So if you just managed to get through that rambling mess, I'm just going to post it here in case anyone's interested. I've been rewatching the first season and coming to terms with the fact that Supernatural will never be the Supernatural I fell in love with, so I've just been going back through old things and trying to revive that feeling I used to have for it. Oh, one of several holes in my life, how will I fill you? *shakes fist* Whatever, here it is. Sharing now.
Dean and Jesse are at Bobby's. And Dean's just drunk and on the couch, not really watching the pictures on the screen, and Bobby's outside working, and Jesse's just kind of alone. Jesse, as much as none of them want to admit it, is often alone.
So he's just kind of wandering aimlessly in Bobby's house, trailing a hand over the dusty books on the bookshelf, allowing the gray matter to accumulate on his growing hands. And he knows Bobby touches his books. Bobby's always in his books, but these ones haven't been touched in a long while. Everything just seems to be standing still and growing older, and nobody cares because they're pinned under grief too heavy to get up and pay attention to things like dusty books and little devil children with dead parents.
It's times like these when Jesse feels it the worst. When they're at Bobby's and there's room to move around. It all starts to seem so big and empty when it's not him and Dean, sleeping in the car or in a room, two bodies in a small space with big words that don't need to be spoken. It hurts then, too, don't get him wrong, but it's not a lonely hurt.
He walks back into the living room, where there's the TV and Dean and Dean's booze. Jesse can smell Dean's booze. He always can. It reminds him of his parents when they would come home after a bad day. Of his mother and her breath when she kissed him goodnight and told him his dreams would be sweet and tomorrow would be better, and she'd make him lunch in the morning. Sometimes she did. Most of the time she didn't, but that was okay. She was busy, but she always said, "Love you" before they went their separate ways for the day.
He aches when he thinks about it, because he never heard her say it again. Not after he left, and he could have heard her say it so many more times if things had been different, but things aren't different. They're horrible. No one ever says "love you" to Jesse anymore. Dean will squeeze his shoulder sometimes, or smile down at him, or even throw a casual arm over his shoulder while they're walking and pull him in. And that's cool. That's what Dean does.
But it’s also missing here in this moment, in Bobby’s house while Jesse is alone. While Dean is drunk and weighted down and Jesse is standing still and collecting dust. They might as well be dead, too. Just like Jesse’s parents. Just like Sam. They could be corpses in this house. All they need is some worms. Can’t be dead without some worms around to eat you.
Jesse feels numb and he wants to be lying in his bed again, with his mother standing over him and kissing him goodnight. Her breath. He thinks of her breath and how it smelled and that’s what moves his feet in Dean’s direction. That familiar, sad smell.
Dean sets his drink down, his hands clumsy, and he asks Jesse if he’s okay. Jesse nods and says he’s fine, like he always does and then just stands there, collecting dust. And Dean just sits there, weighted down. And nothing moves until Jesse breathes in again and follows the scent of his mother, tries to imagine her voice saying those words, her lips on his forehead, her hands tucking the covers up to his shoulders. Her arms around him when he wakes from a night terror. Her arms.
Jesse’s arms wind around Dean’s neck and he breathes in and tries to smell her again. It takes a moment for Dean to react, but Jesse feels arms circle him. Gentle arms. There’s nothing firm or steady about these arms, there’s no anchor weighing Jesse down, and he’s surprised by his longing. He wants it. He wants that heavy grief to weigh him down with Dean so he’s not in the other room, standing still, collecting dust all alone.
Dean’s head drops on Jesse’s shoulder and Jesse feels that warm, drunk breath on his neck. Dean mumbles something unintelligible, something that might have been the name they’re not supposed to say, and that’s when the embrace tightens, steadies, and Jesse hangs on with his face buried in Dean’s neck and Dean’s in his, and for a moment it’s like he’s home again and he mumbles the words to Dean, knowing they’ll fall and fall far, just like the name did. But at least for now they can pretend.