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The park was quiet—still. Bright, pale sunlight flooded the world beneath a brilliant blue sky, touched with lazy, white clouds. A few birds chirped absently, as though admiring the languid summer day. The clear water barely rippled to lap against the rocky shoreline in the occasional puff of wind. It was on the hotter side of warm, but that was good. That was probably ideal, Dean thought, and one of the only reasons they were here.
Dean sat on a weathered, wooden park bench in the shade of a large oak. He held a book in his lap, but his gaze was fixed on the motionless figure at the riverside.
The man sat cross-legged, his arms draped limply over his legs. His shoulders curled inward, somehow making the tall, imposing man seem small, weak. With his head bowed, he stared into the water, several feet from its edge, but Dean didn't know if the man actually saw anything before him.
Sam… or what was left of him.
He hadn't moved an inch since Dean had settled him on the grass, in a warm patch of golden sunlight. Hours ago. Surely his muscles must have grown stiff, but he remained hunched-over, as though trying to consume as little space as possible—trying to attract as little attention as he could manage.
Dean had brought Sam here, at least in part, in the hopes that maybe the tranquility could bring him some peace. But he didn't know if that was even possible for Sam anymore.
Dean cast another careful glance around the park. He'd chosen the far edge—still within sight of the long, well-tread pathway, though—and so far, the place had seemed mostly empty. Probably too hot for most to devote a day to the park, especially in the middle of the week. In the past couple hours, a jogger and a few elderly couples had strolled the path alone, but none did more than cast a curious or judgmental glance toward the unmoving giant curled over beside the river. Though Dean wanted to pummel the condescension out from their faces, he merely watched each of them pass, relaxing only when they were long out of view. They couldn't know what Sam had suffered, what he had sacrificed.
Assured it was clear, Dean returned his gaze to the book in his hands. Beneath the Surface: Understanding and Supporting Loved Ones with PTSD. Not for the first time, he felt like an idiot for even touching the book, much less reading it. He'd bought it on impulse, while sleep deprived—though that seemed to be a default, now—after spotting it on a rack of self-help books at a gas station. He almost tossed it as soon as they reached the motel, but… he was desperate. He didn't know what to do, how to help this broken shell of his brother. He didn't even know if what was happening with Sam could be classified as PTSD. And there wasn't a book out there on how to help a soul literally flayed by Hell, nor one ravaged by the Devil himself. But if there was a chance that this stupid, ignorant book could help… Dean would try anything.
A gentle breeze danced through the leaves above, and Dean glanced up as it ruffled Sam's unkempt hair. It was almost as though nature was welcoming him back to the world after so many years locked away in Hell. Or maybe it was even thanking him for sparing its destruction and bearing the Devil's wrath on its behalf.
If Sam noticed, he didn't react.
A raft of ducks paddled along the river, a few pausing to stare at the human waiting on the riverside. Probably curious if he had bread to toss into the water for an effortless lunch. When it became apparent that he had none, or at least that he wouldn't share, they swam along, quacking their discontent. Dean wondered if he should bring a few slices of bread, next time. If Sam would care at all.
His eyes drifted back to the book.
In this journey of healing, it is important not to expect or pressure your loved one to return to the person they were before. Whether for better or for worse: they simply may never be the same again. While it may be painful to accept, you should monitor your expectations to ensure you are not accidentally pressuring your loved ones to be someone they're not. The goal is not to "fix" your loved one, but to support them on their journey.
But remember: even though they may still be here, it's okay for you to grieve what you've lost. It's important to take care of your own mental health too.
His hand wrinkled the pages as it tightened into a fist. He flipped ahead.
Allow your loved one to set their own pace on the path to recovery. Every journey is unique to each individual. Don't pressure them to talk about their experiences. Be patient and willing to wait for your loved one to share at their own speed.
Dean wanted to hurl the book into the river. He wanted answers, not ideology. He wanted steps, action, something he could do to help. Not commentary on reframing his perspective and arbitrary suggestions to just wait.
Dean wanted to chuck the book, and at one point, he probably would have. But instead, he merely forced a deep inhale, spared a glance toward Sam, and turned the page.
Maybe another hour passed, the passage of time marked only by the sun's shifting position and Dean's gradual progress through the book.
A flicker of movement caught Dean's attention, and he froze.
A tiny, yellow bird perched on Sam's shoulder. It hopped along his back, curious about the strange, living statue that had ended up on the riverside. Tilting its head, it parted its beak and sang a light, cheerful trill.
Dean set the book aside, ready to leap into motion. Sam often reacted poorly to being touched spontaneously, sometimes in panicked flight to escape, sometimes in a breakdown of profuse pleading in Enochian, sometimes in violent retaliation.
But maybe the tiny bird was too light, its weight too insignificant, because Sam still didn't react in the slightest, even as it fluttered onto his head, curiously inspecting his hair.
Dean squinted at the bird. It looked like a pet store finch—he highly doubted the bright creature was native to the area. It was probably someone's pet who had escaped. He couldn't help but think the yellow bird wouldn't survive long out of captivity. It had probably spent its whole life trapped inside iron bars—whatever instincts it might have had at birth were numbed and overridden with the constant availability of food and the complete safety from predators. It didn't understand that the rules were different, now. The poor creature had spent too long inside its cage, and now it didn't know how to fend for itself—it couldn't survive alone.
The finch puffed out its feathers, then began preening in the warm sunlight. Still, Sam didn't move.
Dean wondered if he should try to do something—to catch the bird, somehow, so Sam's overly-trusting avian visitor might have a chance. Then, before he could resolve the thought into action, the finch flapped its wings and disappeared into the tree overhead.
He breathed a sigh—not that he really knew how he planned on catching the tiny bird, nor what to do even if he managed to shelter it in his palms—then his breath caught again. Sam stared upward, into the tree. As his brother's back was toward him, Dean couldn't tell whether Sam's face had shifted from rigid passivity, but he found himself wanting to pretend Sam managed a small smile. He'd even settle for annoyance at the bird for cleaning itself on his head and leaving tiny flecks of debris in his hair.
Not a minute later, Sam's gaze drifted back to its original, fixed position. Dean's lips curled in a sad smile, and he leaned back against the bench, cracking open the book once more. Even if it hadn't lasted, that small glance sparked hope in Dean's chest. Sam's connection to the world, though fractured, wasn't completely gone.
Eventually, the soothing warmth, the softest breeze, the utter stillness, and Dean's overwhelming exhaustion became too much.
He hadn't slept much lately; he couldn't leave Sam alone for even a few minutes. Recently, Dean generally tried putting Sam to sleep with some drowsiness-inducing medications, then when those were inconsistent, with some sedatives he'd stolen from a hospital. It was the best way he'd found to snag a few hours of sleep himself. But even then, Sam sometimes woke too early, and though Dean was a light sleeper—and always in the same room—on numerous occasions, Sam had managed to silently reach a knife. Luckily, the damage was never outside Castiel's capacity to heal, though twice it had been more of a question than Dean would've liked. Dean, of course, started removing all knifes and weapons from Sam's proximity, but his brother had gotten… creative.
Dean found himself blinking groggily, inhaling as he sat up and grasped at his surroundings. The golden glow of the sky and long shadows across the ground signaled that hours had passed. He'd fallen asleep; he cursed himself for his carelessness.
Immediately, Dean's gaze snapped back toward the river.
Sam was still there—rooted in place. Relief flooded his mind. But Dean squinted, blinking. Sitting beside Sam was a little girl, babbling happily.
Concern immediately tightened his chest. He didn't know how long she'd been there—how had he allowed himself to drift off? He fit the book into his back pocket and carefully rose to his feet.
Sam was as unresponsive as stone, but the girl seemed unbothered, talking nonsensically about some… turtle, maybe? Dean couldn't be sure. He advanced toward the two slowly, brushing his feet in the grass softly to ensure both could hear his approach.
He didn't want to startle Sam, and he didn't want to scare the kid into doing the same. Even though his brother was motionless now, he could turn in a fraction of a second. If something set him off, he might try to strangle the life from anyone he thought was Lucifer. Or maybe the violence was an attempt to kill at Lucifer's direction. Or maybe there wasn't a purpose behind it at all. Dean could only speculate. He just found himself grateful for once that Sam had become so weak, allowing Dean to quickly overpower his sometimes-homicidal brother. After all, he was the usual target of his brother's occasional, blind murderous intent.
The girl glanced back toward Dean, her cherubic face alight as she waved in his direction. He waved back, keeping his focus on Sam even as he settled down beside his brother. Not touching, but close enough that he could wrap Sam into a tight lock before he could move more than a few inches.
"Hello," the girl—who was probably only three or four years old—over-enunciated the word, smiling at Dean.
"Hi," he replied, scanning over Sam for any hint of what might be going on inside his brother's skull. His face, as always, revealed nothing. His glazed eyes didn't twitch in the slightest, staring resolutely into empty air. If not for the faint expansion of his chest and ever-so-infrequent blink, he might have been dead.
"My name's Amanda." The girl offered matter-of-factly.
"I'm Dean." He gestured to Sam, "This is my brother Sam."
She looked at the younger Winchester, "Hi, Sam."
Dean found himself pausing, almost daring to hope. But when, predictably, Sam didn't respond, Dean supplemented, "He doesn't talk much."
She frowned, then asked abruptly in a squeaky voice, "Is he awive?"
Dean snorted softly, "Yes, he's alive." He glanced around the park, but no one else was in sight. "Where're your parents, Amanda?"
She shrugged, then pointed wildly in a direction, "Over there I think." Not waiting for a follow-up, she smiled and looked up toward Dean, "I'm gonna have a bwother too."
"Really?"
"Uh-huh. But Mommy says he'll be a baby."
Dean's brow creased in amusement, but he still searched the area for any sign of the girl's mother. "Your mommy's probably wondering where you went, don't you think?"
"I don't know." Amanda giggled, as though it was absurd Dean would expect her to know the answer. She looked Sam up and down, "Are you a mime?"
Dean couldn't help a short laugh. A few years ago, his answer would have been an immediate "yes"—anything that would mess with his little brother was practically obligatory. He glanced over Sam, and he stared when he noticed his brother's hands absently tearing blades of grass, though his face remained impassive. Distracted, Dean replied, "No… no, he's not a mime."
Her lower lip protruded, then she remarked, "I like clowns."
He hazarded a glance away from Sam's subtle fidgeting at that, "Really?"
"Mmh-hm." She nodded, "They're weally silly."
Dean watched Sam pluck the grass absently, wondering what had triggered the restlessness and whether it was good or bad. Frankly, it was change, and he wanted to see where it led. Perhaps hoping for a further reaction, he remarked pointedly, "Sam doesn't like clowns."
Her face contorted in a frown, "Why not?"
"I think he's scared of them," he whispered, though plenty loud enough that both could hear. Sam still just ripped at the grass.
"It's okay," Amanda assured, resting a hand on Sam's knee before Dean could intervene. Sam's eyes flicked to the touch instantly, and his fingers stilled. Dean tensed just as fast, shifting to respond if Sam reacted suddenly. Amanda didn't seem to notice, staring at him sincerely, "You don't have to be scawed. They're nice, I pwomise."
Finally, she lifted her hand, "You're weally quiet, you know."
Sam still stared at the spot where her hand had been on his jeans, as though it had left an invisible mark.
"Mommy says I talk a lot," Amanda noted.
Eventually, Sam's gaze shifted back toward the grass, and his fingers resumed toying with the broken blades. Dean allowed himself to release a breath and spare a glance toward Amanda.
"I'll bet."
She shrugged—a motion that was really more of an awkward flail of her arms. She considered Sam again, "I hope my bwother's not that quiet."
Dean smiled, muttering, "Give it a few months, and I'm sure your mother will wish he was."
"No," she disagreed confidently without explanation. Apparently just noticing the motion, she watched Sam's hands attentively, her face bunched in concentration.
Dean shook his head. The kid was a cute distraction, but she needed to return to her parents. The last thing he needed was for someone to leap to conclusions upon spotting the two of them with a missing girl. And as fascinating as Sam's change in behavior was, both Sam and the girl would be safer apart. He'd never want to hurt her, Dean knew, but that hadn't stopped him from trying to choke Dean in his sleep. "What does you mom look like, Amanda?"
"She has bwonde hair this long," she held her hand against her back. "And she's fat, but don't say that because she doesn't like it."
"Okay," he chuckled, "What do you say we go find your mommy now, huh?" Dean bent his neck to try to enter Sam's line of sight, "You up for that, Sam?"
Sam, of course, said nothing. But his fingers quickened—he had a layer of grass in his hands. He was weaving something, Dean realized.
"Alwight," Amanda acquiesced, clumsily climbing to her feet. Standing, she was almost level with Sam's eyes.
Dean hesitated, rising gradually as he watched Sam's fingers finally slow, until he surveyed his small creation—a mostly flat, mostly circle… thing, with a few blades of grass sticking out along the edge. Dean had no idea what it was supposed to be, if anything, but his heart warmed, nonetheless.
Sam head turned toward Amanda, and though he couldn't quite meet her gaze, he extended the grass weaving gently. She grasped it, her bright eyes widening in wonder. A smile broke across her pudgy face as she claimed Sam's gift, clutching it against her chest with a small squeal.
Sam murmured something unintelligible—Enochian, Dean knew. The only language Sam seemed able or willing to use, on those rare occasions he spoke. Dean had learned a few words since Sam's soul's return, but this wasn't one of them.
Then, with Dean's attention fixed on his brother, she wrapped her arms around Sam's neck.
Sam flinched—not that the girl noticed or cared. But Dean recognized the emotion that flickered across his face. Fear. His brother squeezed his eyes shut and fists tight, as though fighting against his instinctual response. Given the visible tremble that raced through his muscles, Dean didn't want to test Sam's will for a moment longer.
"Hey, Amanda," Dean held out a hand, trying to balance the urgency of his tone with a friendly beckoning. "Let's go."
Happily, she released Sam's neck and hastened to Dean's side, holding the grassy creation in one fist and taking Dean's proffered hand in the other.
Sam managed a heavy breath, still shaking somewhat, but Dean recognized the motions—he was calming down. Good.
Dean waited a few more seconds before calling almost the same beckon to Sam that he had offered Amanda, except in one of the few Enochian words he did know, "Niis." He knew his pronunciation was probably off—Cas was never completely satisfied with his replication—but it seemed close enough, as Sam slowly unfolded his legs and started to stand. Enochian commands were generally reliable. Unless Sam was lost in an episode, he usually obeyed without hesitation or question. Dean didn't want to contemplate why Sam's response was so automatic… frankly, it was disconcerting. But he couldn't afford to question it—not when nothing else seemed to get Sam to listen. When he wouldn't eat or drink or sit or stop hurting himself without being told to.
He was just about as clumsy as Amanda, if not more so, in finding his feet. Of course, it occurred to Dean that Sam had been sitting cross-legged, unmoving, for most of the day. At that realization, he released Amanda's hand and moved to steady his brother before he collapsed. Sam's face twitched at the contact.
"Hey, it's just me," Dean murmured, hoping that, whether or not Sam could understand, he might at least recognize the sound of his brother's voice. Sam notably monitored Dean's hands on his shoulders but made no other protest. Dean found himself silently thanking the heavens that Sam didn't startle and sprint away, or worse. He was holding it together remarkably. Without prompt, he tried a few steps of his own, stumbling, but managing to stay upright. Maybe in an attempt to escape Dean's touch, but the older Winchester decided to believe that Sam was just testing his stability. Then he nodded—a surprised Dean took it as a signal to release him, and he did so.
After watching to ensure Sam wasn't about to fall, Dean took Amanda's hand, so she couldn't disappear again, like she probably had on her mother.
"Which way did you say your mother was? That way?" Dean pointed down the path, splitting his attention between his unsteady brother and Amanda.
"I think so," she agreed, and Dean began in that direction. Yet, when Sam started the other way, he paused.
"Sam," Dean called, hoping his brother wasn't about to spiral into visions of Hell. Not when he'd just shown so much awareness, so much progress. "This way."
"Niis," Sam replied, his tone touched with irritation.
The emotion, the targeted command, the choice of a word he knew Dean would understand—it was the clearest Sam had communicated in days. Maybe weeks, even. Even if it was just one word.
Dean tried not to allow himself to fall into hope—not when he knew intimately just how quickly everything could fall apart. But he found his eyes wet anyway; he blamed the almost-tears on exhaustion, yet he couldn't deny the heavy emotion in his chest. The utter relief and hope that bloomed from the familiar, but long-lost sound of Sam's annoyance. He never thought he would have missed arguing with his brother—but there was little he wouldn't give to hear Sam call him out on an inconsistency or irrationality, to yell at him for his occasional recklessness and self-disregard. For leaving his socks scattered on the motel floor. For anything at all.
It was enough of a change that Dean was willing to test it, if not trust it. He tugged Amanda's hand gently and moved to follow his brother, though part of him wanted to continue in the other direction, just to see if Sam's irritation would rise.
Sam led the trio slowly, his legs gradually remembering how to function now that blood was flowing uninterrupted through his veins. Given Amanda's small gait, Dean was grateful for Sam's slower pace. But soon, Sam strayed deliberately from the paved path, cutting into the forest that bordered the park.
Dean frowned but didn't object. He glanced down to Amanda, who swung their linked hands happily as she walked alongside him. He couldn't help but envy her carefree joy.
"Amanda!"
Dean's brow rose, and he glanced at Sam curiously. Sam seemed to adjust his course slightly to angle for the call, demonstrating he both heard and understood its meaning. But he hadn't been far off track regardless. Maybe he had seen which way Amanda had come from. Maybe he had heard someone calling for her earlier in this direction.
Maybe… maybe Dean's brother was still in there, somewhere. Maybe he wasn't forever lost to the clutches of Hell. Maybe there was reason to hope, after all.
Soon, the trees thinned, and a playground came into view—a colorful oasis of swings and slides. Only a few children raced about the small arrangement, but their laughter carried well into the trees. In stark contrast, however, a pregnant woman sat sobbing on a park bench, with another woman at her side, rubbing her shoulder.
"Amanda!" The same voice called out, further in the forest, and soon, another sounded on their other side.
"That's Mommy," Amanda pointed at the crying woman as they neared.
"Well, go on then. I think she's worried about you." Dean encouraged, releasing her hand.
"Okay," she agreed, then held out her arms as though requesting a hug. With a soft smile, he knelt and obliged.
"Take care of your brother, okay?" He pulled back from the hug, meeting her gaze.
"I will," she bobbed her head vigorously, "You too."
His lips thinned as he nodded in promise.
Amanda picked her way toward Sam, then wrapped her arms around Sam's shin, still gripping the grassy creation in her hand. Sam watched her, and Dean thought he might have seen his brother's lips curl slightly.
Then, she bolted toward the playground, beelining for the woman on the park bench. Upon spotting her, her mother immediately swept Amanda up into a hug, weeping over her shoulder in a laughing cry of relief.
Sam's gaze was fixed distantly toward the reunion, but Dean couldn't tell if Sam was able to register what he saw, or if he was already slipping back into the recesses of his broken mind.
"You did good, Sammy." Dean praised, but Sam didn't react. "We got that little girl back to her family."
Nothing.
Frustration and futility tore against Dean's brief moment of solace. He sighed, beckoning Sam with a tilt of his head and another quiet "Niis."
Sam obliged impassively, following as Dean tried to distance them from the playground, in case anyone had questions or even wanted to thank them for returning the little girl safely. Sam didn't need the attention—it was safer for everyone if they stayed out of sight.
They eventually returned to the paved pathway, but Dean didn't turn back toward the small corner they'd staked out for the day. Instead, he followed it back toward the street, where the Impala waited resolutely.
He held open the passenger door, ensuring Sam folded himself inside before closing the door firmly and navigating to the driver's side. He closed his door and sighed, glancing over his brother.
"You doing alright there, Sammy?" Dean asked, not really expecting a response. When he received none, he pulled out the book from his back pocket and tossed it into the backseat, then keyed the ignition. He could use a beer—and now that he thought about it, Sam could probably use a drink too, after sitting in the sun all day. Of course, Sam would pass out from dehydration before notifying Dean.
The radio blared to life while the elder Winchester twisted over his shoulder to check for oncoming traffic, engulfing the car in an upbeat rhythm. Dean smiled at the familiar song, but as he pulled onto the road, the music cut out.
Before he could curse his luck and the poor reception, he frowned, realizing the radio wasn't crackling with a bad signal, but was turned off entirely. His gaze shot to Sam, who scowled at the controls.
"C'mon dude, Asia," Dean prodded, somewhat disbelieving that Sam had actually turned it off.
The flick of Sam's eyes toward Dean, though, seemed to confirm it.
"Alright, no Asia," he acquiesced, raising a hand in surrender. Glancing over Sam, whose gaze still seemed readily fixed on Dean, he reached for the glove compartment, careful not to brush against Sam's legs. "Here, why don't you pick?"
Sam's eyes slid gradually down to the open glove compartment, but he didn't make a move to filter through the cassette tapes stashed inside. After a minute, he closed it instead, his attention turning back to watch Dean.
Dean couldn't deny it was disconcerting, but he wasn't about to comment—not when Sam had actually interacted. It could be far, far worse than silent observation.
"Esiasch," Sam murmured, his voice stressing the word. Brother.
Dean glanced over, immediately pulling off the street. The car bounced roughly to a stop along the side of the road, and he shifted it to park before turning to face Sam.
Sam's eyes, while not clear and focused, weren't glazed and distant either. They flicked about, quickly, landing on Dean only for a few seconds at a time. Dean scanned over him, concerned, with his breath was caught in his throat.
Sam touched his fingers to his chest, as though trying to sign something, before he spoke again. "Sue-reh."
Dean shook his head, trying to keep his voice gentle and patient, "I don't know that one, Sammy."
Sam's hands curled into fists, and he wrung his head. His eyes searched Dean madly, face twisting with the thought he couldn't figure out how to voice. Abruptly, he pounded a fist against his own knee—and hard.
"Hey, hey, hey, it's okay," Dean held out his hands pacifyingly. "We can get Cas if you want." Sam's self-frustration tended to lead only in one direction.
Sam shook his head again, then gripped it with his hands.
The sight tore at him. At least a part of his brother was still there, trapped beneath the heavy shadows of the Cage that refused to surrender their hold on him. He was fighting so hard, struggling desperately to communicate, but his body and mind just wouldn't cooperate.
Tugging at his hair, Sam closed his eyes and tried again, carefully enunciating each syllable, "Soh-reh."
Dean started to sadly shake his head again and offer an apology, when he realized the word wasn't Enochian at all. The recognition was like a spear in his chest. "Why? Sam… you don't have to be sorry."
Sam frowned, then gestured to himself, back towards the park, toward the book in the backseat, toward Dean, and back to himself.
Dean tried to measure his voice, in the hopes that Sam would match his slower pace and ease his wild movements, "Look, the book was stupid. I'll get rid of it—"
Sam slapped the top of the bench seat to interrupt him, shaking his head again as though to highlight that Dean still didn't understand the point. His gaze focused on Dean, and he seemed to concentrate, but when he spoke, all that came out was a string of indecipherable Enochian. Sam clearly knew it before Dean could even signal his lack of comprehension—he smacked the heel of his hand against his temple violently, as though trying to jar the answers loose.
"Sammy, you've got to calm down," Dean ordered, scrambling for the word and hoping Sam wasn't too far lost in his frustration for it to get through, "Amis."
Almost instantly, Sam stilled, shrinking back. His eyes already looked clouded, his body stiffening back into statuesque rigidity.
Dean hated it, and almost wished he had tried something else first. He'd shuttered his brother back away, incidentally. He should've predicted it.
He exhaled heavily, "I'm sorry, Sam." His gaze drifted over his now-still brother. The words slipped out on their own. "I miss you, man."
Maybe it wasn't fair to say. But it was true, and he didn't have the heart to try to take it back or twist his meaning.
Sam's gaze glided slowly toward Dean, and his eyes looked like they threatened tears. His hands clenched into fists again, but he didn't move to strike anything. Instead, quietly, he repeated, "Soh-reh. Sor-reh." His face twitched, but his pronunciation didn't improve much, "Sorreh."
"It's okay, I got it, I know," Dean assured, sighing, "Me too, Sammy. I'm sorry too."
When he glanced up, Sam was holding his gaze—it seemed to take a force of will, but he maintained eye contact. "Thanch… nonci, Esiasch."
It was a blend of rough English and Enochian, but Dean was fairly certain he understood. He smiled softly, "I'm not going anywhere, little brother."
When it seemed clear that Sam wouldn't—maybe couldn't—say anything more, Dean shifted into drive, and pulled the Impala back onto the road. He glanced over at his brother, who stared out the window distantly, watching the world pass in a blur. Dean adjusted his grip on the wheel and, though he'd never admit it aloud, for a moment, allowed himself to focus on the road and pretend his brother was merely asleep.
Dean would be here, when he woke up.