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When he was a kid, after his mom died and his dad set out to find the thing that killed her, Dean didn’t talk. The doctors and the few friends John Winchester had chalked it up to post traumatic stress. He’d get over it, they said. Kids are resilient, they said.
He remembers spewing that line to that Andrea girl, when her son Lucas wouldn’t talk. He remembers the way the words felt like venom on his tongue, sucking the air out of his lungs and making his blood run cold. “Kids are resilient.”
What about adults? Are adults resilient? Dean doesn’t feel too resilient, not now.
It’s been over a year since Cass-
It’s been over a year.
He didn’t speak for the first 3 months. Sam kept looking at him like he was broken, like he was some child that needed to be watched over. He wasn’t broken, he was just… He wasn’t broken.
It wasn’t until month 4 rolled around when Dean could finally speak again. Month 4 was when Jack showed up in all of his godly glory saying he doesn’t think there’s a way to bring Cass back from-
Dean simply said okay. He didn’t stop to see Sam or Jack’s reactions, he just walked out the door and started driving.
He didn’t come back until month 6 when Sam and Eileen were threatening to send the feds after him.
Month 7 came and went in a blur. He was drunk half the time and when he wasn’t drunk he was hunting. The only time he could feel alive during month 7 was when there was a gun in his hand.
Month 8 and 9 weren’t much different, except the gun in his hand was pointed at his head and the alcohol was the only thing that kept him from pulling the trigger. His hands were too shaky now, if he tried to pull it he’d end up missing.
Month 10 was different. Dean got out of bed one morning. He went to the kitchen, joked with Sam and Eileen and ignored their concerned glances, drank coffee instead of whiskey, and slept well for the first time in months.
Then month 11 came.
Dean found himself in a back alley way with some guy he met at some broken down bar in the middle of nowhere Colorado. He was tall with dark hair and blue eyes and if Dean closed his eyes tight enough he could pretend it was-
Now he’s here: Month 13.
He’s in the dungeon of the bunker.
His back is aching from the bricks pressing into his back, but he can’t find it in him to care, not anymore. His bloody-handprint stained jacket is clutched tightly in one hand while the other lifts the mouth of the bottle to his lips. He closes his eyes and tries to remember Cass’s face, before the Empty had taken him, after he said “I love you.” He tries to remember how Cass’s voice sounded when the words rolled off his tongue, he tries to remember how Cass’s hand felt on his shoulder. He tries to remember but he can’t.
The tears are flowing before he can stop them and he’s not sure he wants to anymore. Before he knows it he’s screaming and sobbing and begging and there’s glass shards on the floor. His vision is blurry and he feels like this will be the end of him, part of him hopes it will be.
The last thing he remembers before he passes out is Andrea and Lucas, and he realizes the gut-wrenching truth: Kids are resilient, but adults are not.