This is what happens when an obsessive fanfic reader looses internet, tv, and phone. They write.
Title: Opening Up
Author: Me
Fandom: Supernatural
Time Frame: Season 2. Just after "Everybody Loves a Clown". A little bit AU because it does not support the events of "Bloodlust".
Summary: How Sam gets Dean to open up about his feelings.
Sam Winchester had a special gift. He had the ability to do anything he set his mind to, and after he had seen the damage his older brother had inflicted on the Impala his mind was set. He was going to get Dean to talk about his feelings.
Like any other thing he did this was going to take time and effort. He had plenty of time and he had no problem putting effort into this project.
He started by writing down a list of ideas to make Dean open up about his feelings, and then he tried them one by one until one finally worked. In hindsight he should have started with the last one. It would have saved time.
The Master Plan, by S. Winchester
#1: Talk to him: tried Sat. October 7, 2006
“Dean, we need to talk.” I approached the topic of our father’s death and feelings again with Dean. This time I had planned out my “attack” strategy. We were in a deserted part of Bobby’s land, with no one was around to hear us and I wasn’t going to walk away this time.
“No we don’t.” Dean’s stance was rigid.
“I’m going crazy here. How are we supposed to fight off supernatural creatures if our internal demons are kicking our butts.”
“Fuck internal demons.”
“You can’t just ignore this, Dean.”
“I’m not ignoring this. I’m dealing with it!”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m fine, damnit!” This was “pissed Dean”. The scary person hidden inside my brother.
“Does lying to yourself enough times make it true?!”
“I’m not lying to myself!! I’m fine!” I watched as his face reddened and my hand patted my pants pocket, checking that my cell phone was still in there. I would need it to call for help if he kicked my ass right here and now. Then he relaxed slightly. “I’m leaving,” he announced, then turned and walked off towards Bobby’s. I stayed rooted to the spot. I know now, more than ever that he’s not fine. He’s very not fine. He’s a mess. And I’ve never had to deal with this before.
#2: Get him drunk: tried Wed. October 11, 2006
I stayed clear of him for a few days before attempting and achieving some basic communication. It was Monday when I achieved “pass the salt please” and didn’t get the salt chucked at my face.
I had heard the door close earlier today and known that he’d once again gone to the bar across the street from Bobby’s again. Now was as perfect a day as any to try my next idea.
I left about two hours after he had and made my way to the bar “Tom’s Saloon”. The bar was dimly lit, a must, I decided, for all bars, but it was not as rowdy as most of the bars I had visited with Dean. There was no pool table here, probably not enough room for one anyway. I spotted Dean sitting alone at a back table, near the men’s bathroom, and approached his table.
“Can I join you?”
He looked up at me. “Go ahead.”
I sat down and ordered another round of beers. The table had an assortment of beer bottles and shot glasses. Since his 21st birthday Dean has been frequenting bars all around the country to calm down after a hunt, or to waste some time, and he had no doubt had a few drinks with Dad before then. This plan, I thought, may have been even worse planned than my previous one to just talk to him. I’d never seen Dean with anything more than buzz, and certainly not full out drunk. Not even after a bad hunt. He’d helped me by drinking more than I ever would in one sitting, in the two hours between when he’d come here and when I had followed.
“How’s it going?”
“Fine.” One-word answers were getting farther away from a conversation and Dean opening up. At least last time he used sentences.
The waitress delivered our drinks and I thanked her for being so fast. Start small I reminded myself. I took a drink of my beer to calm my nerves.
“So, how are the repairs coming along?”
“Fine.” Oh dear. This was worse than I thought. Not only was he giving only one-word answers, he intended on using the same word to answer every question.
We made small talk, “we” meaning me asking him questions, and Dean answering with “fine”. When I asked questions that couldn’t logically be answered with “fine” he pulled two new words out of his vocabulary: “yea” and “no”.
That was how our night went until Dean finished the beer he was drinking and announced, “I’m going back to Bobby’s. You can stay here.” The longest thing he’d said to me since my attempted on Saturday.
“No, I’m ready to go too.” I checked my watch. It was well past midnight. I’d been here for about four hours and consumed four beers and two ginger ales in that time. Dean had been here for six hours and looking at the table I saw five beer bottles and six shot glasses, and the waitress had cleared the table at ten.
“You don’t have to come. I can make it back on my own.” Dean stood up steadily. He walked to the door, never once stumbling or weaving. I had seen Dean drunk. I’d just never realized it.
When I got drunk I remembered bits and pieces of my adventures the next day and the rest had to be filled in by people that had been with me. After hearing many stories about my karaoke “talents” and other embarrassing drinking habits I had decided to keep an eye on how much I drank. I guess I had assumed that at some point everybody got talkative when drinking. Not Dean though. He seemed to get quieter the more he drank. As his usual self, Dean made jokes, picked up girls left and right, and found humor in the most immature things. I’d never realized it when Dean was drunk because instead of completely losing control, like I did, he became quiet, broody, and troubled.
I followed him out of the bar and across the road. Even drunk he looked carefully down the road so he wouldn’t be hit by an incoming car. Ever the hunter.
I unlocked the door for us, though I’m sure Dean could’ve picked the lock if he’d needed to.
He headed to the guest room we stayed in while I took a necessary trip to the bathroom.
I walked into the guest room to see Dean lying in bed, wearing his customary tee-shirt and boxers nightwear, staring at the ceiling.
“What are you think about?” I queried, hoping this would be my chance at the conversation I’d been working for.
“Nothing worth sharing.” He rolled onto his stomach. “Night.” After a few minutes his breathing evened out. I’d failed again. Older siblings are so stubborn.
#3: Wait patiently for him to talk to me/break down/explode: tried Sun. October 15,2006 – Tue. December 12, 2006
A month and a half into “waiting patiently” I had an idea that corresponded with this “wait for him” tactic.
#3a: Read his diary: in progress
Every hunter I’d ever met carried a hunter’s journal. Dean and I had Dad’s for reference, but I’d seen Dean writing in a medium-sized black book. I had a small journal in my duffel that contained some pictures of Jess, so it made sense that Dean would write in his black book. All I had to do was read it when he wasn’t around. Sounds simple doesn’t it. Not so easy when I realized two days after thinking up my new plan that I had no idea where the book was located.
The Impala was finally fixed and looked better than new. For some reason I have a feeling the book is in there, not a “feeling”, just a normal feeling.
“Dean, I‘m going out for snacks. Do you want something?” Step 1: get car away from brother. I couldn’t search through it while it was parked right outside the window. He kept glancing away from the laptop to look at it through the window. It was actually starting to be a bit much.
“I’ll go with you.”
“No, I got it. Stay here, keep doing...whatever you’re doing.” I actually had no idea why he was spending so much time on the laptop.
“M&Ms.” He threw the keys and I caught them easily.
“Got it. I’ll be back soon.”
The trip to the gas station down the street didn’t take long. I bought a couple packs of peanut M&Ms and some soda for Dean, and a few random things for myself to munch on. I had come here under the premise of getting snacks, I had to make it convincing.
All the snack went onto the passenger seat and I started my search of the car. Front to back.
The space under the front seats was clear. Underneath the back seats was a mysterious, locked metal box. Worth investing, I picked the lock and flipped open the lid. Inside I found both of our birth certificates and a bunch of pictures, some of which I recognized as the ones we’d retrieved when we’d gone back to Lawrence. Buried underneath that was a medium-sized black book.
I opened the cover slowly, now that I had the book this felt more like prying than helping my brother. Instead of read the entries I flipped through them. Most of the early ones had pictures and notes about cases Dean had done, or we’d done together. As I flipped through more his handwriting started getting messier, as if he’d written when he was angry or mad. I shut the book before I got carried away. I didn’t need to know what he was writing about, as long as I knew that he wasn’t going to take his anger out on the car again, or another person. We were both dealing with Dad’s death, and everything else that we’d let build up for far too long, and it was enough to know that.
