SPN Fic: Difference

[mymuseandi]

Fandom: Supernatural

Genre: Gen

Rating: PG-13 for a lot of the F words. It's weird (for me, at least) but fun to make them cuss so much.

Word count: ~4, 700

Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby and Jessica

Spoilers: This is an AU, so no spoilers! However, this is set a year before the canon-pilot, so all the Winchesters' reactions are in compliance to the absence of demons and crossroad deals, i.e, they're not as controlled in their emotions are the boys are in canon, but I still try to make them tough! I hope it is visible in the story.

A/N: This is written for hoodie_time Writing Between the Lines Challenge, for this prompt by anonymous. Erm, sorry for the extremely, no really, very, late response to the challenge. I hope, whoever you are, you'll be happy with the fic :)

Unbeta-ed, because I'm just that impatient, so let me know if there's any mistakes.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. Dammit.

*SnSnSnSnSn* 
 Dean likes to think that his father drops dead almost instantly. No pain, no dragged-out bout of agony that had him wishing for a knife or a gun in hand so that he could get the torment over and done with. Just an instant of recognition of an “Oh shit” situation, and then a bright white light and nothing else. Dean can then console himself with the thought that his father didn’t suffer, and it makes the pain in his heart almost bearable.

But hell, who is he kidding himself? When has that goddamned Lady Luck ever smile on the Winchesters? John Winchester probably died feeling every inch of the blade that ran through his heart, saw all his blood pooling around his body, and there might even be time for a self-rescue attempt before he realized how futile it was and laid down to die in some semblance of peace…

He drinks the whiskey morning and night because it’s the only thing that helps.

Scratch that, Dean thinks blearily, as he pours himself another glass. Nothing helps. But it’s the only thing that he can get down and keep down. Not that he’s tried much else, but what he has tried has come right back up and what the fuck ever, that’s fine, Dean doesn’t need to eat anyway.

He’s been sitting with his father’s body for nearly two days now, only agreeing to leave for short periods of time if Bobby comes and spells him for a bit. “Should get going on the -- ceremony,” Bobby had said, after the first twenty-four hours had passed. “Unless you think we should bring him somewhere else.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean had answered. And it doesn’t. Wherever they decide to burn him makes no difference.

Really, Dean thinks, in the long run nothing ever makes a fucking difference.

He takes a look at his father’s corpse. With his eyes closed, and the mouth curved up like he’s smiling faintly, he can nearly fool himself into thinking that John is just sleeping, dreaming a good dream that Dean knows he sometimes get. Any minute now, he will reach over and shake his father awake, and both of them can venture out to the diner to eat the breakfast special while flipping through the pages of the newspapers looking for another hunt. After an hour, ninety minutes, tops, they will exit the diner and he will jump into the Impala to follow his father’s truck, trusting the eldest Winchester to lead the way to their destination.

He blinks and the poor pallor of his father’s complexion grabs his attention. He blinks again and notices almost absently that John’s chest isn’t rising and falling, and that the entire body is stiff, a definite sign of rigor mortis setting in.

Even delusions doesn’t fucking make a difference. John’s still dead, and Dean’s still left behind.

He downs the whiskey in the glass in one shot.

*SnSnSnSnSn*

The evening light across the blinds is crawling low across the room when he feels rather than hears him approaching, a heavy pressure in the air that seems to thicken with every second. A shadow falls on Dean, and he slouches deeper into the rackety chair and wishes the ground will just open up and swallow him whole.

“Dean.” A soft voice, with hints of tears in it.

Dean doesn’t deign to answer, choosing instead to reach for the already empty bottle of whiskey. He shakes it a little, as if that will magically induce the bottle to fill itself with the elixir of life. It doesn’t, but hey, it’s not as if he expects the luck of the draw will turn his way at the moment. He leans back on the chair, weary.

He hears the soft fall of footsteps getting closer, slowly, and he feels, rather than sees, a figure coming to stand beside him, who then tentatively crouches down to his seated height. Dean doesn’t say anything.

“He looks as though he’s just sleeping,” the same voice, cracking on the last words, followed by a choked sob.

It’s that last noise that stirs something in Dean’s heart, because he’d made the same one not two days ago.

“Sam,” he says. He doesn’t need to turn his head to know who the silhouette belongs to.

That’s all it takes for his younger brother to break. He grabs hold of Dean’s shoulders with his long arms and buries his face at the crook of Dean’s neck. For the next few minutes, all Dean can do is to pat Sam’s shaking shoulders while giving him a literal shoulder to lean on, occasionally running his fingers through his hair, because that is the default motion for comforting Sam since he was a baby.

After the next few minutes has come and gone, Sam finally withdraws and uses his sleeve to wipe his eyes. Dean takes a good look at his brother while he is doing so and is not surprised to discover that Sam has shot up yet again, probably another inch or so since the last time he spied on him from afar. His hair is a mess, as usual, and his face is so sad Dean feels his eyes burning again with unshed tears. Damn it.

He looks away.

“Bobby called me last night. I took the first flight out this morning.”

Ah, that will explain why his brother is here, because Dean as hell can’t remember picking up the phone and calling to tell him about his father’s death.

“What happened, Dean?” Sam asks as he perches on the bed beside John’s body.

Dean shrugs a shoulder. He wasn’t there when Dad took his last breath, because he was too busy being unconscious in the next room, and when he woke up, Dad was already gone. It’s his fault that John Winchester is lying dead, why couldn’t he have ducked the flying bookcase?

His presence made all the difference, Dean thinks. He was the one who practically begged John not to do this job alone. Dad wanted him to leave for another hunt two states over, but Dean persuaded him to let both of them finish this job before he left. Now he’s sure that his father will still be alive right now if he had just followed his orders instead of negotiating for a new one. What was he thinking? His father can handle a fucking poltergeist alone even when he was stinking drunk, so Dean doesn’t know why he was so worried that time would be different.

And therein lays the irony of it all. Dean’s the worst failure there is, in the history of worst failures.

He abruptly stands up, feeling mildly claustrophobic and breathless. There’s one too many people in the room, and he already has the most of two days alone with his father, so it’s Sam’s turn now, obviously. He spins around to leave and almost stumbles back when he notices a blonde by the doorway.

Awesome. It’s not enough that he’s saddling the guilt of not being able to save his father, but Sam has to bring his girlfriend along, a stark reminder that he has another life that doesn’t include his older brother, and that he doesn’t need him in his life. So Dean’s not good enough for his family anymore. That’s fucking great. Really, it’s just the kick he needs.

Without another word he brushes past the young woman and limps out the door. He needs to find Bobby, take care of the things he's been putting off for the past two days. As he searches, he asks himself if it's possible he had subconsciously waited for Sam to arrive before starting on the preparations.

Bobby has rigged up some corrugated iron to serve as makeshift walls that creates a temporary place for them to bathe and cleanse their father’s body before wrapping it up and cremating it. The old man has also offered to do the task, but Dean shakes his head, declining. John’s his father, and they’re his sons.

With his knee the way it is though, Bobby and Sam are the ones who carry John’s body to the outdoor provisional washing area. Both brothers spend the next hour washing and cleaning, and although Sam tries to start a conversation, Dean isn’t in the mood and stonewalls him at every attempt, and Sam gives up pretty soon. He gets a flashback of bathing his father - when he was still alive - a couple of times when he was injured and/or to sober him up, and almost fell to the stone floors when the grief follows the memory like a tidal wave. Sam doesn't notice.

After drying his body - Dean can’t even think of it as a corpse, much less say it - they set about the job of wrapping his body up with a white shroud, and tying the ends by his feet and his head. Dean’s the one to cover John’s face with the shroud, and as he does so he lays a kiss on his forehead, a long one, before finally biting the bullet and finishing the task. When he straightens up, he finds his cheeks wet and his younger brother watching him sadly,

Another fifteen minutes goes by while they anoint the body with oils and when the body is wrapped up Bobby moves to pick up the head. Dean stops him.

“I’ll do it.”

“Dean, your knee…” Bobby protests, glancing to the joint in question, but Dean just repeats his words, and Bobby nods reluctantly, conceding.

Dean picks up the head, and by some unspoken cue Sam picks up his feet, and together, they make their way to the cremation site. Sam’s girlfriend appears midway through the procession, and silently walks beside Sam. Dean has no idea where she came from, and he doesn’t care enough to ask. Around them, the light is fading fast, just giving them enough to see the path they have to take to get to their destination.

They reach the clearing after ten minutes, and carefully set down the body on top of the pyre that Bobby has built there. Dean’s knee is sending little jolts of pain even as he bends to lay his father down, but he barely acknowledges it. Sam fusses slightly with the position of the body, and Dean steps back to let his brother do it because he can’t be bothered. There’s no need for niceties when everything’s going down in flames in a few minutes.

The next thing he’s aware of, Sam hands him a long stick with a cloth doused with kerosene, and Bobby passes him a lighter to light it.

And as he looks down John’s body with the burning torch, he thinks, this is it. I’m never going to see him again.

I should be fucking following him right about now.

And then the pyre catches fire from the torches, and Dean watches until it burns, the smoke taking Dean's thoughts along with it.

*SnSnSnSnSn*

The next few days pass by with light speed. Dean's in a fog most of the time, so he isn't sure what's actually happening around him, which is a pleasant way to pass the time, because he's not up for feeling anything.

He blinks, and finds himself sitting on the couch in the living room, Sam by his side and Bobby sitting on the armchair facing him. He’s holding a bottle of beer, and he takes a long gulp from it. Another blink, and there's food in front of him on the dining table. He takes a few bites and decides that he's not hungry at all.

His eyes blinked again, and he can hear Sam's voice but he can't understand what he's saying. Something about guns and a journal and a truck. Dean wonders how they're all related.

He blinks yet again, and he’s at the bedroom, covered with blankets and darkness engulfing him. There’s a muffled sound of sobbing, and Dean vaguely thinks he should seek out the source, but he can’t get his leaden limbs to obey him, so he just stays at his position, staring at the waterstains on the ceiling.

He blinks once more, and it’s already morning.

It's the third morning (probably) when he decides to break the cycle and consciously get some coffee from the kitchen. Sluggishly, he crawls out of bed and tugged into his sweatpants with much effort. He notes with some detached surprise that the bandages on his knee are clean. He must have changed them, or someone else did. Dean pushes the thought out of his mind, then he wanders into the kitchen slowly.

Sam and his girlfriend are seated at the small dining table, talking softly. Bobby’s nowhere in sight. The couple raises their heads as Dean enters the kitchen, and even in the not-so-there state he can see swollen eyes and raw noses. He makes a beeline for the coffee.

“Dean, hey,” the girlfriend says to him. He nods at her but says nothing back. In some obscure corner of his mind he has her name, but it doesn’t come to the forefront of his brain.

“Do you want some breakfast? I can make some bacon,” she offers again, and really, at any other time Dean will care, but right now he just looks at her without replying and limps out the back door to the outside patio.

He hears the screeching of chairs and a couple of seconds later the door behind him opens and Sam stands next to him.

"Dean, you all right man?"

Dean shrugs, and takes a sip of his coffee. It burns, but he's not complaining. They spend the next ten minutes in silence, and then Sam clears his throat.

"Dean, hey, me and Jess are planning to fly back to Cali tomorrow. We are both missing classes and ...yeah. Anyway, I was thinking... well, hoping, mostly... that maybe you might want to come with us?"

Jess, right, that's her name. He'd met another Jess once, somewhere in Idaho. A blonde too, come to think of it. Tall, and great in bed. Distantly, he hopes they're not the same person, because, uh, awkward as hell.

"Dean, are you listening to me?"

Sam can be such an ass sometimes. Of course he's listening to him, he's right there, isn't he?

"Dean!" Sam's shaking him, and the mind fog dissipates away, and the first emotion he feels is anger.

"Jesus, Sam I hear you!" His voice is hoarse, and he pushes his younger brother away. Sam stumbles back, hits his back against the wooden wall, winces. Dean flinches at the sound.

"Fuck, Dean, what the hell is wrong with you!?"

The older Winchester just shakes his head. Shit, now that he's snapped out of the trance there's little chance he can get to the same state again.

"Just...go away Sam. Go back to your normal. It's what you always wanted isn't it?"

And he turns to go back into the house but Sam reaches out and tugs on his shirt, forcing him to swivel back.

"Dean, please. You can just come with, for a little while..." Dean doesn't let him finish the sentence before he yanks his shirt away from his brother's fingers, sudden rage welling up in him.

"Why, Sam!? So you can show off your normal apartment and your normal friends and your normal life and rub it in my face!?"

Sam shakes his head, his shaggy hair flying wildly, and Dean can see that his eyes are wet. "Dean, no that's not..."

Dean cut him off. "Why are you even here, Sam!?" He knows he's close to a scream, but he doesn't care.

"BECAUSE DAD'S DEAD!" Sam yells, evidently not caring too, shocking Dean into silence. His younger brother is openly crying now, tears streaming down his face even as he shouts out his stand. "DAD'S DEAD, AND I WASN'T THERE WITH HIM, AND NOW HE'S GONE TO HIS GRAVE THINKING THAT I HATE HIM!"

His voice breaks, and he has to swallow to get a little composure before he continues at a lower volume.

"And now I'm so fucking sorry I can never apologize to him for that. So I know, it's too little, too late, but I'm trying." Sam takes a deep breath. "And I miss you too, Dean."

This makes Dean angrier. "And whose fault is that? You could've picked up the phone. You could've replied to my emails. You could've done a lot of things before Dad died, and now that he's dead, you want to care about what he thought? You want to know what I think? Screw you."

He pivots around on the spot, forgetting about his knee, and everything goes white for a while.

*SnSnSnSnSn*

"You two are idjits." Bobby's chastising them even as he hands Dean two small white pills and a glass of water.

Dean says nothing, just swallows the pills. Sam, who's sitting beside him, says nothing either.

"Dean, you slashed your knee so bad I'm surprised it's still attached to your leg. Take it easy, will you?" Bobby says as he takes a look at the joint in question.

Silence.

"Fine, be that way. And since you're down from the clouds, boy, both of you might as well go through your daddy's stuff," he says as he points to the stack of things right by the table. And then he leaves the room.

Sam's girlfriend - Jess, he thinks - pats Sam's hand and leaves the room too. That leaves just both of them, and Dean doesn't know where to start.

Apparently, Sam does. "Dean..." And Dean finds that he doesn't want to rehash the argument anymore. There's throbbing in his head, zaps of pain radiating from his knee, and the space between his lungs feel punched out. And he hates himself.

"Sam, please, can we just...deal with Dad's stuff and not the Stanford stuff for the moment?" Sam just sighs, and picks up the topmost object on the stack, Dad's journal. Seeing it makes Dean's eyes water. Sam doesn't notice, thankfully. He doesn't notice a lot of things, for which Dean is simultaneously grateful for and saddened by.

"I went through most of the stuff yesterday, these are the only important things that Dad had in his duffel, apart from the trunk and the weapons."

"I can take some of the arsenal, we can give the rest to Bobby," Dean says, making a quick decision. The sooner the stuff is taken care of, the quicker he can get back to not feeling anything.

"Well, okay, you can go through the trunk later. What about his truck?"

"Do you want it?"

Sam looks surprised by the question. "You want me to have it?"

Dean shrugs. It's the most logical step. He already has the Impala, and he knows as of last month, Sam doesn't have a car back at Stanford, he knows that. The truck is still in good condition, Sam might as well use it.

"Let me get back to you on that." Sam says, hesitant.

Dean gestures to the stack of papers and clothes, his arm slightly heavy. The pain pills must be working their magic. "Do you know what are all these?"

"Mostly newspaper clippings, some notes about some jobs, and these are the clothes that I thought..." Sam falters for a second, then continues, "I thought you might like to keep them, for your own."

"Right." Dean rubs his eyes. He just woke up about an hour ago, and now he's ready to spend what's left of the day back in bed. The pills are potent, and he just wants to get away from it all.

"I really want you to come back with me to Stanford," Sam says, to break the silence.

Sam is like a fucking dog holding on to a bone. The older Winchester tries not to wince as he moves his leg to a more comfortable position.

"Sam, I can't drop everything I'm doing and leave with you just like that."

"Yes, you can."

"Yeah, well, I don't want to," Dean snaps back. His brother rears his head back as if he's been slapped, confusion, hurt and anger plain on his face.

And then he gets up and leaves.

*SnSnSnSnSn*

When Dean opens his eyes from his hour-long nap Sam's girlfriend is staring at him from across the table.

"He really misses you," she states calmly, like continuing a conversation that they've never had.

He struggles to sit up, his mouth feels full of cotton, making it difficult to form words, which is fine by him because why the fuck should he justify himself to a woman he has barely met?

"In the plane on the way over he was worried that the reason you didn't make the call is because you're still mad at him," she stops, clearly inviting Dean to explain himself at this point. When Dean doesn't. she continues, "He was worried that you might not want him to be here."

Again, she stops, expecting Dean to reply to her unspoken question. Don't you want him here, Dean?

Dean decides to throw her a question that had been on his mind ever since he saw Sam in the room. "Does he want to be here?"

The girlfriend - Jess, his mind supplies helpfully - looks shocked. "What kind of question is that? Of course he wants to be here! His father just died, for God's sake!"

Dean stands up, fighting vertigo, and Jess mirrors his action. Holding her eyes, he asked, "Are you sure about that? Did you know I even existed before the phone call, or did he tell you that he doesn't have any family?"

Jess doesn't say anything. She doesn't need to, because he sees the guilt in her eyes before she looks away.

Dean laughs even though it's not even funny. "So basically he told you nothing," he says, and turns to leave the room and leaves Jess alone, when she speaks up again.

"Dean," Jess says softly, "that doesn't change the fact that he needs his older brother."

"That doesn't make it any better either," he counters, matching her pitch, and limps painfully out of the room. Fuck, he needs to escape. Anywhere is better than here. Sam can find him if he really wants to.

His younger brother finds him in his bedroom hours later, as he's staring up at the ceiling counting waterstains again, for lack of anything else to do.

"Bobby told me that the truck is okay for long-distance driving, so if I want to drive it back I could," Sam starts the conversation.

Dean just hums his acknowledgement. That's apparently not the reaction that his younger brother is looking for, because he continues, "I think I might do that, you know, a road trip, like how we used to. Jess seems to be okay with it."

Dean turns his head to look at Sam. His brother has red-rimmed eyes and nose, and he's looking at Dean as hopefully and earnestly as he had when he wanted that magician kit for his birthday all those years ago. When Dean keeps on staring without replying, Sam's face falls.

"I'll...leave you to think about it then," he says, his mouth set in a line, but he doesn't move from his position and Dean just waits to see how long he'll remain with saying anything. It's a pretty long wait.

Sam finally speaks again, head down, "I told Jess that Dad died of a hunting accident, which is more or less the truth. I told her you are his assistant, and that's technically true too, I guess. I told her not to dig any deeper, and so far she hasn't, but I know she has more questions when she sees Bobby's books and Dad's guns and the row of phones with different labels in Bobby's kitchen."

Dean twists his head away, and wonders if Sam's gonna cop to temporary insanity about his decision to bring his girlfriend along.

"I'm gonna tell her the truth, when we get back to Stanford. I don't know how will she react, though, and I'm scared, but I owe her that, at least."

Good luck with that, kiddo.

"I didn't tell Jess, or anyone else, about you or Dad because...because I'm afraid that if I start talking, I won't stop. And if I don't stop talking, I'll have you both in my mind, I'll start missing you. And then it's only a matter of time that I'll start worrying and start searching and...and dropping everything else."

Stop, Sam. Just fucking stop.

But Sam doesn't stop. "I know it won't really make a difference to Dad because he's dead, so I have to learn to leave with it. But you're my brother, Dean. You're the only family member that I've left, and I've pushed you away long enough."

And with that, Sam leaves him for the second time that day.

*SnSnSnSnSn*

He leans against the car in the morning light, waiting as Bobby, Sam and Jess exit through the front door of Bobby's house. Sam visibly brightens up at the sight of him, and even Jess cracks a small smile. Bobby doesn't say anything, doesn't look surprised, like he's expecting it all along. The three of them reach within arm's length of Dean, and Sam's smile is even more apparent at this short distance. Jess goes to toss the bags in the trunk of the truck, which Dean had cleared in the dead of the night/early morning a few hours ago, and Bobby and Sam stop and stand in front of him.

"So, road trip, huh?" Dean asks, addressing Sam.

"Yeah," Sam says, nodding his head. Bobby just rolls his eyes.

"You know I can't stay with you right?" He'd thought about it last night as he cleared the trunk and did a once-over for both vehicles. He thinks that it doesn't hurt to see Sam off to his college life, and he can plan for what comes after when he gets there.

"Just...it doesn't matter. Who knows, me and Jess have a couple of days to change your mind."

Dean smiles slightly, and his facial muscles feel tight with disuse.

"You can try. Just try to keep up, okay?"

"I will." And with that, Sam goes off to help Jess with the bags.

Bobby hands Dean a small paper bag, and Dean opens it to find a small bottle of fuel and another bottle of cooling fluid. Bobby must have seen him working by the indoor workshop after the truck's quickie clean-up, checking on the Impala's engine, and noticed him frowning when testing the clutch.

Thanks Bobby." And with just a moment's hesitation he hugs him, gripping the back of the jacket tightly. Bobby returns the hug, and his eyes are suspiciously bright when they part.

"Call me, ya idjit. And eat more, ya hear? You're looking like a skeleton." Care and concern from the old man in the form of a dressing down.

Another round of hugs with Sam and Jess and they are ready to go.

Nothing's changed, really. The world is still revolving. His father is still dead. Sam is still going back to his apple-pie life once Stanford is in sight. He's still grieving and missing John so much it's like losing a limb. There's still many more things left to hunt. Adding that all up, he's still not making a fucking difference to anyone.

But as Dean guns the engine, he glances at the rearview mirror, and sees Sam smiling and giving him a thumbs up, and he amends his last thought.

Well, that's a difference right there.

And holding that thought, he raises an arm in goodbye to Bobby and drives away.

*SnSnSnSnSn*

I really should get back to my BB, don't I?

Thanks for reading!