Timestamp: A Lunar Cycle

[satellitesorrow]

Timestamp: A Lunar Cycle

“Why’d you do that?” Dean’s voice was quiet and hard. He closed the motel door behind him and stood next to his father. John Winchester didn’t respond at first, choosing instead to stare out at the near empty parking lot. Long moments passed before the older man turned to his son.

“He’s stubborn,” John observed. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a flask. He took a long swig and held it out to Dean.

Dean shook his head, “No thanks.” The chill in the air bit at Dean’s fingers so he tucked them into the front pockets of his jeans. Even though it was early June, they were in upstate New York and the cold nights had yet to let the spring go. They didn’t say anything; the quiet settled between them. Dean stared at his father’s profile. He considered the hard lines of the jaw, the set frown. Dean knew his father hurt. It was hard not to after what Sam had screamed.

“He’s just a kid,” Dean offered, shuffling a bit of dirt away from the sidewalk with the toe of his boot. “He’s angry. You know how it is.”

John didn’t look at Dean as he said, “He’s leaving, Dean.” The finality of the statement hit the younger man. It was as if John had just accepted this was it.

“Nah,” Dean replied immediately. “He’s just mad is all.” He shook his head. He’d figured John would walk it off; Sam would sleep it off. They’d be okay in the morning or at worst, after a few days of silent fuming. He’d been through this before.

At that, John turned his attention to his oldest son. His dark eyes settled on him and Dean watched the play of emotions pass across his father’s face, ending with an expression that was a mixture of sympathy and frustration. Dean didn’t flinch or look away. He’d become used to standing between his father and his brother. Dean was taken by surprise, though, when John’s mouth quirked up in a smile.

“He’s not mad, Dean.” John reached out and placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “He’s leaving. It’s over.”

Dean stepped back from the touch, “No.”

John let out a heavy sigh as he let his hand fall back to his side, “Dean.”

But Dean wouldn’t let him continue. “No,” he said again. “You just need a break from each other. You should go and find a case. Take a few days away. Or we can. I’m old enough now. Sam and I could find an easy hunt, like a ghost. There’s that case out in North Dakota. Hell, we could help Bobby…” Dean stopped as he watched his father turn away and wipe a hand across his tired face. “What?” Dean asked abruptly. They both knew he meant why?

John turned and looked at him, “Dean, you know….”

“What do I know?” Dean jutted his chin out. He felt naked and open. He didn’t know why, but his father’s gaze felt judgmental.

“He doesn’t belong here.” John pointed out at the two cars, the Impala and his old rusted truck. “This is not home, Dean. This life is not his life. He’s been waiting for years for a chance to get away, and who are we to stop him? Who are we?”

Dean laughed roughly, “We’re his family, Dad. You don’t know what he wants.”

John rubbed his forehead and chuckled, “Neither do you.”

“I know that kid better than anyone else. He won’t leave.” Dean shifted, stepping in front of his father. They were matched in height now, had been since Dean had his growth spurt at eighteen. He stared into his father’s eyes. “He won’t leave,” he said again. He wanted his father to admit he was wrong. He needed him to.

They stood toe to toe for a few moments until John took a step back, refusing to engage Dean. His submission made Dean angry. He felt the rage boil inside him and was about to say something when John raised his hand, his keys dangling from his fingers.
“I’m going to check out that case in North Dakota, maybe catch up with Singer for a few days. After that, I’ll head down to New Orleans.”

Dean furrowed his eyebrows, “What?”

John walked toward his truck, “I’ll meet you in New Orleans on July 3rd, Dean. We’ll set up camp and decide where to go from there. Lucy’s been doing some research on the demon so she may have some new information.”

“Sam graduates in a week,” Dean reminded as John started up the truck. “You should be there.”

“Sam and I have said all we need to say, Dean.” John rested his elbow on the window. “He’s made his choice.”

“You’re being stubborn now,” he muttered. “There’s no choice, Dad. I don’t get what you’re doing here. Why are you doing this?”
John stared at Dean. He opened his mouth and then closed it. He threw the gear into reverse and backed out. He turned the truck and stopped it in front of his oldest son, “July 3rd, Dean.” And with that he pulled out. Dean watched as the taillights disappeared over the horizon.

Dean turned and entered the room. He tried to be quiet as he took off his clothes, being careful to lay his boots instead of dropping them.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice was thin and slurred. He’d been crying.

“Yeah,” he answered as he pulled off the jacket and flannel shirt. He sat down on the bed, facing Sam, who was lying with his back toward Dean.

“Is he gone?” Sam asked.

Dean wanted to reach out and make his brother turn to face him. He didn’t. Instead, he answered, “Yeah, he’s gonna check out the werewolf thing in North Dakota. We’re supposed to meet him in New Orleans on the 3rd.”

Sam sat up and looked at his brother, “He’s not coming next week?”

Dean winced. He tried to recover quickly, but Sam had seen.

“So that’s it, huh?” Sam picked at the lint on the threadbare comforter. “Well, I guess that says it all, right?”

“Sam,” Dean started but his brother held up a hand to stop him.

“Don’t. Just don’t.” Sam rubbed his hands down his legs. It was a familiar gesture of frustration. Dean didn’t move. They sat there for a few minutes before Sam laid down again, turning on his side.

“Things’ll be better in a few weeks, I promise.” Dean whispered. Sam didn’t respond. Dean tried, but he didn’t get much sleep that night.



“What do you mean?” Dean’s hand clenched the beer in front of him.

Sam glanced around at the restaurant. They were celebrating his graduation. Dean had spent a small fortune for this meal. It was the fanciest place they’d been to since their Dad had taken them on a case involving some rich woman. Sam vaguely remembered the mansion and fine silverware. He’d been about ten at the time.

“Let’s not do this here, Dean.” Sam regretted bringing up Stanford. He’d been so excited about the new scholarship notice that he couldn’t contain himself.

Dean downed the beer and ordered another one. Sam watched as his brother drank one after the other. He tried to stop him after the fifth beer, but the glare he got in response shut him up.

After Dean paid for the meal, they made their way out to the Impala. Sam reached for the keys and Dean pulled them away. “I’m fine,” he mumbled as he tried to open the car door. The keys slipped out of his shaking hands and Sam bent to pick them up. He held them high over his head, “I’m driving.” His tone was hard and after a few mumbled protests, Dean lumbered to the passenger side. Sam got in and watched as his brother dropped into the seat, his arms folded across his chest petulantly. He drove in silence toward an old abandoned house at the edge of town. They were hunkered down in a small town in Upstate New York, right on the Hudson. They’d been lucky to stay for as long as they had, but when the lease had come up on the apartment they rented they’d had to make do with motels and squatting until Sam finished his senior year. He sometimes wondered how either of them survived healthily during such an unstable childhood. He promised himself that he’d never do that to a child.

His anger at his father was still raw. Earlier that day, when he’d been handed his diploma, he’d looked out at the crowd, hoping to see him, but he’d seen only Dean sitting in the middle of the darkly lit auditorium, his smile wide and proud.

“We’re here,” Sam announced as he cut off the engine. They sat there for what seemed like an hour when it was probably no more than a minute. The tension was so thick that Sam looked down at his arms to make sure he wasn’t wearing another layer of clothing. He felt a certain claustrophobia take hold of him, moving from somewhere inside him, pushing outward. He opened the door and got out quickly, trying to put distance between himself and his brother.

He rushed through the entrance of the old house, walking toward the makeshift living quarters they’d set up in the front room. He stared at the sleeping bags and slightly opened cooler sitting on the floor. This was the sum total of their lives, he thought. A sound behind him signaled that Dean had come in. He didn’t turn around.

“Come with me,” he whispered, his eyes still resting on the sparsely furnished room.

“You’re not leaving,” Dean said loudly, too loudly. Sam couldn’t look at him, couldn’t see the pain on his face, in his eyes.

Dean walked into the room, rounding on Sam. He blocked his view, inserting himself fully into Sam’s field of vision, eclipsing everything else. Sam tried to shift his gaze, but the pull of Dean’s pain stilled him. It was as if Dean wanted, no needed, Sam to bear witness to this, whatever this was. For years Sam had never understood how to be around his brother. Was he companion or burden?

“Look at me,” Dean commanded, his palm striking out at Sam’s shoulder, shoving him. It was an odd contradiction, Sam thought, to be pulled and pushed at the same moment.

“I don’t know how…” Sam let the sentence hang there.

“What?” Dean’s angry voice slurred with alcohol. Sam wondered if he’d been drinking all day. The thought infused him with rage.

“You’re just like Dad,” Sam spit out, shoving back at Dean. Dean staggered under the assault, a look of shock and horror crossing his face before it was replaced by an answering expression of rage. Sam felt rather than saw the lunge as his brother barreled into him. They locked limbs, struggling against each other, all arms and legs and grunts. It was messy and full of hurt as Dean slammed Sam’s body into the floor. But Sam refused to back down, pulling his legs up and around Dean, turning him over.

“Stop,” Sam yelled, grabbing at Dean’s hands, trying to deflect the fists that pummeled him, weakened by the fight and the alcohol.

“Stop,” Sam repeated, pushing down, his body pressed hard against his brother’s.

“Screw you,” Dean responded, knocking Sam away. He rolled out from under the younger man, pulling himself up with the one chair in the room. He wiped at the trickle of blood near the corner of his mouth, “Screw you.” He stumbled out of the front door, leaving Sam there alone.

“Just stop,” Sam whispered to the empty room.



Sam stared down at the packed duffle. It contained all he owned in the world, which was very little. He had a few books, some jeans and shirts, a pair of sneakers, and his journal. There were pictures, of course. Pictures of Dean mostly, with one of Mom and Dad. His life distilled down to lost words, worn fabric, and forgotten ghosts.

He opened his wallet and counted the money again. He had enough for the bus ticket, meals, and a hotel room for a week. He’d have to get a job quickly and pray that Dean’s pool hustling lessons paid off. He glanced at the watch again. 3:30am. Still, no Dean. In a way he hoped Dean stayed away. It would be easier this way. Goodbyes are too final, too hard to say. But he had to do this. He had to.

But he didn’t want to. He sniffled, keeping the tears checked behind his eyes. How could he do it without Dean? Yeah, he dreamed of the day that he’d leave the life, find something normal and stable, have regular holiday meals that don’t come from a drive thru, but he’d always imagined that life would have Dean somewhere in it. Why’d he have to be so damn loyal? Sam thought.

He bent his head down to crack his neck and was surprised by the yawn that overtook him. He was exhausted, mentally and physically. He decided to lie down on the rolled out sleeping bag to catch a few hours’ sleep. The first bus left at 8am and he’d have to hitch a way into town. He was just on the edge of twilight sleep when he heard the front door open. He closed his eyes tighter, trying to force himself into oblivion.

“Sammy?” Dean’s slur was more pronounced now and Sam knew he’d been drinking. He smelled the cigarette smoke and beer even before Dean threw himself down next to him. Sam didn’t respond.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered again, and Sam felt the lightest touch on his hair. He resisted the urge to open his eyes. The pain in Dean’s voice beckoned him to, but he couldn’t.

“I want that, you know, for you,” Dean shifted closer. Sam didn’t know what he meant by ‘that’, but he could feel the heat pouring off Dean’s skin, his body fitting tight against Sam’s back. He concentrated on breathing, counting each second to mark the rhythm.

“You need to go.” The rawness of the words shot through Sam. Dean’s hitched breath caressed the back of his neck. He was so close. His lips almost touched Sam’s ear, but not quite. “I know, Sam. And you don’t know how sorry I am. I wish it were different. That we were different. I’d give anything for that.”

Dean laid his hands gently across the crown of Sam’s head, “But I want you to go. Need you to. Go and be better than us.”

Sam turned suddenly, not able to resist the pull of Dean’s sorrow. “Come with me, Dean.”

For a moment Sam thought Dean would dismiss him. It was such an honest moment, too honest for Dean. He waited for the humor, for the deflection. But instead he gasped as Dean smiled sadly and then leaned forward, pushing Sam back on his side so that his gaze was turned away yet again.

Dean wrapped his arms around his brother’s body. It was an oddly sentimental embrace, quiet and gentle and … loving. “When you get there, forget this. Forget us.” Sam found himself entranced by Dean’s deepening voice. His brother let out a long held breath, a breath that seemed to come from the deepest parts of his body, his soul. “Find a girl and marry her. Have kids and parties and two car garages with picketed fences.”

Sam reached out and placed his hand over Dean’s, squeezing the fingers tightly. “I’d die for you, you know.” It was a strange brand of comfort, but he had to say it, had to speak the one truth he knew deep in his heart. There was no other soul on earth that he’d give his life for, only Dean.

Dean chuckled, but it was a mournful laugh. Sam knew the full range of his brother’s laughter, memorized it as notes on a sliding scale. This was the laugh of grieving, “I know, Sammy. But now you gotta find something to live for.”

They remained silent for a long time after that. Sam measured their breaths as they began to synchronize, become as one full breath. He forgot the time, forgot that he’d had a plan to leave. Instead he stayed there encircled in his brother’s arms as the full moon waned and the morning sun started breaking through the dust covered windows. He drifted in and out, finally falling into a fitful sleep.

When he awoke he saw Dean had turned over, away from him. His watched the slow rise and fall of his brother’s chest and decided that today wasn’t the day to leave. They could make this work. He started to pull himself up off the floor when his wallet spilled out of his pocket. He stared in shock as a roll of bills tumbled onto the floor with it. He picked them up and glanced back at his brother’s prone form. There must’ve been at least a thousand dollars stuck into the cheap rubber band. Sam didn’t want to know how Dean got it. He considered the money as it rested on his palm. A combination of sadness and relief flooded through him. This was Dean’s goodbye.

He stood for a few moments looking down at his brother. He wanted to say something, anything, but words would be a crude and unfinished tribute to the moment. So he just looked, trying to memorize his brother’s form, his face, the sounds of his sleep. He couldn’t pack that away in the duffle but it would be another ghost for him to take on his ride.

Without giving it too much thought, he grabbed the duffle and hurried out of the house, refusing to look back. He jaunted down the stairs and almost cried in relief when he saw the old battered pickup of the town’s farmer lumber down the road. He hailed the truck and jumped in before it even came to a full stop.

“Where to?” The old man asked, shifting the truck into drive.

“Bus Station,” Sam murmured quietly. He closed his eyes, resisting the temptation to look back at the house as the truck sputtered and bucked down the road.



Dean lay there for hours after Sam left. He’d heard the sounds of his brother’s departure. Had already committed to memory the choked cry he let out as the sounds of old man Parker’s truck carried his brother to town. He didn’t want to move right then. He’d just stay there for a little while longer, he promised himself. Just a little while longer.

He was just drifting back to sleep when he heard the front door open. He sat up abruptly, waiting and in some small part of his soul, hoping. He clutched the gun at his side in reflex and was ready to draw when he saw his father round the corner. He sighed heavily, part relief and part grief.

“He’s gone,” Dean greeted. His voice was resentful, he knew, but he didn’t care. He laid part of this at his father’s feet.

“I know,” John replied, glancing around at the debris in the room. Every time they stayed anywhere for very long they gather and left debris, not souvenirs.

“For the best anyway, right?” Dean asked, brushing the dust off his jeans. He looked over at the empty sleeping bag, the one Sam had lain on the night before. He pushed that memory down deep inside himself, held it there with an iron grip.

John didn’t respond. He started picking up pieces of clothing and other items, sticking them into the brown duffle near the door.

Dean was almost thankful that his father stayed quiet. It was an appropriate reaction. Sometimes endings were best acknowledged with silence.

Finally when the place was cleaned up enough to make sure they’d leave no trace of themselves behind, John turned to his oldest son. His face was open and sympathetic. Dean cringed inwardly at the pity he detected in his father’s eyes.

“Dean,” John started to say but Dean held up his hand to stop him.

“Don’t,” he pleaded. “Just don’t.”

“He did real good, you know. Saw him get the diploma. Real good.” John was a man of few words and fewer words when it came to praise. It should’ve comforted Dean, but instead John’s latent approval just made it more painful somehow.

But Dean was not one to mire himself in that feeling. What good would it do to blame his father? Who was really to blame for this? It was an accident of nature. Love was just a mutation that kept people from eating their young, Dean thought bitterly.

“Yeah, he did,” Dean replied, not looking at his father straight on, but at some point beyond the older man’s shoulders. At some point in a future he didn’t have.

“Ready?” Dean asked, refusing to glance behind him. He had his back to the room; his eyes were focused on the opened door.

John considered his son for a moment and then nodded, “Yeah.”

“Good. Let’s go. We’ve got work to do, right?”

And with that Dean walked out, leaving the house and the night behind.