When she got home from New York, Brooke didn’t make it too far into the unpacking process. She managed to drop her many bags at the foot of the bed and that was about it, because as soon as she saw the purple monkey sitting on her nightstand, the worry that she’d been trying so hard to ignore took hold. In New York, she’d been able to hold it together pretty well, aside from her break down with Claire. It was easier there, with the entire city as a distraction. But just a few minutes alone in her apartment and Brooke had already started freaking out.
She had never been a good person to have around during a crisis. The only time she’d actually not completely lost it was during the school shooting and, even then, she only held it together long enough to tell off that reporter. It had always been too hard for her to deal with the people she cared about being in danger, or in pain. Especially when she had no idea how to help them. Even worse was not knowing where they were, or having any way to contact them.
That was probably what had her most worried: the fact that Dean disappeared and didn’t even bother to tell anyone where he was going. If he had left because of his fight with Sam, Brooke could forgive him for that. She could understand the need to just run away from something like that. But she couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t call anyone else. Between the Claires and herself, he probably had upwards of fifty missed calls on his phone, if not more. The fact that he hadn’t bothered to call anyone had her stomach in knots, and had her mind traveling down dangerous, terrible paths.
So she did the only thing she could think of; she took the monkey to the dining room table with her and started working on her sketches. Her cell phone sat quietly near her elbow and there were moments where she would just stare at it and try to will Dean into calling her. It never worked. All it did was frustrate her more and, before she could start crying, she would force herself to look away.
Over the past few days, that was all Brooke did. She stopped to eat occasionally, when her stomach was growling too loudly for her to focus, or when she got too tired to keep her eyes open. When she crawled into bed at strange hours of the day, her cell phone would be right next to her head, the ring tone set to the loudest setting it had just in case someone called with news. At one point, she had tried to go down to the café, but all it did was get her out of the house for a little while. Waiting tables wasn’t as distracting as working on her sketches, so she went home shortly after arriving.
It was stupid, really, how worried she was. Dean knew how to take care of himself, and yet she couldn’t stop thinking about the worst possible scenarios. It took everything in her power to not drain her cell phone’s battery life by constantly calling Sam and Claire to see if they’d heard anything, too.
She wasn’t exactly sure when she’d started caring about him this much, but it scared her almost as much as him being gone.
She had been so lost in her sketches that, when someone knocked on the door, Brooke jumped. Pressing a hand to her chest to calm her racing heart, she stood up and walked over. When she opened the door and saw Dean standing there, all she could do was stare at him and wonder if she was dreaming. Maybe she had fallen asleep on the table and this wasn’t real at all, just some way for her subconscious to torture her.
Eventually the shock wore off and, without even bothering to greet him, Brooke threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly.
no subject
She had never been a good person to have around during a crisis. The only time she’d actually not completely lost it was during the school shooting and, even then, she only held it together long enough to tell off that reporter. It had always been too hard for her to deal with the people she cared about being in danger, or in pain. Especially when she had no idea how to help them. Even worse was not knowing where they were, or having any way to contact them.
That was probably what had her most worried: the fact that Dean disappeared and didn’t even bother to tell anyone where he was going. If he had left because of his fight with Sam, Brooke could forgive him for that. She could understand the need to just run away from something like that. But she couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t call anyone else. Between the Claires and herself, he probably had upwards of fifty missed calls on his phone, if not more. The fact that he hadn’t bothered to call anyone had her stomach in knots, and had her mind traveling down dangerous, terrible paths.
So she did the only thing she could think of; she took the monkey to the dining room table with her and started working on her sketches. Her cell phone sat quietly near her elbow and there were moments where she would just stare at it and try to will Dean into calling her. It never worked. All it did was frustrate her more and, before she could start crying, she would force herself to look away.
Over the past few days, that was all Brooke did. She stopped to eat occasionally, when her stomach was growling too loudly for her to focus, or when she got too tired to keep her eyes open. When she crawled into bed at strange hours of the day, her cell phone would be right next to her head, the ring tone set to the loudest setting it had just in case someone called with news. At one point, she had tried to go down to the café, but all it did was get her out of the house for a little while. Waiting tables wasn’t as distracting as working on her sketches, so she went home shortly after arriving.
It was stupid, really, how worried she was. Dean knew how to take care of himself, and yet she couldn’t stop thinking about the worst possible scenarios. It took everything in her power to not drain her cell phone’s battery life by constantly calling Sam and Claire to see if they’d heard anything, too.
She wasn’t exactly sure when she’d started caring about him this much, but it scared her almost as much as him being gone.
She had been so lost in her sketches that, when someone knocked on the door, Brooke jumped. Pressing a hand to her chest to calm her racing heart, she stood up and walked over. When she opened the door and saw Dean standing there, all she could do was stare at him and wonder if she was dreaming. Maybe she had fallen asleep on the table and this wasn’t real at all, just some way for her subconscious to torture her.
Eventually the shock wore off and, without even bothering to greet him, Brooke threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly.