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OOM-but-not
Things are a bit busy at home right now. It's a good sort of busy, but it's also a very busy sort of busy.
So Meg is gratefully taking advantage of an unexpected trip to the end of the universe, where she take an hour to sit and have a cup of tea and read her book, without messing up anyone's schedules or getting behind on anything.
Some days, it's the little things.
So Meg is gratefully taking advantage of an unexpected trip to the end of the universe, where she take an hour to sit and have a cup of tea and read her book, without messing up anyone's schedules or getting behind on anything.
Some days, it's the little things.
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He can't say that he's surprised to hear that Castiel had felt that way. It's just one more punch to the gut, one more reminder that angels aren't what he'd thought they'd be in general and in particular that most of them seem to think he's no better than dirt, but it's not a surprise.
What is a surprise, given just how fucking badly talking about it had gone, is that Dean had asked about him. Had asked for him.
And you weren't there, were you? he reminds himself, silently. Yet another time he needed you and you weren't around.
"I'm not blaming you, Meg," he says finally, low and quiet though it may be. "I just needed to know."
He draws a slow, careful breath.
"How bad was it?"
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There's a second, and then Meg says, "What did he tell you?"
It's good to know what information you're confirming and what information you're providing.
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Sam sounds tired, but not surprised.
"Said it sucked, and he's glad it's over."
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"In comparison to yours, too, no doubt.
"It was exhausting, and difficult, and at times I look back and I wonder how I did it.
"I can't even begin to imagine how he did it."
There's another moment, while she shifts the bracelets on her wrist again.
"The first thing Dean said to me was don't look at me. We spent two days communicating via notes passed under a door. I was there for a full month, and it got easier, for both of us, but it never got easy.
"That's why Castiel didn't want you there. Because there are things we go through that we don't want the people we care the most about to see us go through, and there are people we don't want mixed up in our worst memories.
"If Dean never speaks to me again, he hasn't really lost anything. We weren't friends before, and we certainly didn't become friends in that month.
"The same can hardly be said of you."
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My experience with it all pales in comparison to his.
"You know why I don't sleep much anymore?"
"No, I don't. Why?"
"I'd say dreams, but it's really more like memories."
I can't even begin to imagine how he did it.
"Down there... they take you apart, piece by piece. Every day they cut and slice and shred until there's nothing left.
Then they do it all over again. Every, single, goddamn day."
We weren't friends before, and we certainly didn't become friends in that month.
"Forty years I was down there, Sammy. Forty years."
The same can hardly be said of you.
"You're right," he whispers, after a tense, screaming silence. "It can't."
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"I don't of any way to make this any easier to talk about."
It's just hard.
Always had been.
Probably always will be.
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Sam clears his throat, then repeats it.
"It's not your fault. None of it is. You don't have anything to apologize for, Meg."
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There's a slight pause.
"There are things I can't tell you and things I won't tell you, but if you have other questions, I'll try to answer them."
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Even if she could tell him, there's no way he wants to put her through that again.
"Or, wait. I don't... I just..."
"Thanks."
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"And feel free to treat that as a standing offer, Sam. If it make anything easier for you or Dean or both of you."
It's never been what Meg needed, after all.
And she knew that when she agreed to do it.
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"I owe you one."
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(She doesn't tell him that he doesn't, because there are certain statements you don't throw back in people's faces, even if you don't really believe them to be in your debt.)
"Will you two be all right?"
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"Yeah."
He makes himself smile, at least a little.
"Yeah, we will. It's kinda rough right now, but -- it's just gonna take some time, that's all."
And Lilith's death; that'll help, too.
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"It's not thing to rush.
"And, hey. If all else fails, there are always board games.
"Dean and I played a lot of them."
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He can't quite imagine it, but he finds the idea oddly striking.
"Which ones?"
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"A lot of poker, too. I generally lost.
"He didn't care much for Monopoly."
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"No, I guess not."
A beat.
"And yeah, Dean's pretty good at poker."
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"But, yes, he is.
"I lost a lot of M&Ms to him."
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"I'd probably still be paying him back if we had been."
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He tries another smile. This one's steadier.
"You can win it all back while he's surprised, maybe."
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But that's not the point, really, of this part of the conversation.
"Couldn't I just challenge him to something I'm already good at?
"Like . . . knitting, or crossword puzzles?"
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"Crossword -- you might be surprised."
Whether he's telling the truth or not, no one can say.
"But if you get him in a knitting competition, I want pictures."
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Not probably, but possibly.
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"I should, um ... I should probably get back before it gets too late. I think I'm supposed to be bringing dinner, so..."
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"I hope things work out. For both of you."
She'll be praying for them.
"Have a good evening, Sam."
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He gets to his feet, then hesitates by her table.
"And, uh, if I don't see you again before - happy wedding, okay?"
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"Be well."
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Sam raises his hand in a small, slightly awkward wave, and heads off toward the door.