Fic: Epiphany [7/9]
"What do you say we take a trip?"
Sam slides two longnecks down the bar and wipes his hands on a towel, voice pitched to be heard over the sound of the football game on TV. "Anywhere in particular?"
Dean shrugs but it's too casual. "Thought we'd head to Bobby's for Thanksgiving. Why, you got plans?"
Sam considers, shaking peanuts into the bowls scattered up and down the bar. "Bobby's, huh?" He puts the peanuts away and leans forward, bracing himself on the bar. "Staying at Bobby's is like walking into a mine field."
"He wouldn't invite us if he didn't think it was safe."
"Did he?" Sam asks.
Dean's jaw firms. "We'll ask him."
Sam casts a look around them and lowers his voice. "I know it may not seem like it, but whatever I've been hunting is still out there. It's not gone."
Dean nods and takes a swig of his beer. "I know."
Sam ducks his head and laughs to himself, pulling out a cloth to polish a row of glasses. "This is probably the worst organized intervention I've ever seen."
Dean doesn't deny it. "It's only the worst if it doesn't work."
"I haven't even been out to the field."
"Yet. Only because there hasn't been anything out there. Look, maybe you're wrong. Maybe you did kill it. Took its life-essence, whatever. Good job, now you can leave it alone, and we can focus on getting rid of the powers that be."
"And if I don't?" Sam asks.
"Hence the intervention."
"Going to Bobby's for the weekend isn't going to change anything."
"Is that a yes?" Dean asks and Sam rolls his eyes.
"I'll see if I can get the time off."
-
The last Thanksgiving they had at Bobby's had been years before, Sam old enough to stir the gravy if he stood on a stool and Dean cutting shapes into the jello with a knife, but it doesn't feel all that different. In fact, some things haven't changed at all: the rattle of the oven door, the smell of the stuffing, the way Bobby always sets out cranberry jelly even though no one ever eats it. The dog still noses at the air, investigating Dean mashing the potatoes, Sam carving the turkey. The tablecloth is the same, its pattern of harvest fruits still vibrant from years in the closet. And Bobby still takes off his hat and folds it between his hands as he gives grace over the meal, and they eat. He tells them about a hunt in Baton Rouge over pie and they play a game of poker while Zeppelin sleeps in his corner.
Bobby wins two hands and loses one before he gets to his feet with a groan. "A smart man knows to quit when his luck turns and mine has just about gone south. Leave the dishes soaking in the sink, would you, and be quiet going up the stairs. G'night." He claps a hand on both of their shoulders and whistles for Zepp.
"Anything open this late?" Dean calls after him.
"There's a bar over on Fifth that keeps odd hours. You come back drunk, though, I better not hear about it."
Dean grins and twirls his keys around his fingers, shooting Sam a look. "Wanna?"
They drive into town and it's strange to see how similar the town is to their own, and how different. The bar is easy to find and they pull in and find a place to park along the curb, the sounds of a party coming through the open door.
"Sounds like we weren't the only ones looking for a good time on Thanksgiving," Dean remarks and Sam grins.
"'Cause nothing says Happy Thanksgiving like celebrating at a bar."
"Hey, you don't see me complaining." He jostles his shoulder against Sam's, breath steaming in the night air, and the next words come out of his mouth before he's ready. "It's funny, y'know. The holidays. Like, why didn't we celebrate all the good times when they really were good? Why'd we have to wait until we're barely holding it together before we decide to throw some poor bird in the oven and eat pie?"
Sam shrugs. "You got me." They walk a few more steps and Sam bumps Dean with his shoulder. "You gonna make this a habit? Kind of chick-flicky, man," he says and Dean punches Sam's arm.
"Shut up, it's allowed. Once or twice, it's allowed."
Sam grins and then Sam freezes, his eyes go fixed in that distant way that Dean has learned to hate, and the balloon of happiness that was expanding in Dean's chest deflates like someone's stuck a needle in it.
"Sam?"
"There's-- Hold on, I can't--" Sam shuts his eyes tight, teeth gritted like it hurts.
"Okay, okay, you need to sit down?" Dean looks around them for a place, somewhere he can tuck Sam until this passes, until Sam's subconscious decides he's not worth the effort and backs off. "All right," Dean encourages. "We got this. Ride it out, Sam."
"Dean," Sam says, the word thick in his mouth. "Dean-n-n."
And then Sam's whole body goes rigid, muscles cording in his neck, his spine snapped straight. His hands are fisted in Dean's jacket tight enough that the skin stretched over his knuckles is white.
Dean shifts so that his shoulder is supporting most of Sam's weight and tugs at Sam's arms, trying to pull him away from the door of the bar and back to the shadows by their truck.
A car door slams, followed by raucous laughter. Dean turns to face a group of guys heading for the bar, laughing and jostling each other. One of them takes notice of Dean and comes toward them, lifting his chin at Sam.
"Everything okay, man?" one of them calls.
"Fine, yeah," Dean says, using his body to herd Sam a few steps back to the car.
The guy nods and follows his group into the bar, the sound of voices and music streaming out as they open the door, leaving the darkness quieter once it's closed. Dean curses a little to himself--that golden rectangle of light was their goal, was supposed to let them forget for a while--and then he gets back to business.
"Okay, listen to me, Sam, we can't do this here. At home, sure, in the truck, that's fine, but out here on the sidewalk is not okay. Snap out of it."
A shudder ripples through Sam but if he can hear Dean, he doesn't show it. Instead, he makes a choked noise and a drop of blood slides from his nose to his lips, shining faintly in the glow of the streetlamp.
"Crap. Crap, crap, damn it, Sam."
Dean gets a shoulder under Sam's arm and steers them back toward the truck, Sam's legs stumbling like he's forgotten how to walk, and swears under his breath as another car pulls up on the street and two couples get out, laughing and chattering. Dean turns back to Sam, swiping a thumb under Sam's nose to stop the bleeding. They can weather this, they can just stand here and be weird for a minute, the world can give them a break for one damn minute, and if he can just get Sam's eyes focused on him instead of darting around like he's seeing Hell's greatest hits, they can--
"Dean?"
A woman with short brown hair is standing a few feet away, leather purse slung over her shoulder. A few other people are standing near the bar's entrance, watching them. It takes Dean a minute, but then it clicks.
"Sheriff Mills," Dean says, then swallows. "What are you doing here?"
"Getting a drink with a couple of friends. I could ask you two the same question."
"We're visiting." He renews his grip on Sam as Sam's eyes flicker, surfacing for a brief moment to stutter Dean's name.
Jody takes a step forward. "That's your brother, right? Sam? Is he okay?"
"Yeah, he's--"
"Everything okay, Jody?" One of the women in the group comes up to stand next to Jody, her face tight, eyes narrowed like she's looking at somebody's snarling Rottweiler. Dean glares, bristling at the thought of anyone looking at Sam like that, but then his eyes follow her and his stomach drops. Sam's face is white, a direct contrast to the vivid blood painting his chin, staining his teeth from where it's dripped in his mouth, and his eyes have stopped tracking things invisible to the rest of the world. Instead, they're fixed on Jody and her friend with icy intensity.
"Everything's fine," Jody says. "Just catching up with some friends. Listen, you guys go ahead and I'll be in in a sec."
The blonde lifts her chin, looking between Sam and Dean with narrowed eyes, but finally nods. "I'll come looking if you're not back in five minutes."
"Thanks, Cath," Jody says, then turns back to Dean. "What's wrong with him?" she asks in a low voice. "Is he epileptic?"
Dean gives a short laugh. "Believe me, this isn't a seizure."
"Is he going to be okay?"
A guttural sound is pulled from Sam's throat. Dean shifts him, bracing his shoulder against Sam's chest, and Sam's fingers loosen their hold on his shirt.
"Hey, hey," Dean says, pulling back to look at Sam's face, tapping Sam's cheek until Sam looks at him. "You with me?"
"D-d-d," Sam tries.
"Dean, are you sure--"
Sam's eyes snap to Jody again, lips curling back in a snarl. Jody takes a step back and Dean shoves in, putting himself in Sam's path, digging his thumbs into the meat of Sam's shoulders hard enough to leave bruises.
"Sam, listen. She is not what you're fighting. You went too deep, you're mixing things up. Okay? Are you listening?" Sam doesn't budge, bracing himself against Dean's push, but he looks down at Dean. "She's not your powers, Sam," Dean says in a low voice. "It's Jody, Jody Mills, remember?"
He watches as Sam sucks in a deep breath, the glazed look in his eyes disappearing, and then Sam goes limp. Dean catches him as he sinks to the ground, blood gushing from his nose like it's broken, whispering to himself in what sounds like fragments of Enochian. His hands are shaking, chest stuttering as he pulls in deep lungfuls of air.
"Good job, Sammy."
A pack of Kleenex appears to Dean's right. He takes them and nods his thanks to Jody who folds her lips in a smile and squeezes his shoulder before walking away. Dean rips open the pack and holds Sam still by the back of his neck as he mops what blood he can off of Sam's face.
"Listen to me, Sammy, we gotta go. You hear me? C'mon, get in the truck."
He hefts Sam up and pushes Sam again, putting his shoulder into it, and Sam goes easily, pliant and malleable. Dean buckles him into the truck, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he gets behind the wheel and thinks about what they should do. If he could have his own way, he'd drive them back to Bobby's and clean Sam up, turn on a movie, pull out the whiskey, and forget about everything for an hour or two.
Sam is still and quiet in the passenger seat, head tilted back as thick drops of blood slide from his chin to his neck. In his lap, his fingers are trembling.
"You okay?"
"Worse," Sam says, the word thick. He swallows, eyelids fluttering shut. "Tired."
"You went deep there, bro."
"Had to," Sam answers. "That's where they are."
Dean curses and reaches across Sam to the glove compartment, digging around for napkins and wadding them in Sam's lax hand. "Wipe your face." Sam does, mechanically, two passes from nose to chin before balling the napkins in his fist and closing his eyes again.
A church, then.
Bobby picks up on the fifth ring. "You're going to make me regret letting you leave the house, aren't you?"
"I need directions to the nearest church."
Bobby sighs, the sound crackling through the connection. "St. Catherine's. You follow Fifth to Orchard. You need me to meet you there?"
"Nah, I've got it covered. Thanks."
-
He pulls in front of the church and shifts the truck into park, anger bubbling in his chest when he realizes that the doors to the sanctuary are open and there's music drifting from inside. He should have known there would be a service--it's Thanksgiving, of course there's a service--and every church in town will be having some sort of event, some sort of worship something or sermon on thankfulness or food drive. The thought of all those people gathered together in there singing about the things they have brings a sick feeling to Dean's stomach, like someone took his words and twisted them into something ugly. Sam doesn't say anything, but he's known Dean too long to not know what he's thinking.
Here they are, the great Winchesters, sitting in an old Ford with the heater blasting because Sam's starting to come back to himself and will be chattering his teeth out soon, and the world's here because they made it so. Sam's here, he's right here, and if there's anyone those people should be thanking for even having a church to sing in, it's the kid sitting next to him with his own blood dried on his face.
They sit in silence for a while, listening to the faint sound of singing coming from the church.
Sam doesn't open his eyes when Dean finally asks, "What's it like? Being there. In your head."
"Like possession," Sam says. "Like my powers. Like a combination of those things, something else that's always been in you waking up. You feel it pushing and you push back--until you can't anymore."
"Your nose was bleeding this time."
"I pushed hard."
They fall into silence again until Sam shifts in his seat, hands clenching around the wad of napkins.
"I can tell when you're worried about things," he says. "There's an...orangeish...light, I guess. Reminds me of that time you got the flu in Montana and threw up all that Gatorade. It kind of sits behind your shoulders when they get tight. The church..." Sam nods at the white spire above them, shadowed in the night sky. "I can see...I don't know, feathers, I guess. Blue and white, and it lifts from the church there and just...whoosh." Sam spreads his fingers like a bomb going off and Dean drags a hand down his face. "Surprises me every time. Holy ground."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"I don't know," Sam says. "I don't know. Maybe so you understand."
-
Bobby's sitting at the table with a cup of coffee in front of him, long gone cold, when they get back. He doesn't ask where they've been or what happened, takes in the drops of blood on Sam's shirt with a grim look and rinses out his mug. "Pot's still warm," he says, nodding to it, then goes back up to bed.
Dean wakes late, and coming downstairs is like deja vu from the night before. Bobby is at the counter with a mug in his hand and he pours another cup for Dean when he comes into the kitchen yawning.
"Where's Sam?" Dean asks, taking the cup with a grateful nod.
"He's been outside most of the morning. Zepp's been keeping him company. You boys going to stick around for a few days?"
"Wish we could, but Sam's got his shift at the bar and they need me at the garage. Besides, laying low, right? For a while longer, at least."
Bobby glances through the window, probably looking for Sam. "How long do you think until Sam's ready to hunt again?"
"It's only been a few months. I was thinking a year, at least."
"And he's going to make it that long?" Dean's head snaps up and Bobby holds up a hand. "Missouri called." He puts down his coffee up and lowers his voice, as if Sam was in the next room and not outside somewhere. "I know you've been working with him, but Sam's not better. He's different."
"He's doing his best," Dean says shortly.
"And how long do you think his best is going to last? A year? Two? He's fading faster than that, kid."
"I know that. You think I don't know that? That's the reason I brought him here in the first place, because I don't know how long he can hold out."
Bobby hesitates, then asks, "Does Sam know that?"
"I can't guess what Sam's thinking on his good days, you think I'm going to have a snowball's chance now? He came here, in the middle of a hunt, believe it or not. That should tell you something."
Bobby nods at the window. "He might've left one hunt, but he's found another. Said there was something he wanted to look at out by the old well."
"Damn it."
-
Sam's crouched by the well, Zeppelin nosing in the brown grass. The heavy cover is shifted so Sam can stare down into the blackness. Dean calls him three times before he looks up, and when he does his eyes are glazed, pupils dilated.
"Dean. There's something down there."
"What part of vacation do you not understand?" Dean growls, shouldering Sam aside so he can drag the cover back into place. "We're not hunting right now, Sam."
"Maybe we should be." Sam's eyes are clearer, his voice firming as he becomes more focused. "I think there's a rusalka in there."
The cover settles with a clang and Dean brushes his hands off on his jeans. "Nothing's coming through there, Sam, it's blessed--"
"--iron, I know, I can hear it. You know what else I can hear? Whatever's down there screaming every night. If we just--"
"Sam, no," Dean snaps, pushing him back a step. Sam stumbles, more out of surprise than anything, and Dean follows. "Would you look at yourself? I mean, really look. It's taking everything we have to keep our heads above water and our feet on the ground and, man, I feel like I'm doing it on my own. It's like every time I turn around you're haring off, trying to find a hunt, and I'm sick of it! You want to get yourself killed because something got to you before you even knew it was there, go ahead."
"Fine, you want me to look at myself? I have. Hunting helps me focus, Dean. You want to know what I'd be like if I didn't?"
"There's a difference between keeping sharp and running yourself into the ground. You were always on Dad's back over that."
"You want me to not give up? This is how I do it."
"Not hunting isn't giving up, it's picking your battles. Listen, I know you don't give up. Okay? You haven't given up a day in your life and we've had the fights to prove it. No one here to convince, Sam."
Sam kicks at the iron cover, hair shadowing his face. "You don't know what it's like," he says quietly.
"You're right, I don't." Dean steps forward. "Doesn't mean I'm gonna quit asking you to let it go."
"Hunting?" Sam asks with a wry grin. "Or just this one?"
"Whichever one you'll give me."
Sam huffs a breath, considering. Finally, he says, "All right. I'll leave this one alone."
It's a promise he's made before, but Dean doesn't care. He'll keep Sam promising it every day if he has to.
-
Dinner is quiet that night, and when they leave the next morning Bobby pulls Sam into a hug that lingers, and when he pulls away his eyes are rimmed in red. Sam doesn't say anything when he gets in the truck but he clears his throat a few times when Dean pulls out. But for the Impala, Dean could swear it's exactly the same as when they left in the summer, except Sam leans his seat back and goes to sleep and the shadows in the hollows of his cheeks reminds Dean that Sam was supposed to be better by now.
-
On the Saturday after they get back, Dean's in the garage messing around with the Impala when the side door opens and Sam walks in, charms around his neck and gun at his waistband.
"You can come if you want," he says, "but I'm hunting it."
Dean considers, then tosses his tools back in their box. "I'm coming."
-
He follows Sam to the back field and watches as Sam stands beneath the overhanging branches of a pine and closes his eyes, centering himself. After a moment, he murmurs, "There it is," and lifts a hand like he's threading string through his fingers. Sam doesn't make for Johnson's Pond. Instead he moves straight back through the trees bordering their property, pushing past the low branches and wending his way between the tree trunks fast enough that Dean's panting as he tries to keep up. A couple of times Sam stops, hand out and searching, but once he finds whatever he's looking for he's off again at a half-jog. Dean's so consumed with trying to keep up that he smacks into Sam's back when he finally stops.
"Sam, what the--"
Sam claps a hand over Dean's mouth, pulling them both into a crouch.
"Where is it?" Dean whispers. Sam lifts a finger to point and then presses his palm to Dean's chest--Wait here. "Like hell I'm waiting here," he growls, but Sam is already moving from a crouch to a half-run with more grace than Dean's used to seeing in his brother. "Sam," he hisses, watching as Sam draws himself to his full height, shoulders back and feet spread, and then the words dry up in Dean's throat.
Sam cups his hands, eyes narrowed in concentration, and all sound bleeds from the trees around them. Blood rushes in Dean's ears, thumping to a rapid tattoo that gets stronger and stronger as Sam pulls his hands toward his chest. Then Sam buckles and the silence lifts, the thin sound of Sam's panting breaths ringing in Dean's ears. He wavers, putting a hand to the cold forest floor to steady himself, before getting to his feet and stumbling over to Sam.
He's kneeling on the ground, hunched over a little with his hands clenched on his chest, but his eyes are clear when he blinks at Dean, familiarity in the lines of his face.
"What was that?" Dean asks, offering Sam a hand up.
"Don't know," Sam pants. "That's why we're out here." He takes Dean's hand gratefully, charms clinking around his neck as he stands up. "Guess these didn't help that much." He hisses when Dean prods at his temple, fingertips coming back bloody.
"You hit your head?" Dean asks, pulling Sam forward so he can look at it. A brief moment of inspection reveals a small cut, hardly any bruising. "You'll live."
"Thanks," Sam says, rolling his eyes, but he weaves more than a small bump on the head warrants. When they get back to the house, he's pliant enough that Dean walks him up the stairs and has him sit on the closed toilet seat so he can dab hydrogen peroxide over the cut and put tape over it, then tilts Sam's head up to the light and watches only one of his pupils contract.
"How the heck did you get a concussion from a tree root?" he mutters and Sam just swallows and closes his eyes. "You gonna puke?"
"Maybe." Sam swallows again and lifts a hand to his neck. "Feels like I got hit in the head with a brick."
Dean fits his fingers over Sam's scalp tentatively, probing at the base of his skull. Sam hisses as Dean's fingers brush a lump and pulls back. "I don't get it, you were fine five minutes ago."
Sam stands up, lifts up the toilet seat, and vomits.
"Guess not."
Dean gets Sam in bed with ice packs down his neck and spine and wakes him up every hour for the rest of the day. After Sam falls asleep for the third time, Dean makes a call to the clinic and describes Sam's symptoms.
"Sounds like it's a concussion all right. Keep him iced and give him Advil if he asks for it. He'll be sore for a few days and he'll probably look like he got in a fight with the wrong end of a stick, but he'll live."
"I was there, Doc. He tripped over a tree root, barely hit his head. By the time we got back to the house it was like he fell down a flight of stairs."
Doctor Connor sighs over the phone. "I don't know what to tell you, Dean. Keep an eye on him for the next twelve hours. If he doesn't get any better, bring him in and I'll check him out."
The next time Sam wakes up, Dean swaps out his ice packs and says, "You know I get it, Sam. I do. I watched Dad try to be a civilian, stay in one place so we could finish high school, work a steady job to keep food on the table. It used to scare me the way he looked when he found a hunt--relieved. Like he had a purpose again. I know why he couldn't do it, the small-town stuff. But it didn't stop me from wanting him to try."
"I am trying," Sam says, face mashed into the pillow. His back is already coloring, mottled black and blue, and Dean shakes his head.
"Going out there today wasn't trying. Following your visions in the name of helping people isn't trying."
"I can't explain it--"
"I'm not asking you to explain it," Dean snaps, "I'm asking you to stop."
Sam's face is hidden by the shadows but Dean can see his jaw tic and his hands curl around his pillow--classic signs that Sam's getting ready for a fight. He doesn't answer, though, just stays facedown, sore and miserable, until Dean wearily picks up the ice packs and goes back downstairs.
-
Sam has another episode that night. Dean watches with macabre fascination as Sam goes downstairs and out the front door. He walks out to the flat expanse behind the house, bare feet sinking through the snow's crust. Dean shivers, hands jammed in his armpits, but Sam's stock-still, not a tremor running through him. He doesn't feel the cold maybe--Dean's never asked--but if Dean had found him an hour or so later he'd be crying and Dean would have had to swat his clutching hands away so he could look at Sam's feet and worry about frostbite. Sam's silent now, though, immobile as he looks up at the stars. Dean approaches slowly, his own teeth chattering.
"Pretty, aren't they?"
It's the first time Sam's said anything to him in the middle of an episode and for a minute Dean freezes, sure that it's just him and Sam there, nothing wrong with him. But the eerie way Sam tilts his head and the set of his shoulders tells Dean that whatever is talking to him right now isn't fully his brother.
"They're out of orbit," Sam continues. "They've been in sync for nearly two millennia and now not one of them is hung right. And you." Sam turns to Dean and as much as Dean wants to look away, he can't. "You won't let me move them back. Why, Dean?"
"C'mon, Sam." Dean puts a hand out for his brother's arm, trying to look reassuring. "C'mon, let's go inside. Okay? This isn't you, we'll go inside and get you...get you warmed up."
"Why are you crying?" Sam asks, sliding a hand across Dean's face. "Why does it make you sad? You act angry but--"
"Come on, Sam."
"The snow. And the stars. Is it them? Why--" Sam's looking around him now, his voice rising as he struggles his way through his subconscious. Dean knows what's coming and hurries Sam faster. "Dean? Dean, how--"
They get through the door and then Sam's in a heap on the ground, making sharp pained sounds and gasping like the wind's been knocked out of him. "What happened?" he asks. Shivers rack his spine. "Dean."
"Shh, it's okay. It wasn't even a bad one. Short, sweet, you were gone maybe five minutes. Okay? Sam. All right? No, don't touch your feet-- Sam, don't, just let--"
Sobs wrench Sam's shoulders and Dean lets go of Sam's wrists, trapping them between their bodies as he lunges forward and pulls Sam's face to his chest, reaching around Sam to span his back with an arm, his hand combed through Sam's hair.
"Sam, we're gonna be okay. It's all right; we're gonna be okay. Come out of it, buddy, that's good. Nothing's going to happen."
"It is," Sam gets out. "It is, it's worse. I am trying, I am, but I can't control it, I can't stop it. I just want-- Why won't it stop? I want it to stop."
Dean shakes his head fiercely, rocking them both back and forth. "I don't know. I don't know." His face feels tight, brittle, like his jaw will crack if he keeps clenching it this tight. He's suddenly irrationally angry at Heaven, at Castiel, at whatever did this to Sam, to them, at whatever reason Sam has to fall to this after all he's struggled through. "You said no to the Devil," he whispers harshly. "You get to say no to this."
-
The next day there's no talk of what happened. Sam drags out a box of Christmas lights from who knows where and spends the morning laying the bulbs out in neat strings on the snow, ignoring Dean when he comes out to watch.
"This is dumb, you know that."
"If you're not going to help, go back in the house." Sam stretches to carefully tap a nail into the roofline. He wraps the string of lights around the nail, bulbs clinking softly, and moves on to the next one. Dean crosses his arms, surveying the effect with distaste. The bulbs are chipped, the colors peeling off the glass, and he'd bet the Impala not a few won't light up at all.
Sam taps in another nail.
Dean goes to help him.
-
After that, it's like Sam has decided to take the Christmas season by storm. Carol invites him over to help with cookies and when Dean makes his way over there to find out what's taking Sam so long it's to find that Sam is making a list of the cookies he thinks Carol should make. It'd be annoying from anyone but Sam and Carol only laughs and says that her grandson would appreciate Sam's taste.
One day Dean comes home expecting to find Sam either at the Finley's or, God forbid, out wandering in the snow somewhere. Instead, he opens the front door and is confronted by Burl Ives's "Holly Jolly Christmas" blasting from the radio in the kitchen. Sam's perched on a bar stool, socked feet hanging from the rungs, tapping a pen in time with the music as he edits papers, completely unperturbed.
"Seriously?" Dean asks.
"We're behind schedule, man, half the town has been playing this stuff since Thanksgiving."
"And the other half?"
"Are Grinches."
"So we're citizens of Whoville?"
"Yup."
Sam doesn't seem apologetic about it either, which probably explains the wreath on the door. Dean makes a face at it but doesn't take it down. What he doesn't know is that Sam's only just getting started.
-
Saturdays are for coffee and breakfast at eleven o'clock. Saturdays are for shuffling around the house in sweats. Saturdays are for football games and starting wars for the TV remote. But most of all, Saturdays are for sleeping in.
"Not getting up at the crack of dawn to hunt down some lame tree," Dean grumbles, cradling his coffee while Sam prints out directions to a tree lot.
"It's not that bad."
"There's snow."
Sam eyes Dean skeptically.
"Yeah, yeah, there's always snow," he mutters. "Should've just chopped down one of the trees out back, there's plenty of 'em out there."
"It's not the same. Tree lots are part of the season."
"Tree lots," Dean argues, "are for people who don't have perfectly good pine trees sitting in their backyard."
Sam throws the truck keys at Dean and zips up his coat. So they go.
They drive to Leesburg, pull into the lot and get out, Dean making a face as he brushes past a tree and sap sticks to his jacket. "See? Snow." He points at a tree with clumps of white on its branches.
"So we brush it off before we load it in the truck."
"Still gonna get everywhere."
"Dean, I have seen you fall asleep with sewage in your hair. You do not get to whine about snow."
"It's a free country," Dean counters. A mom and her three kids move through the lot a row away and Dean elbows Sam when he hears the youngest complain that he's cold. Sam rolls his eyes.
"Yeah, Dean. From an eight year old."
Dean makes a face. "Let's just get this over with."
"Good idea." Sam pulls at a pine nearly as tall as him, gives it a good turn, and then puts it back.
"Hey, hey, what's wrong with that one?"
"It's all bent on one side."
Dean looks skyward. "My god, this is going to take forever, isn't it? Just grab a tree, man, any tree. There's a hundred here, they're all green and needle-y, they've all got enough sap to keep a zombie in a coffin--"
"Nice. Way to be incognito."
"I'm just saying, this is dumb and I can think of a million better ways to spend my Saturday."
"Hey." Sam points at the gate. "Some kid got ran over by the entrance here once. You want me to go check that out or would you rather we pick a tree?"
"Lead on," Dean grumbles.
-
It's noon by the time Sam (finally) picks a tree well over six feet tall and declares it perfect and by then Dean gladly pays the price and tosses it into the bed of the truck. Once they get home, it takes them a good half hour to wrestle the tree out of the bed and through the front door, and another fifteen minutes to coax it into the tree stand in the living room. It's still a little crooked when Dean throws up his hands and declares it good enough but Sam's grinning and here, which, Dean admits, was the whole point.
"So? What do you think?" asks Sam.
"Fantastic," Dean says, rolling his eyes, but he means it as much as he hates to admit it. The tree really is something. Seven feet of dark green needles releasing the scent of pine every time Sam brushes a hand over its branches. The room is practically filled by it.
"I think it looks really good. Now all we've got to do is decorate it."
Dean rears his head back but doesn't say anything. A wing of Sam's hair is sticking out to the side, probably held there by sap from when he crept on his belly to put the tree in the stand while Dean balanced the top and he's grinning wide enough to hide the hollows in his cheeks, the circles under his eyes. For a minute, he looks twenty-two again, still fresh-faced from Stanford with a law interview lined up for the next day.
The words come out of his mouth before Dean can stop himself. "You and Jessica ever have a tree?"
Sam shrugs. "Yeah, once. Wasn't real, though. Some plastic thing she dug up in the landlord's basement, paid him five bucks for it and dragged it up to our apartment."
"You guys decorate it?"
"Look, Dean, if you don't want to do this, just say the word. We don't have to decorate it. Heck, we don't even have to have a tree. We can take it down right now, no harm no foul."
"I didn't say that," Dean says quickly.
"Dean." Sam's face is serious. "Do you want the tree?"
His voice is even, face carefully neutral, and for a minute Dean's chest clenches at the idea of what Sam could have been, if he'd just stayed away, if Dad hadn't gone missing, if Mary hadn't died. He's trying to let Dean decide, not giving away what he wants, and Dean sees right through the whole thing. Sam wants this tree. He wants this holiday, wants Christmas so bad he can taste it, heaven knows why--and isn't it ironic that the last time they pulled out all the stops for this holiday it was Dean who wanted it so bad and Sam who dug in his heels?
The thought sobers Dean right up.
The last time he'd wanted Christmas this bad he had only a year to live.
"Sam?" Dean says, his throat suddenly tight. He looks down at the floor, then back up to where Sam is watching him, waiting. "Sam." He swallows. "Are you dying?"
For a moment, the only sound in the room is Dean breathing. Then Sam inhales sharply and says, "I'm still saying no, Dean." He looks away. "It's just a tree. Forget it."
"No." Dean steps forward, pushing his hands into the branches. "No, I want it."
"Are you sure?" Sam asks. "Because I don't want you holding this over my head and you will, I know you will. It'll come out one day and you'll expect me to feel guilty and--"
"I want it." Dean looks up at the top branches, craning his head. "I want it. We're decorating it."
He looks over and Sam is watching him. "Okay," Sam says quietly.
-
It doesn't come up again.
Sam acts just like he always does, shaving to off-key Christmas carols in the mornings, jamming on that stupid red beanie whenever he goes to the grocery store. They drive to the next town to pick up parts for the garage and Sam turns the radio on to Christmas songs and leaves his hand over the knob when Dean complains.
"You sound like a dying cat," he says and digs an elbow into Sam's side, jogging Sam's fingers so they slide on the dial and the volume jumps. The truck's cab is filled with the sound of Rudolph's tragedy and Sam leans in, yelling the words. Dean curses and shoves Sam back, grabbing at the knob and turning the volume down to a manageable level. The grin on Sam's face doesn't disappear, though. Neither does the ache in Dean's chest.
Over the next week, Christmas finds its way into their house. A huge red bow is wrapped around the wreath, disrupting whatever delicate balance the wreath had. It knocks Dean's shoulder whenever he comes in and he gripes about it constantly but leaves the damn thing up.
Another bow decorates their mailbox. When Dean threatens to take a knife to it, Sam laughs and three bulbs explode in a shower of colored glass. Dean counts that as a win.
Somewhere Sam digs up a box of bells and hangs them on every door. It's kind of nice to hear their quiet jingle, Dean only admits to himself, but it's downright annoying when Sam's doing laundry and keeps slamming the breezeway door on his way to the garage, bearing loads of clothes back and forth. He's about to snap at Sam to take the bell off the side door until he's done when understanding hits like a load of bricks.
"These are about your episodes, aren't they?" Dean accuses when Sam walks in again. Sam raises his eyebrows and sets down the laundry basket, taking in the fistful of bells Dean is holding. "They're supposed to help me keep track of you when you get dragged outside to who knows where."
"Look, they're just decorations. If you don't want 'em, we can take them down."
"You know what, cut the crap. I'm done with it."
Sam shakes out his shoulders and meets Dean's eyes. "All right. Fine. Yeah, they're for my episodes. I figured maybe they'd help."
Dean sets the bells down, ignoring their discordant jangle. "Sam, are you sure we're doing the right thing for you here?"
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about saying no."
Sam's shaking his head before Dean finishes the sentence.
"Sam, listen to me. It's different now, it's--"
"It's not different," Sam says firmly. "It's not. Missouri told us months ago that it was either yes or no. All this comes with no. We knew that."
"We thought there'd be something out there."
"And there's not."
"So we figure out a new game plan and do what works! Sam, you are dying," Dean says in a rush. Sam hasn't moved, like he didn't even hear. "You're dying," he says again and Sam's face does change, then, his eyes going soft.
"Not yet."
"And later?" Dean pushes. "If nothing comes up. If you keep...not doing great."
Sam takes a step forward. "Dean," he says quietly, "this has to stop. We're not going down that road."
"What road?"
"The one where we always sacrifice ourselves for each other. The one where we act like idiots and can't just deal like normal people."
"Name one time in our lives that we've ever been normal."
"Exactly," Sam says. "So we're starting now. If that happens, if things don't go...according to plan. I go out, that's it, end of story."
Dean shakes his head. "I can't do that."
"You have to, Dean. It's the only way this thing is going to work. One of us has to make it."
"It doesn't have to be this way, Sam."
"Yeah." Sam straightens. "It does."
"Why?" Dean spits. "Because you said so?"
Sam nods. "Yeah. Because I said so."
"That's--"
And Sam's hand flies to his head.
"Oh come on, we're doing this now?" Dean says, putting a hand on Sam's arm. "Sam. If you're messing with me..."
Sam steadies himself on the counter but keeps one hand pressed to his temple. "I'm not. I'm..." He jerks away, eyes distant. "I have to go."
"Sam, wait. Where?"
"Burial ground," Sam gets out and then he's gone.
-
Snow is falling in bitter flakes from an iron-gray sky. Dean skids across a patch of ice on their walkway, plunging into the snow after Sam. Half a second's delay and he's yards behind Sam who can outrun Dean on his best day. Sam stumbles twice, the second time ending on his knees in the snow, but then his head snaps up and he runs with single-minded purpose, every movement calculated, poised. Breath whistling out of his lungs, Dean compares this Sam to the one that groped in the air like he was following a string and realizes--Sam isn't using his powers right now. He's overcome by them. Sam jerks and falls again, long enough for Dean to catch up.
"Sam," he says, putting a hand on Sam's back. Sam clambers to his feet.
"Don't st--" The words dry up and his face goes blank even as Dean watches. His eyes slide from Dean's face to the field and he's off again.
"Sam," Dean tries again but Sam doesn't stumble and he doesn't turn. He plunges on, a dark figure in the middle of the stark white field, and Dean follows until Sam stops at the far corner and lifts his palm.
Dean doesn't see anything, but he feels it when Sam closes his fist and pulls it to his chest, icy flakes flurrying from the sky like Sam's pulling them straight down. The air goes tight, freezing in Dean's lungs and drawing his eyelids shut, and then Sam gasps and it's over. When he opens his eyes, Sam is on the ground, snow tangling in his hair. Whatever he was fighting is gone.
Dean steps forward and puts a cautious hand on Sam's back, and when Sam doesn't shrug him off, he helps Sam to his feet. "Did you get it?" he asks and Sam pants, "No."
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