Fear Itself

The original broadcast aired during a fifteen minute “break” Avery had given me, where I managed to squirm away from Dean long enough to change into normal clothes and catch Kennedy’s ugly mug on the telly. Though the news was bound to crush Dean even more than he already was, I had to tell him. Glad I did too, since Kennedy barely hesitated to leave all of Chandler’s belongings, as well as his home, in Dean’s name. Somehow, Dean managed to compose himself long enough to have the conversation. Maybe it was because he had no interest in keeping the things to himself. We both knew there were two people who deserved that home, two people the League was sure to have overlooked. People the League wouldn’t dream of allowing into East London because they fell far beyond the poverty line. It didn’t matter what Kennedy thought; Gabe and Eden had depended on Chandler for months. They were his family.

Dean agreed to break the news to Gabe himself, but he seemed unwilling to move, not even to eat or to shower. He was still wearing his suit from the gala, still covered in dirt, blood, ash, and whatever else got dragged out of rubble with Chandler’s body. It only took a little coaxing to get Dean into the shower with me, which was something we always did together, something I thought might cheer him up a little. Giving him something normal seemed like the only shot I had. Normalcy was all I could provide, and I was doing a shoddy job at best. Even standing in one of the showers in the Hangar’s communal bathroom, even being with me, even with the water running, he stood still with dazed and empty eyes.

There wasn’t a thing in the world I could do to make any of this better. I couldn’t say a few words and make all of this disappear. An apology wasn’t going to bring Chandler back, nor was any amount of affection I could provide. My husband stood before me, utterly shattered, broken to the point of silence. The only things he did were breathe and blink, and those were simply involuntary reflexes.

Since he clearly couldn’t bring himself to move, I brought it upon myself to scrub him down with shower gel, gently rubbing off the stains on his neck and whatever managed to seep under his clothing. Just as quickly as I’d lathered it into bubbles, the water washed it away, leaving clean skin in it’s place, almost like the grime had never been there at all. Still, it showed in the lines on his face. The pain in his eyes left a heavy weight in the air. I felt it seeping through my skin, making my heart sink in my chest. When I reached my thumb to wipe away a smudge of dirt on his cheek, he laid his hand over mine, and his eyes lifted.

“He was my best friend,” Dean murmured. His cheeks burned a soft red, either from blood or from the hot water. He dropped his chin. “How could I let this happen?”

“Babe,” I whispered, face falling at the trembling tone of his voice. After hours of barely uttering more than a few words, I had so much to say. So much in fact, that I was barely able to filter myself, and words began spilling out of my mouth. “You couldn’t have stopped it if tried, he just… Chandler made up his mind.” His shoulders hunched over. No. No, don’t cry. I couldn’t stand to see him cry again. I needed to stay strong for him, but how could I do that when the very person who inspired strength in me was losing all composure?

“I could have stopped him.” His breath hitched, and he shook his head. “But I didn’t, why didn’t I stop him? I—“

“Muscles,” I interjected, taking his face in my hands and making him look at me. “Wasn’t it you that told me we fight, or we die trying?” He stared down at me with wet eyes. “Chandler’s giving us another chance. You can’t keep blaming yourself for this,” I explained softly. “If you do… it’s gonna haunt you, and it won’t stop until it takes you too.”

“It should have been me,” he continued. His hand cupped his mouth as he drew a shaky breath. “Why wasn’t it me? He never did anything, and I… I’ve been—“ He choked on his words and had to swallow them back. “How am I still alive?” He sputtered out a few tears but hid his face from me and viciously wiped them from this face until I grabbed his hands to make him stop.

“It’s okay, Muscles. It’s okay,” I hushed him. “Let it out.” He gave a vigorous shake of his head, trying to fight the tears building in his chest, shaking his breaths, and causing him to grip my hands like a vice. “I know it hurts, babe,” I murmured, resting my head against his when his forehead dropped to my shoulder. Sorrow began to shake in my voice, but I fought it with all my might, trying to hold it together. “God, I know it hurts, but it’s okay that it hurts,” I told him. “It’s okay to be angry, Dean. You can tell me. That’s why we’re a family.” A small, broken, little family. Still a family nonetheless. “I’m not going anywhere just because you’re upset. That doesn’t frighten me,” I assured. “I’ll take care of you.”

Dean’s chin began to quiver and shake against my collarbone, and his posture began to crumple under the weight of his guilt. He shook as he snaked arms around my back. Trembling finger tips brushed against my spine. “This is all my fault,” he mumbled against my bones. “I don’t know what to do anymore.” His voice cracked and faltered. Any moment now. It was horrendous that I wanted him to cry, but I knew deep down that he needed to. “Chandler took care of me for years, and I can’t even take care of him,” he sputtered.

“This isn’t your fault,” I whispered, pressing my lips gently beside his ear.

“Maybe,” he relented. “But it still bloody hurts, Blondie.” There was a pause: silence save for the sound of water spattering against the walls, our bodies, and the bottom of the shower. “Blondie,” he murmured, voice soft and gentle, almost frightened like perhaps if he spoke a little too loud he’d break. “Is it okay if I cry?”

I closed my eyes, suddenly feeling the urge to do the same. “Yes,” I told him. Before I could get another word, his arms clung to me, desperately seeking security. It was only when I returned the embrace that he began to sob. His tears streamed from his eyes like a river poured over a broken dam. All I could do was gently rub his neck, wait for him to finish, however long that may have been, and whisper that it was okay, that I loved him very much, and that this was good.

We were in there until Dean felt well enough to dry off and get dressed, which was really only when the water grew chilly and our skin was wrinkling up. Things were fine, for now, but we were off to Gabe’s, and visiting Gabe was an entirely different story, a whole different situation, and an opportunity for even more emotions to surface. Maybe seeing somebody else express their emotion would help Dean express his. I could only hope.