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Between the two of them, Sam does the talking. But he’ll never tell Dean he hates his special dolls.
“Don’t be afraid.” Dean’s voice is soft, rusty with disuse--only Sam and the dolls ever hear it.
Sam is afraid. He doesn’t remember exactly how his fingers got broken--he was so little. He only remembers the dolls, and wanting to play with them. Then terrible pain, and his big brother taping each tiny digit, with a magic kiss on top to make it better. He remembers Dean holding him, and it was the same intense, loving attention the dolls get, but this time all for Sam.
Dean said the dolls did it. They don’t like to be touched. “Only I can help you touch.”
Nobody touches Dean’s dolls (Sam can, if Dean’s the one moving his hands, pressing cold doll lips to his cheek). Their mother is nervous, their father repelled. Their dog Bonesy tears one to pieces, but that’s right before he leaves for the farm. At least, that's where his Mom and Dad say the dog went. Sam didn't see--didn't get to say good bye.
Dean says there is no farm. The dolls punished Bonesy, put bad things in his bowl. “No more dog licks,” he rasps, touching Sam’s face.
Sam doesn’t cry in front of them.
He keeps Dean’s secrets, but he doesn’t get to know theirs. Why some dolls are dressed, and others bare. Why some sit, some stand, others always on their backs. What they do that makes Dean so happy with them, happy like nothing else makes him.
Sam only hears one sided conversations, the same way no one else hears Dean’s guttural murmurs to Sam, soft in his ear, hot against his neck.
"Don’t be afraid.”
But Sam is afraid. Empty eyes always watch him, dolls where they weren't a second ago. On the table where he's doing his homework, if he leaves for a snack. The side of the tub when he's in the shower. In his bed when he wakes.
Dean can make the dolls like Sam. Can make them trust him. Sam just has be very, very still. To leave his limbs where Dean puts them, and stay where he’s placed. To force the tension out of his jaw.
So his mouth stays just a little bit open.
He learns how to hold his breath. Sips of air when Dean blinks or looks away, and the dolls never tell. It's hard to stay like this, but he can do it for Dean. Limp and loose, but this is how the dolls like him. And that makes Dean happy. He can make Dean happy. Just like they can.
Pretty Sammy.
Pretty dolly.
Dean doesn’t grow out of the dolls, so Sam can’t either. Gets doll kisses and Dean kisses. Doll secrets revealed like plastic parts under hand-made dresses. Some dolls sit, some are always on their backs. Only Dean's favorite dolls show wear and tear.
Good dolly.
Little brother doll.
Love you.
They love you.
It’s not because of Sam that they find out. Not Sam’s fault Dean gets locked away. Not really.
It’s what happens around him.
Bad things. Missing pets. Sam never has friends, but sometimes being near him is enough.
Nobody touches Dean’s dolls.
They take him away, and Sam makes all the noise for both of them. But Dean doesn’t go to jail.
“He’s not bad, he’s sick,” Mom says, but Sam heard Dad call Dean ‘that little psycho.’ He hates her, hates them both for being so relieved without Dean (would hate himself if he recognized his own relief.)
They move. Without (Dean) playing dolls, Sam does better. Makes friends and good grades. Goes to Stanford.
Gets letters that follow him to his dorm.
Dolls don’t like to be touched, Sammy. Don’t let anyone touch my doll.
But Sam knows better now. He knows who hurt him.
And Jess is so sweet and understanding.
The hospital burns down and there are no more letters.
It’s another two years before he starts seeing dolls.
In the school library. On the bar where he stops to get a drink. In his seat when he comes back from the restroom, and Jess has no idea where it came from but isn’t it adorable? Is it a gift from Sam?
Sam should’ve stopped her. Should have kept her from touching it.
But she makes a beautiful doll.
It breaks Sam’s heart, his mind, when he finds her. She’s better at it than Sam ever was. Absolutely still, not a single breath. Blue eyes locked open, mouth parted.
Just like Sam, the kind that's meant to be on her back. Legs stiff where Dean put them.
The green eyes when he turns are empty, too, but in a different way. Big pretty doll eyes, long sweet lashes. His voice is rougher than ever, pitched low for only Sam.
“Don’t be afraid.”
The dolls are in the car, and Sam’s never been so still. Wet eyes staring, mouth parted--the drool is all wrong, but Dean can work around it.
His favorites always show wear and tear.
