Sam Winchesters’ Journal - Entry #68
We reached the bunker after a car trip where almost no words were exchanged. I’m used to it by now. It’s not as if Dean had been particularly chatty in the last couple of months anyway. And Castiel…well poor Cas remained silent in the back seat and stared clumsily at us from time to time from the corner of his eye, certainly wishing he could have flown to the bunker instead of being trapped in the Impala with us for five hours.
Once at home, I tried to confront Dean about the Blade once and for all, waiting for an explanation on why he lied to me again concerning a decision we made together, maybe expecting some sort of apology. The least I can say is that I wasn’t disappointed:
“We are not a team and this is a dictatorship. This how it’s gonna be.”
The message couldn’t be clearer, could it? Who the hell was I kidding anyway. I didn’t even try to argue. I stepped back, too tired to carry on the conversation at this point because the man in front of me wasn’t my br…well, you know what comes next. I have repeated it ad nauseam within these pages since Dean first laid his hands on that thing. Same song, different verse, you get the picture. And a pretty picture it wasn’t.
I left Dean and Cas alone, hoping that maybe, just maybe, Castiel would be luckier than I was and would manage to knock some sense into my brother. Still I knew deep down it wouldn’t work. Nobody was able to set me on the right track when I was hopped up on demon blood, so I wasn’t holding my breath that some small talk and a pat on the shoulder, even coming from an Angel of the Lord, would suddenly make things right and deliver Dean from the Mark’s curse. We are not living in some shitty commercial where all your problems are magically solved with a hot cocoa and a bit of love.
I went to my room to wash my face, just needing a minute away to think about all this, but my mind was empty and I couldn’t think straight. The fact I was operating on only a couple of hours’ sleep in the past two days didn’t really help matters. I was far too busy solving silly riddles about Indiana Jones and “seven eating nine” to catch some rest or even take a break to eat.
Everything was silent except for the old clock on the cupboard. I just stayed there, sitting on my bed, rubbing my eyes from time to time, staring at an imaginary point on the wall.
I didn’t know what to do anymore, a feeling that had become more and more overwhelming of late. For once, “Sam the Brain Winchester” didn’t have a plan B, not even the beginning of a lead. And in spite of all my efforts to hang in there, I was just going though the motions at this point like a little boy expecting a miracle, a sign from destiny, something, just anything. It didn’t make any sense but at that precise moment alone in my room, it’s as if…as if I was waiting for my brother to come back; as if he was away on a hunt or something, and in just a few minutes Dean, the real Dean, my brother was gonna cross the door and tell me with a bright smile, “Wow! It’s good to be home”. I knew it wasn’t gonna happen and that the only evidence that remained of my brother were a couple of photos on my phone. Not that it mattered. I wanted to believe, even if only for a few seconds.
I cannot tell you how much I love these photos, by the way.
I don’t care that most of them are blurry because I suck at photography and because Dean is constantly moving. They are here to remind me that in our very own twisted, sick Winchester way, we are still a family somehow. I’ll never get tired of this one where Dean is fooling around with a plastic replica of Captain America’s shield as big as a Frisbee. Or this one, taken at a dinner where he witnessed the Jayhawks losing a game against the Longhorns. And of course this one, where Dean is talking to a waitress and telling her to be nice because “Today, Ma’am, is my 29th birthday!” (a 29th birthday that Dean has celebrated happily seventy-two times in past six years, but who’s counting).
I shouldn’t be dwelling on this kind of unhealthy nostalgia. It would be better to focus my energy on finding a way to get out of this mess, not losing what little hope is left in me. Also, when I say that the guy who is sharing my life now isn’t my brother, I know it’s kind of stupid when you truly think about it. I’m conscious that it’s just a way to detach myself whilst pointing out how much Dean has changed. But no matter how many times I’ve repeated it, or how many times I’ve tried to convince myself, it’s still Dean in there, somewhere. Not someone else. Dean. And I have to be there for him exactly like he was there for me when I was close to breaking the Last Seal.
I was about to close my eyes and finally sleep a bit when I heard some noise in the main room. Dean shouting, chairs moving, the metallic sound of an angel blade.
Gadreel was here.
The three of us were ready to jump at his throat, but Gadreel came to make an unexpected peace offering. He wanted some payback, sick of Metatron’s lies and having been deceived one time too many like the rest of us. I’m wasn’t overly fond of this new alliance, but the truce was an offer we didn’t have the luxury to refuse. It didn’t mean I was done with Gadreel, though. I will never forgive him for Kevin’s death and the way he tricked Dean into using me as his vessel, but now wasn’t the time for revenge. Revenge will come later, when we are done with Metatron. Then, and only then, in spite of Gadreel’s speech about redemption and forgiving our mistakes, I won’t hesitate. Not even for a second.
Reluctantly, Dean accepted the deal too, and was about to shake Gadreel’s hand until…
Dean took the Blade, slashing Gadreel’s chest in one precise hit. That’s all I can remember. It’s all blurred in my mind it went so fast. Cas and I jumped on Dean in a desperate attempt to control him, but a part of Gadreel’s Grace was already escaping his body as he collapsed on the floor. It took us at least ten minutes to calm my brother down and to make him lose the grip on that fucking Blade. Dean was fidgeting in my arms, kicking Castiel like a trapped animal, offering a steady flow of indistinct insults while trying to crawl on the floor to catch the Blade. The two of us were almost not enough to contain this strength, this pure rage exuding from him.
Now Dean is locked in our “demon room”, yelling, threatening to kill us all and throwing any loose objects he can find. Cas and I have no idea how long we’re gonna leave him there and what the hell we’re gonna do with him. It’s different from my demon blood detox. You can’t just wait for the blood to leave the system and…voila, the soldier is good to go back in the field. Even if we leave Dean to rot ten years in this room the curse will still be there and the problem won’t be solved.
Cas is clueless. I am clueless.
I have a half-dead angel bleeding gallons in my living room and another one close to breaking down because of what is happening to his best friend, not to mention his Grace. Plus what’s left of my family is trapped in a cell, slowly turning into the successor for one of the most powerful Knights of Hell.
Don’t fucking tell me that “everything is gonna be alright.” I am done believing in miracles.