Fights, Camera, Action

Chapter Fourteen

In the days that followed, Dean found that more and more often he was reacting to his grief like touching his hand to a stove. As soon as he would notice it, he would jerk himself out of his head and force himself to concentrate on something, anything. He knew that it was a bad idea in the long run, but right then, it felt easier. And he wasn't about to pass that up.

What he did tend to focus his helplessness and anger on, however, was whatever the hell was going on with Novak. He had been a comforting presence while he was with Dean, but now that he was gone, Dean was fucking pissed at himself. How could he have let Novak see him in his weakest moments? Let him stay with him in his home? Invite him over? It was a bad move and he knew it. For all he knew, Novak was using it as a move to get under his skin. Too late now, he supposed.

All too soon, the day of the funeral came. Dean woke that morning with shaking hands and a sheen of sweat on his skin. A deep feeling of dread sank into his chest, and he stood up quickly in the hopes of staving it off. Getting dressed, he ran his hands down the jacket of his shirt, pretending to straighten it while he was really only trying to steady his hands. Shaking his head, he made eye contact with himself in the mirror and hated what he saw. There were bags under his bloodshot eyes, a dusting of stubble that desperately needed shaved, and he looked exhausted down to his posture.

"You need to get your shit together," he hissed at himself, turning away from the mirror and taking deep breaths. Once he had calmed enough to walk, he texted the driver and told him that he was ready to go whenever. Grabbing an apple from the counter, he found that he was only able to eat a few bites before feeling sick. Throwing it away, he felt his phone buzz and grabbed it from his pocket to glance at it.

He had two messages, actually. One from the driver, saying that he was there, and one from... fucking Novak. God damn him, of course. Running a hand down his face, Dean glared at the message that stared up at him.

Novak: Hey, hope you're ok. Text if you need me

Dean knew he shouldn't be so angry that someone was checking on him, but the fact that it was Novak and the fact that Dean was personally responsible for that stupid fucking message had him wanting to throw his phone. Walking down the stairs, he shot back a text just as he opened the front door.

Dean: I won't.

Settling into the backseat, Dean sighed as the car began moving. Tapping his finger on his leg absentmindedly, he wondered how Sam and Charlie had been feeling. He hadn't felt like seeing anyone the last few days, and they hadn't reached out, so he really hadn't heard from them. A small bloom of guilt planted itself in his head at the thought. He should have checked on them. It wasn't just them that could initiate conversation. Fuck, why was he so self absorbed sometimes?

Before he could get too far into his self pity party, the car rolled to a stop outside the location of the service. Dean thanked the driver quietly before stepping out, groaning internally at the sight of paparazzi standing across the street from the venue, snapping pictures of the grieving family and friends. Suddenly enraged by their encroachment on what should, by all accounts, be a private moment, he threw a middle finger toward them and yelled.

"Fuck off, you god damn vultures!" He spat, but they weren't deterred. Shaking his head, he turned to go inside with the other people arriving.

Once inside, he spotted Sam and Charlie next to Jess's parents. Working his way over, he saw the Sam and Charlie had left a seat between them for him. Sitting down gently, he put a hand on Charlie's shoulder and was greeted with a watery smile. She pulled him into a tight hug, small shakes wracking her body as she tried not to cry. When she finally let go, he gave her a small smile, and she nodded, turning to face forward and chewing on her cheek.