SPN FIC - I Hear Voices
Back to the beginning. October 2005, say half an hour before Sam hears a noise in the other room...
He's a couple miles out when the Impala coughs once, like she's clearing her throat. Like she's asking him, You sure you want to do this?
CHARACTERS: Dean
GENRE: Gen
SPOILERS: None
RATING: PG
LENGTH: 1243 words
I HEAR VOICES
By Carol Davis
He's a couple miles out when the Impala coughs once, like she's clearing her throat. Like she's asking him, You sure you want to do this?
He lets her idle a little longer than necessary at the stoplight after it's gone green, which is a problem for nobody, because there's nobody behind them. The road's clear and empty in the rearview, as far back as he can see.
Never go backwards when you can go forward.
Somebody told him that once.
It makes good sense, he figures. But the thing is: back there's when they were a family. Him, and Sammy, and Dad. No apple pie kind of a thing, the kind that's in movies and TV shows and ads in magazines; no cozy little house in the 'burbs, no high school diploma (for Sam, yeah, but not for him), no pot roast on the table - shit, no table to put it on. Still, they were a family. For all the shouting and the slammed doors and the long, brittle silences, for all the fleeing from place to place in the middle of the night, for all the bleeding and the heartache and the broken bones and the death…
They were a family.
And they're not that, now. Not any more.
He could change his mind. Not go back, but not go forward, either - at least, not in the direction he's pointed toward. He could let Sammy go on living his little American dream (with his beautiful blonde girlfriend; they've done enough spying, he and Dad, that he knows there's a "she" in Sam's life, and that she's something more to Sam than someone to hang out with, someone to screw). He could let Sam go on turning his back on what he (they) used to be, far away from the people who raised him and loved him and figured giving things up so Sam could have something extra was no sacrifice at all, because what came in return - that look of pure glowing joy on Sam's face - was payment enough.
He could do that. Leave Sam be. Because Sam's happy now. Has to be, because he got what he wanted.
Maybe, Dean thinks - maybe he ought to let 'er ride. Leave well enough alone. He's not a kid any more. He can do this on his own. And if not, there's Bobby to turn to. Or Jim. Either one of them would open the door for him. Give him a place to sleep, something to eat, a helping hand at finding Dad.
Maybe he ought to let that be, too.
Nobody dragged Dad away. Nobody - nothing - made him leave. There's that creepy-ass voicemail, yeah, those few choppy, static-crackling words warning Dean to be careful, and that's why Dean's here, that's why he came to Palo Alto. To tell Sam that something's going on.
To tell Sam to be careful, and then go on his way. To Bobby's. Or Jim's.
Right?
That's it. That's all.
There's somebody behind him now, someone anxious to be somewhere at one in the morning, and he's in their way. He never meant to be anybody's roadblock, but it seems like that's what he's turned out to be.
Him, standing in between a lot of people and what they need to do. Where they need to be.
There's a little asphalt lot off to the right, and instead of going either forward or back he swings the wheel in that direction and finds a place to park, off in the shadows, alongside a beat-up old Volvo with a stuffed Garfield suction-cupped to the backseat window. Friggin' thing looks like it's trying to get out, like it's desperate to bust loose, and for a second Dean is half-inclined to break the Volvo's window and toss the cat off into the brush at the edge of the lot. Let it fend for itself for a while, find out that inside the car's not all that bad of a place to be. But the ambition he'd need to do that is somewhere he can't touch it, so, instead, he shuts off the Impala's big engine and sits in the quiet, his hands on the wheel, with the white of the bar's bright neon laying on the seat beside him, where Sam used to sit.
He's got choices, and he's free to make them. Nobody's told him what to do, other than Be careful.
He can go anywhere he damn well pleases.
There's nobody waiting for him. Nowhere he needs to be. Dad left, see, and in a way that said You're grown now. I trained you. I armed you.
Now go do what you need to do.
But be careful.
When he glances over that way, that stupid stuffed cat is looking at him, staring at him, like it's waiting for him to say something.
A shadow falls toward the car, blocking the white light of the neon, and in the rearview he watches a guy and a girl, arms wrapped around each other, walk from the bar to a pale blue SUV. They're going home now, Dean thinks. Hers, his, theirs - it doesn't make much difference.
They're going home.
He watches the SUV pull out of the lot, watches it roll onto the main road and on out of sight, and for a moment he's angry and envious and a little bitter, but once it's gone he doesn't feel much of anything.
Then he does.
Two years, he thinks: it's been two years that he's left Sam alone, that he hasn't been a roadblock, he hasn't stood in the way of Sam's pursuit of truth, justice and giant piles of money. (And blonde girlfriends; there's that - there's always that.)
Maybe that's not long enough, from Sam's point of view. Maybe ten years would be more like it. Or twenty. Or fifty. Maybe a hundred years free of their old life would put a nice, golden, contented glow on Sam's face.
But maybe not.
Maybe two years has been long enough. Maybe it's nothing more than pure stubbornness that's kept Sam from calling. From reaching out, reaching back.
Sammy always was stubborn. If he was nothing else, he was stubborn.
It's worth asking, Dean thinks.
It's been two years. And Dad's…somewhere. Maybe hanging just out of sight, waiting to see what Dean will do with a car and a tank of gas and a lot of open road lying out there in every direction he looks.
Stubborn, Dean thinks.
Both of 'em. Stubborn. Neither one of them would ever back down, not Dad and not Sam; Dean was always the peacemaker. Standing in the middle, keeping them from killing each other.
Tying them together.
Maybe that's what they want now. Maybe two years is long enough. Maybe it's not, but it's worth a try. He's only a couple miles out, can be there in a few minutes. At Sam's place. Hell, he could walk there from here if he needed to.
But he doesn't need to. When he turns the key, the car answers him immediately. No cough, no throat-clearing.
Take care of Sam, Dad's always told him.
Yeah. Well. It's worth a try.
With a last glance at that fat orange cat, suction-cupped alone inside the old Volvo, he rolls his foot against the gas pedal listening to the good, strong throb of the engine, then swings his car out of the lot and points it straight ahead.
Toward family.
* * * * *
He's a couple miles out when the Impala coughs once, like she's clearing her throat. Like she's asking him, You sure you want to do this?
CHARACTERS: Dean
GENRE: Gen
SPOILERS: None
RATING: PG
LENGTH: 1243 words
I HEAR VOICES
By Carol Davis
He's a couple miles out when the Impala coughs once, like she's clearing her throat. Like she's asking him, You sure you want to do this?
He lets her idle a little longer than necessary at the stoplight after it's gone green, which is a problem for nobody, because there's nobody behind them. The road's clear and empty in the rearview, as far back as he can see.
Never go backwards when you can go forward.
Somebody told him that once.
It makes good sense, he figures. But the thing is: back there's when they were a family. Him, and Sammy, and Dad. No apple pie kind of a thing, the kind that's in movies and TV shows and ads in magazines; no cozy little house in the 'burbs, no high school diploma (for Sam, yeah, but not for him), no pot roast on the table - shit, no table to put it on. Still, they were a family. For all the shouting and the slammed doors and the long, brittle silences, for all the fleeing from place to place in the middle of the night, for all the bleeding and the heartache and the broken bones and the death…
They were a family.
And they're not that, now. Not any more.
He could change his mind. Not go back, but not go forward, either - at least, not in the direction he's pointed toward. He could let Sammy go on living his little American dream (with his beautiful blonde girlfriend; they've done enough spying, he and Dad, that he knows there's a "she" in Sam's life, and that she's something more to Sam than someone to hang out with, someone to screw). He could let Sam go on turning his back on what he (they) used to be, far away from the people who raised him and loved him and figured giving things up so Sam could have something extra was no sacrifice at all, because what came in return - that look of pure glowing joy on Sam's face - was payment enough.
He could do that. Leave Sam be. Because Sam's happy now. Has to be, because he got what he wanted.
Maybe, Dean thinks - maybe he ought to let 'er ride. Leave well enough alone. He's not a kid any more. He can do this on his own. And if not, there's Bobby to turn to. Or Jim. Either one of them would open the door for him. Give him a place to sleep, something to eat, a helping hand at finding Dad.
Maybe he ought to let that be, too.
Nobody dragged Dad away. Nobody - nothing - made him leave. There's that creepy-ass voicemail, yeah, those few choppy, static-crackling words warning Dean to be careful, and that's why Dean's here, that's why he came to Palo Alto. To tell Sam that something's going on.
To tell Sam to be careful, and then go on his way. To Bobby's. Or Jim's.
Right?
That's it. That's all.
There's somebody behind him now, someone anxious to be somewhere at one in the morning, and he's in their way. He never meant to be anybody's roadblock, but it seems like that's what he's turned out to be.
Him, standing in between a lot of people and what they need to do. Where they need to be.
There's a little asphalt lot off to the right, and instead of going either forward or back he swings the wheel in that direction and finds a place to park, off in the shadows, alongside a beat-up old Volvo with a stuffed Garfield suction-cupped to the backseat window. Friggin' thing looks like it's trying to get out, like it's desperate to bust loose, and for a second Dean is half-inclined to break the Volvo's window and toss the cat off into the brush at the edge of the lot. Let it fend for itself for a while, find out that inside the car's not all that bad of a place to be. But the ambition he'd need to do that is somewhere he can't touch it, so, instead, he shuts off the Impala's big engine and sits in the quiet, his hands on the wheel, with the white of the bar's bright neon laying on the seat beside him, where Sam used to sit.
He's got choices, and he's free to make them. Nobody's told him what to do, other than Be careful.
He can go anywhere he damn well pleases.
There's nobody waiting for him. Nowhere he needs to be. Dad left, see, and in a way that said You're grown now. I trained you. I armed you.
Now go do what you need to do.
But be careful.
When he glances over that way, that stupid stuffed cat is looking at him, staring at him, like it's waiting for him to say something.
A shadow falls toward the car, blocking the white light of the neon, and in the rearview he watches a guy and a girl, arms wrapped around each other, walk from the bar to a pale blue SUV. They're going home now, Dean thinks. Hers, his, theirs - it doesn't make much difference.
They're going home.
He watches the SUV pull out of the lot, watches it roll onto the main road and on out of sight, and for a moment he's angry and envious and a little bitter, but once it's gone he doesn't feel much of anything.
Then he does.
Two years, he thinks: it's been two years that he's left Sam alone, that he hasn't been a roadblock, he hasn't stood in the way of Sam's pursuit of truth, justice and giant piles of money. (And blonde girlfriends; there's that - there's always that.)
Maybe that's not long enough, from Sam's point of view. Maybe ten years would be more like it. Or twenty. Or fifty. Maybe a hundred years free of their old life would put a nice, golden, contented glow on Sam's face.
But maybe not.
Maybe two years has been long enough. Maybe it's nothing more than pure stubbornness that's kept Sam from calling. From reaching out, reaching back.
Sammy always was stubborn. If he was nothing else, he was stubborn.
It's worth asking, Dean thinks.
It's been two years. And Dad's…somewhere. Maybe hanging just out of sight, waiting to see what Dean will do with a car and a tank of gas and a lot of open road lying out there in every direction he looks.
Stubborn, Dean thinks.
Both of 'em. Stubborn. Neither one of them would ever back down, not Dad and not Sam; Dean was always the peacemaker. Standing in the middle, keeping them from killing each other.
Tying them together.
Maybe that's what they want now. Maybe two years is long enough. Maybe it's not, but it's worth a try. He's only a couple miles out, can be there in a few minutes. At Sam's place. Hell, he could walk there from here if he needed to.
But he doesn't need to. When he turns the key, the car answers him immediately. No cough, no throat-clearing.
Take care of Sam, Dad's always told him.
Yeah. Well. It's worth a try.
With a last glance at that fat orange cat, suction-cupped alone inside the old Volvo, he rolls his foot against the gas pedal listening to the good, strong throb of the engine, then swings his car out of the lot and points it straight ahead.
Toward family.
* * * * *