to the fact that he hadn’t eaten – hadn’t had more than a few sips of water – all day.
Accounts safely stowed, gears in his brain already turning about what would need to be done first thing tomorrow, he got to his feet and changed into more comfortable clothes to sleep in. He was just about to crawl into bed when someone knocked on the door. He was too tired to be annoyed with whoever it was. Besides, he was the leader around here. If someone needed him for something, it was his job to be available. That was just part of the job.
He opened the door, expecting a scout, or maybe Chuck, or one of the tent wranglers from earlier. Instead, standing there in a big green puffy coat, was Dr. Hannah Ng, holding a little bundle of something in one hand, smiling a little nervously.
“I was worried you might be asleep already. Glad I caught you before that.”
“Doc, am I missing something?” Dean tried to school his expression into something less openly baffled, but he was just too tired to get it right. “Do you need me for something – I can get changed if you give me a minute or two – “ His mind was already racing with possible emergencies he would need to attend to, and he turned away without thinking about it, leaving her on the threshold while he gathered up his clothes from earlier to change back into.
“No, Dean, nothing like that, I’m sorry for the confusion. I meant to do this earlier in the day, but things were so hectic, and you were so busy, anyway.” Hannah entered the room and closed the door. She could tell that Dean was only half listening, still digging through his pile of laundry for some garment or other. She put a tentative hand on his arm to get his attention.
“Hmm?” He looked up at her, startled, though clearly trying to appear unphased by the surprising touch. “Oh. Uh, okay. Then, what can I do for you?” He asked, dropping the bits of clothing he’d gathered back into the pile.
“You remember what I said, that if you didn’t come talk to me in my office sometime this week, that I’d come to you and we’d talk about things here?” She took an easy step back, set her little bundle down on his desk, and shucked her heavy coat before sitting down in his desk chair.
“Hannah, look, you’re right, I shoulda…whatever. But now isn’t a good time to talk, okay? I’ve had the longest fucking day, and tomorrow’s gonna – “
“Tomorrow’s going to be just as long, and just as busy. And probably the whole rest of the week, the whole rest of the month, the whole rest of the winter, will be busy and hard. Dean, I know. This isn’t something you can just ignore until you have time to deal with it. You have to make time.”
“I just don’t have that luxury. There’s more important stuff – lots and lots of more important stuff – to take care of before I start looking at ink blots and crying about my mom or whatever. And right now, I need to grab a few hours of sleep so I can get up nice and early tomorrow to start back in on the important stuff.” He hissed out a sigh, stalking over to his bed and sitting down at the foot of it.
“And I get that. I think you should rest, definitely. But I think we should talk first – just for a little bit, just to check in.” Dean looked at her, willing her to leave him alone. She just stared back, sincere friendly concern apparent on her face. He slapped his thighs dramatically in a show of defeat and leaned back on his elbows.
“Sure, fine. Whatever, man. You have like, fifteen minutes to go all twenty questions on my ass, and then I’m going to bed, for real. Alright?”
“Great!” Hannah grinned, reaching for the bundle she brought. “I brought you a dinner roll and an apple, since I didn’t see you in the mess tent at all today.” She handed it to him, and he held the apple in one hand, the roll in the other, staring down at them in open desperation. He made no move to eat either one. Hannah plowed forward, trying to get the most out of her fifteen minutes. “So, I’ve seen you and Cas together a lot, how are things going between you two?”
“They’re, ah, good. We’re good. I feel like we got a lot of shit off our chests, so we’re just taking things slow, getting used to each other again.” He would rather be doing anything besides talking to her about this, but he wouldn’t lie to her.
“Good, I’m glad. But I imagine there’s a lot to get used to. Is there anything in particular that’s been really tough to work through?” He squeezed the dinner roll in his left hand and felt it give under the pressure of his fingers. He couldn’t tell if he imagined it or if he was really just that hungry, but it seemed like the roll released a little puff of bready yeasty scent into the air when he broke the crust with his thumb.
“He’s pretty hands off, that’s an adjustment. Used to be a clingy sonofabitch. Now he can’t really stomach more than touching arms, shoulders, that sort of thing. Hates having my hands on his wrists, or his face. I know it isn’t personal, but it’s still a shit feeling, watching him cringe away if I fuck up.” He looked up at the ceiling for something to do.
“That makes sense. Touch can be a really pleasant and reassuring part of any relationship, and you might not realize how important it is to you and your comfort levels until it stops being a regular occurrence. Have you considered coming up with other ways that you and Cas could be intimate or express support, besides touch?”
“No, we haven’t talked much about it, outside of Cas telling me what works and what doesn’t.” The apple was warming up in his grip, and he dragged his thumbnail over the speckly green skin. Someone else should have this, he thought, I should save this until tomorrow and sneak it back into inventory.
“That might be a good place to start – if you’d like, I can offer some suggestions on how to bring it up, and possible alternatives to – “ Hannah cut herself off when she noticed Dean staring intently at the apple in his hand. “Dean, hey, are you good?”
“Hmm? Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” He flashed a quick flat smile. “You were talking about alternatives to, uh, to touching?” He prompted. She didn’t take the bait.
“You can go ahead and eat, I don’t mind talking while you do. You don’t have to wait until we’re done or anything,” she offered. He nodded, still making no move to eat either item.
“Yeah, sure. Thanks.” He looked at her patiently, expectant. Waiting for her to continue talking about Cas, about touch, about relationships.
“I know you haven’t eaten today. You should eat, before you go to bed.” She had her doctor voice on, and the difference was palpable.
“I’m, uh, not really hungry right now. But I’ll try to eat before I go to bed. Alright?” He felt that sick-hot nausea flush creeping up his neck. She glared at him, narrowing her eyes to slits.
“I don’t believe you,” she said, cool as ice. “I don’t think you’re going to eat anything tonight, if you can help it. Am I right?”
“Phhh, come on, Doc,” Dean huffed dramatically. “You don’t gotta worry about me, ‘course I’ll eat something before I go to bed.”
“Why not start now, then? You said you were going to go to sleep as soon as I left. So why not start eating now? You’ll just delay your sleep further, waiting for me to go.”
“Told you, I’m not hungry.”
“So which is it, are you waiting to eat like, five minutes from now, or are you so completely not hungry that you can’t imagine taking a bite of an apple?” Hannah had him cornered, and she knew it.
“I don’t know,” he lied, looking down at the food in his hands, willing himself to just take a bite, just to get her off his case. You can just spit it up once she’s gone. Take a bite of the roll, since you won’t be able to sneak it back into inventory anyway. Just take a fucking bite! He stared at the roll for long enough that Hannah seemed to understand some new dimension of the situation, and she softened her tone the next time she spoke.
“Dean, you’re hungry, aren’t you?” She murmured.
“I…yeah, I am,” he confessed.
“But you can’t make yourself eat, can you?”
“It’s not…I could eat, if I wanted.” He felt very defensive, all of a sudden, but there was no bite to his words.
“…But you don’t want to eat?”
“No, I do…I just. It’s nothing, man. It’ll pass. I’ll make sure to go to breakfast, tomorrow.” He didn’t know why it felt so important, that he not eat this apple, that he not eat this roll, but it just did. Breakfast, that was attainable. He could live with that.
“So you’re hungry, and you want to eat. Then, eat.” She gestured at the roll in his hand, now smooshed into his palm by his clenched fingers. He brought it up to his lips and just…stopped. Breathed in the smell of it. Opened his mouth, closed it again. He let his hand drift back to his side, still clutching the mangled little bit of bread.
“I just can’t, Hannah.” He looked at her in open defeat. “Not right now, not today.”
“Is it the stress?”
“Kinda, sure.”
“Does this happen a lot?”
“Does what happen?”
“This…aversion. This inability to eat, even when you want to.”
“It’s kinda…kinda always happening, in the background. Sometimes it isn’t a big deal, easy to ignore. Sometimes, sometimes…not so much.” He chuckled, embarrassed, too tired to fight the feeling. “Today was such a fucking shit show, and we’re so unprepared for winter, and there was just so much that needed done, that needs done still, and hell, it isn’t like I can keep the snow from falling, y’know?” He gestured as he spoke, waving the apple around to emphasize various points.
“So it’s about scarcity, then? Or control? Or is it that you don’t think you deserve to eat, when you think you’ve done something wrong?”
“Well, come on, Doc, I mean. There’s folks that need this stuff more than I do. And nobody knows better than me how tight we are on food right now.” She nodded, but didn’t fill the silence after his words. He reluctantly continued. “And yeah, it feels good, sometimes, to have the reins on something, even something small. And it isn’t that I’m like, flogging myself or something. I just…when I’m in the middle of a mess, I don’t eat until I’ve cleaned up the mess. I don’t sleep or play cards or whatever else either. I get my work done, I get things back how they’re supposed to be, and then I worry about my personal shit, once everything else is taken care of,” he finished stronger, feeling more confident in the points he’d made. They were logical – admirable, even. A good leader puts other people first – that’s all this was, just ‘troops before the general’, nothing weird. Hannah licked her lips absently, face scrunched up in thought.
“Dean, that isn’t…this isn’t sustainable. People are counting on you. You can’t just go days at a time without eating, running yourself ragged on construction and scouting and whatever else. Look, I know it isn’t that easy, because it sounds like this goes pretty deep. The kind of help you need, it isn’t exactly available in the apocalypse. But we need to get this under control.”
“What kind of help do I need, Hannah?” That nausea was back, hot and achy, slithering up the nape of his neck, skating up to his temples.
“What you really need is a therapist who works with eating disorders. But I’m kind of the best you’ve got right now. So, let’s just – “
“You know what, I think it’s been at least fifteen minutes. Why don’t you let me get some sleep? I think I’ve been pretty damn patient with all this. But I’m just. I’m done, right now. Okay?” He interrupted, getting to his feet in a huff and dropping the apple on the bed. He opened the door and motioned for her to exit.
“If you would just listen for a minute – “
“I’ve been listening. You came to talk about me ‘n Cas. We did that. You wanted to talk about eating and stuff, we did that too. I’m done now. Goodnight, Hannah.” He kept his tone smooth and unhurried, but his words were clipped. He was at the end of his rope, and she knew it.
“Alright, Dean. But this isn’t going to be the end of it. If you don’t come talk to me again this week, I’m going to be back on your doorstep, just like I was tonight.”
“Sounds like a plan,” he grunted, swinging the door shut behind her as she left. Back over at his bed, he picked up the apple and brought it over to his desk. He looked at the roll, squished into an unappetizing ball in his hand. No one will want to eat this now. You ruined it, wasted it.
He brought it up to his mouth, reasoning that since no one else would want it now, he may as well not let it go to waste. He choked it down in two dry bites, not bothering to chase it with any water. If anything, the twisting emptiness of his stomach only became sharper after he ate the roll, and he tossed and turned for almost an hour before he finally got to sleep.