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Dean is not a man given to indulging in soppiness. His history is riddled with times he didn’t talk about his feelings, shrugged of concern with constant assurances like “I’m fine” or “I’m dealing with it”. He aspired to be a rock, sure in his convictions and stable in and of himself. Invulnerable. There for others to lean on, not to burden others.
Which is why he felt the need to hide himself away when he finally made peace with his most recent idea. A goddamn scrapbook. An actual and literal book in which he was compiling photos, notes and other scraps that signified the improvements Sam had made. The rare good moments in a sea of crap.
He told himself he was doing it for Sam. Guy deserved something after all the hard work he’d put in. It was something for the keepsake box Sam didn’t think he knew about. Admitted to no one that seeing all this stuff made him feel better too. That it gave him hope too.
So far he’d only finished a few pages. He wasn’t working fast but taking his time. He wanted it as near perfect as it could be. This had to look great but more importantly it had to last. A monument, a testament. Proof his brother was alive, well and improving. Proof that Sam was still Sam.
He glanced over the page, smirking at the photo in the centre. It depicted Sam, standing in the doorway of his bedroom and grinning. His shirt is inside out and his pants are on back to front. His socks don’t match and he’s only wearing one shoe. The caption underneath reads “November 8th, Sam finally puts his own damn clothes on”
Dean remembers how stupidly proud his brother was, how he bit his tongue about his obvious mistakes and instead clapped him on the back, congratulating him. Sam wasn’t up to going out at that point but Dean would have let him out just the way he was. Just like he did when Sam was two and dressed himself for the very first time, in one of Dad’s t-shirts and Dean’s Spiderman pajama pants. He wishes he’d thought to take a photo then but contents himself with writing out the story next to the picture. He wants to add that November 8th was also the day that Sam fed himself but that feels condescending. Also there’s no funny picture.
He turns to the next page. Here he plans to put a printout of song lyrics. A death cab for cutie song, would you believe. He hated them but they were just the kind of bluesy emo crap kind of band Sam loved. This particular song wasn’t too bad, no angst lyrics about fire and puberty. It was called love song and Sam would sing it over and over to himself when he was tired or stressed. He’d gotten it stuck in Dean’s head many a time, which was just as well. He dates the page, a year and a half ago, a reminder of the time Sam had been about to lose it but Dean had sung this song softly in his ear and averted the melt down. The first time Sam had ever been able to come away from a trigger crisis free. Dean’s first victory.
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am home again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am whole again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am young again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am fun again
However far away
I will always love you
However long I stay
I will always love you
Whatever words I say
I will always love you
I will always love you
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am free again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am clean again
However far away
I will always love you
However long I stay
I will always love you
Whatever words I say
I will always love you
I will always love you
Yes it was a goopy girly love ballad and Dean had repeatedly told Sam he would never forgive him for making him basically profess his love in song, but what the hell. Sam liked it and if it meant that his baby brother could feel whole and clean and free again, Dean would belt out love ballads for the rest of time.
He makes a note there (Day when crappy music saved Sam) and turns over the page.
Another one he’s already finished. An entry copied out from his hunter’s journal.
January 10th, 2015
Today Sam called me a jerk. Specifically he said, and I quote, “stop being a jerk, Dean”. This has happened before and will (hopefully) happen again. So why am I writing about it? Because this is the first full, in English sentence Sam has constructed since the wall came down. It was clear, concise and in context. I was dicking around with his food, trying to provoke him into a bitch face and instead I got a whole damn sentence.
Sam, I don’t know of you will remember today but I think I always will. Especially your face. So smug with just a hint of pissed. Just like the Sammy of old. And then the way it fell when my eyes misted up, like you’d done something wrong. I wasn’t angry Sam. I was *** thrilled. I still am.
It’s times like these I remember your speech before you took the trials, about seeing a light at the end of the tunnel. I didn’t get it then. But I think I do now.
Dean.
Dean smiled, fingers splayed over the page. That was a good day. He framed the paragraphs with ruled lines and covered the page over in clear film so it wouldn’t tear or smudge.
He cast a glance over his pile of photos and notes, those still to be stuck in. There was a photo of an English bulldog, the first thing Sam properly belly laughed at when they’d seen one at the park (that and the whale of a time he’d had when they got stuck in a rainstorm). Sam posing with Elvira, the rape survivor from Kentucky who swore up and down that he’d saved her life. Photos of them at the beach, with the sun setting in the back ground and Cas looking disgruntled at all the sand (dean had warned him but he’d refused to remove his dress shoes and trench coat). Two pictures side by side of the frail Sam scooting forward at physiotherapy compared to the Sam of last week, sweating and smiling, just finished his morning run. Yep, Dean had a lot of work to do.