(no subject)

[weary_head]

Dean thinks he's doing pretty good. He's drinking more, sure, but he's taking breaks, he's getting shit done. Looking after Cori and the rest, after the clinic, after his studies, he's got it under control. Not eating as much as he could be, if the grousing in his ear is to be believed, but he feels as fine as he's going to, stuck yet again on an island with no way to get to his brother.

Faye's cleaned the half-full plates from beneath his bed, and Dean sits alongside it, ass on the hard bamboo floor with his guitar in his hands. He doesn't really feel like playing, but he doesn't feel like thinking either, so he strums and hums along, old tunes he'd subjected Sam to a hundred times on the roads at home.

Whatever stretch of road Sam is on now, they're probably doing just this, Dean behind the wheel and Sam's long body stretched out beside him, Sam mouthing words to songs he pretends to hate. Playing on his own is nothing like having Sam with him, but for now, it's as close as Dean's going to get.

Comments

[use_your_guitar]

For as much as Roger has shut out the world again, he's had a lot of trouble leaving Dean out with the rest. It's hard to see Neil without wanting to fucking talk about all of the fucked up shit he feels for him, so Roger's been keeping a little distance. Although, he reminds himself, he can't get that much, since Neil, Dean, and himself seem to have built their schedules around being constantly around one-another. Except when Dean has one of his six-thousand responsibilities, like watching Cori or playing house with Faye. In fact, sometimes Roger wonders frequently if he's just getting in the way of Dean's growing family.

But then that's you all over, isn't it, that evil little voice persists, forever in the way.

It's not like Dean's life is perfect, though. Losing Sam threw Dean at the bottle in a way that was just too damn familiar. Losing Mark had almost killed him, Brian just as much so, and losing April would quite literally kill him any day now. The big difference is Roger's death came in careless use of needles, not at the bottom of an ever-refilling bottle.

He's in Dean's doorway now, and he's been there for a second, staring at the back of Dean's head. Is he going to have to say something to make up for all of cumulative silence? He has no words for Dean, nothing without a melody, anyway.

"Hey," Roger begins quietly, shifting his weight a touch before he speaks to try and assuage any startled reaction he might get from his silent creeping. He nods toward the guitar, "you're getting damn good." He hopes it's enough. He hopes he never had any reason to feel bad in the first place.

[weary_head]

"Been practicing more," says Dean, and if he's surprised to find an audience, he gives only a tired tilt of his head to show it. "Too damn quiet around here."

And it's not like Cori doesn't get louder with every passing day, or that Roger doesn't play, or that Sam even lived in their home with them at all, but it's...quieter. Emptier, if not in the hut itself, than inside of Dean. And Dean thinks Roger will understand what he means.

"Should get your guitar," he says. "We'll jam."