SN Fic: Leave Me Here With You (1/2)
Supernatural Fic: Leave Me Here With You
Summary: For twenty-five hours, Sam Winchester was dead, but he wasn't exactly playing a harp or wearing Birkenstocks...
Disclaimer: Maybe when the student loan sharks have stopped calling me forty years from now, there might be something left in my pockets besides lint to buy myself the copyright. Until then, this is just for fun, folks!
Author's Note: This little ditty is going to be posted in two parts on the journal (silly little entry limits), but you can consider it a one-shot. / Rated PG13 for language because I've been married to the military too long not to have a mouth. / This takes place during All Hell Breaks Loose.
Thanks for reading, kiddos!
Six
Leave Me Here With You
So I'm thinking of throwing the battle -
Would you kindly direct me to hell?
. . . pain in the ass little brother . . .
Those words sounded so very far away. He wasn't entirely sure he'd heard them at all. Part of him wanted to tell his brother that he was the pain in the ass, not the other way around. Big brothers were natural born pains in the ass. Ask any little brother out there. They'd side with Sam. They would. He wanted to say that. At the same time, he wanted to tell Dean how happy he was to see him. He wanted Dean to know that he was so very grateful that his big brother was okay. He'd spent so long not knowing if Dean was okay, if he had been carved up like Ava's fiancée had been, or if he was out there looking. It wasn't like Andy - oh, man, Andy - could tell if he'd been able to get his little message through or not. But to see Dean there in the middle of the road, everything had been okay again. For all of two seconds, it had all been okay.
He wanted to say all of that and more, but somehow, he couldn't get his mouth to move the way he wanted it to. He couldn't move anything the way he wanted it to. Maybe, if Dean would stop yammering for all of half a second, he could find a way to get a word in edgewise, but it was so hard to concentrate. It was hard to understand. Why did Dean sound so scared? Dean is never scared. Dean isn't . . . Why was he so far away? He felt so far away. Cold Oak's main drag wasn't that long.
It was the scream he heard loud and clear, ringing in his ears and sucking all of the air out of his chest.
SAM.
He wanted to tell his brother to take it down a notch, that he wasn't deaf, but he couldn't. He was too busy looking for Jake. He had looked behind him, to make sure that Jake was still out cold, but when he didn't see the guy where he was supposed to be, he knew they had to get out of there. He could tell Dean to shut up later. Right now, they had to get out. They had to get Bobby and get out.
They had to . . .
They had . . .
Dean?
SAM!
Sam dropped to his knees, unable to hold his own weight. Dean was rocking them both back and forth, rocking and rocking and . . .
Oh, god. Fuck.
He probably would have had a more eloquent (or at least useful) reaction if his thought process or lack thereof hadn't been interrupted by a lilty little voice behind him. "Hi, Sam."
He looked up to find a hefty but beautiful woman smiling down at him, radiating patience and danger at him as she folded her hands in front of her. Immediately her identity clicked into place for him. She made sense. They had gone the seductive route with Dean, most likely. He'd be more likely to listen to a beautiful woman, no matter what she had to say, at least for a while. Sam, on the other hand, he'd had sexy. He'd had perfection. That's what Jess had been. No, for Sam it would have to be someone safe, someone he could talk to and who looked nice enough to listen back. She looked like she would be the best friend he ever had besides his brother. She looked open. Damn, they were good.
"You've got me at a disadvantage," he said casually as he hauled himself back to his feet, even though every sob he heard from behind him struck a knife through his insides. "Or do you want me to just call you 'Reaper'?"
She cocked her head at him thoughtfully before saying pleasantly enough, "I don't know that I have a name. Is there something you would like to call me?"
"There are plenty of things I'd like to call you, Lady, but my brother raised me better than that," he said without even thinking about whether or not defensive posturing was the best way to get himself out of this one.
"Thank you for that," she agreed easily enough. Her head tilted to the other side as if she were listening to something on the breeze that only she could hear. When she focused her eyes back on him, her smile shone like the moonlight. "Your favorite name is Mary. If you like, I can use that for you."
Sam wanted to tell her what she could do with that suggestion but thought better of it. As odd as it was, he knew she really was trying to be nice and make things easier for him. Hearing his brother shattering at his feet wasn't going to make that possible, though, no matter how hard she tried. He shook his head at her and suggested, "If my brother could see you right now, he'd probably call you something like 'Lucky' or 'Sweetheart'. Can't we just go with something like that?"
Amused, she smiled at him. "Lucky. I like that. You road types tend to give me that one a lot. It works."
"Then 'Lucky' it is."
"Would you like to lay a line on me as well? My personal favorite has always been 'if I said you had a beautiful body would you hold it against me'. Granted, that one is a little before your time, but Dean would appreciate it."
Sam felt himself stiffen at the mention of his brother. Without realizing he was doing it, he sheltered his brother from the woman's view, as if that could somehow protect him from her. It didn't even register with him that she wasn't there for Dean at all. All he knew was that she knew his name and what definitely sounded like a line his brother would use. That was enough. "Leave him out of this."
The reaper raised both eyebrows at him so that they disappeared under her hair. "You do realize that I'm not here for him, don't you, Sam?"
He shrugged, not really able to answer around the painful brick forming in the back of his throat. He'd been so sure that this was what he wanted. No more worrying about The Demon or its plans for him, no more scaring Dean, no more pain or fear of any kind. It was funny how those things seemed like a lifeline at the moment.
"It's okay, Sam. Really." To Sam's surprise, she seemed to know what he was thinking even though he didn't know of reapers having that sort of capability at all. "All you have to do is come with me. There is nothing to worry about, not anymore."
The breath Sam took in - reflex, he supposed, considering he wasn't exactly in need of oxygen anymore - was shaky at best and rattled his nose on the way both in and out. A broken whimper at his feet reminded him that he had to at least try to fight what she was saying. "You never had a brother, did you?"
"How do you mean?"
"If you don't know, then I can't tell you," he said. Sam straightened his shoulders, taking control of as much of the situation as he could. "I have everything to worry about."
A crooked smile graced her features that could easily have been a signal of either understanding or malice. Sam wasn’t sure which. "Ah, right. Dean. Well, I suppose we better get on with it then. If you're anything like your brother, this is the part where you start to tell me how you have to stay behind to take care of your family, that you can't really be dead, that this isn't fair . . . "
"Okay," said Sam with a slight tone of amusement. She thought she knew him so well? Let's see about that. "Then what do you say?"
"I tell you that none of that is your concern anymore, that it's time for you to move on. Then you tell me again that you just can't and that you have too much left to do. I tell you that you got twenty-three years, which is a helluva lot more than some people get. I tell you that you lived a fuller life than many and have to accept that that is what you were meant to do. You saved plenty of people along the way. Then I tell you that it's time to let go."
"You have this all scripted out, huh?"
The woman held out her hands to her sides, pointing all fingers on both hands toward herself in an invitation to appraise her. "Boy, this girl's been around. There's nothing you can say to me that I haven't heard before."
"Give me seventy-two hours," offered Sam quickly.
"Excuse me?"
"I won't fight you after that. Just give me three days to make sure my brother gets himself out of here okay. Give me a little time to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. That's all I ask. After that, you can take me wherever."
A crinkled eyebrow was the immediate response, clearly saying, Okay, maybe I haven't heard exactly that one before. "Well, that's a new one."
Sam looked down at the ground a little sheepishly, kicking around at the pebbles under what used to be his very solid, corporeal feet, not really surprised that they weren't moving under his pressure. He could practically hear her waiting, but he wasn't sure how to say what he wanted to say to her yet. What he had to say, quite frankly, didn't belong to her. It belonged to Dean. He was the one who deserved to hear this, not her. But maybe, if he put this the right way, she would let his brother hear it, too, as much as he could anyway. "Look, the funny thing about all of this? My brother is the one who has actually said this out loud lately, but he isn't the only one here who's tired. I don't want him spending any more time worrying about stupid promises my father pretty much forced him - heavily medicated, might I add - to make and thinking that he might have to . . . I'm tired of all of this. I'm tired of worrying about what The Demon wants from me. To be honest, I'm glad I'm not the last one standing in this. The Demon said I'm his favorite. I don't want that. God, I don't want that. I . . . I want this all to be over."
"And it is," she said in an almost motherly voice that oddly reminded him of Missouri. He wondered fleetingly if she knew what had happened to him, if she could feel it. He hoped she could. Maybe she'd be able to help Dean when this was all over. She seemed like maybe she would be good at that.
"I know it is," said Sam. "And I'm okay with that, as long as you can just give me a little time."
"Sam - "
"No, listen. Please. I know my brother fought tooth and nail with one of you after the accident. He wouldn't have done anything less because that's what he does. And a few days from now, he might wonder why I'm not doing the same thing. At least, he'll probably think I didn't do the same thing since he won't even know I'm there. He isn't going to understand, I know that. But if I can just have a couple of days to get him out, to make sure he is okay enough to figure out what he's going to do with the rest of his life . . . Please? I'm sure everybody tells you that their case should be different and that their families deserve it or that they've been through more than most, but I think you and I both know that this is a special situation."
Pleasantly enough, she agreed with him, but not with the part he necessarily wanted her to agree with. "Yes, Sam, everyone thinks they're special."
Sam crossed his arms over his non-existent chest, effectively planting himself against her argument for the moment. He needed a new tactic, and he needed it fast. He eyed the black dress she wore so seductively across her ample chest and down her strong legs and found an in. Raising both eyebrows at her, he asked casually, "Who do you work for?"
"How do you mean?"
With a smirk, he asked, "Are you a good witch or a bad witch?"
"I don't travel around in pink bubbles, but for the most part, we don't have any unsavory affiliations, if that's what you mean."
He hated hearing his brother's words slicing around in his head - I shouldn't have come back, Sam, it was unnatural - but he wasn't above using them against anyone at this point. "So if you're one of the good guys, you probably know about how my brother came back. It wasn't his fault. Evil did that to him, and as grateful as I am that he was brought back, you and I both know that it was not a natural act. He was brought back by evil for a purpose besides getting that gun away from my father."
"Your point being?"
"If you really are playing on our team here, wouldn't it be a good chance to stick it to the other guy to give me a little time to fix things for him a little better before you whisk me away to wherever you're supposed to drop me off at?"
"Seventy-two hours isn't going to make that kind of a difference," she said, although her eyes did sparkle a little at the thought. Her sister reaper had been cheated most horribly out of that job; payback wouldn't be an entirely bad thing. "Still . . . "
"Well, then let me put it this way: can it hurt me? It's only three days, not an entire lifetime. I can't become something else just by staying here for a few days, right?"
"No."
"Do you guys work on a quota system or something?"
"Not exactly, no."
Sam shrugged then glanced down at his brother, sparing him a glance in case he couldn't work with this woman. Dear God, don't let her say 'no'. "Then where's the problem? Three days to put my affairs in order is all I'm asking. Please?"
She almost looked like she would agree to it until her face clouded over with a business-like straightness again. "Sam, he wouldn't be able to hear you. He won't even know you're there. You can't do anything from this side to help him."
"You know Dean and I are different. He'll know at least enough so that I can steer him in the right direction. If I don't, he'll sit here until Doom's Day. If you really are one of the good guys, you know as well as I do that we can't afford to lose another soldier, not with whatever that demon has planned coming. Dean's needed, but he won't do a damn thing about it unless I push him that way. Don't let my death be for nothing, please."
Eyeing her charge in a wary gauge, she asked, "Seventy-two hours and you won't try to get anything more out of me? You'll come without a fight?"
"For my brother, I won't fight you. I swear."
She sighed heavily, shaking her head at him. She reached forward and cupped the side of his face tenderly. Then, with a sharp smack upside his ear, she pointed sternly at him. "Seventy-two hours, young man. I won't entertain any further discussion. Understood?"
"Thank you." He smiled genuinely at her. "You won't regret this."
"I better not. I'll see you then, Sam. Good luck."
"Thanks, Lucky."
With a blink, she was gone.
In an instant, Sam was back to focusing solely on his brother. Dean hadn't moved from his spot at all, save the distraught rocking back and forth. Bobby was sitting on the steps of a building a few feet away, his head buried in his hands. He glanced back and forth between the two before absently scratching at his head in frustration.
Okay, Genius. What the hell are you going to do now?
*
When the skies had opened up and started to more than just spitz on them, Bobby had suggested they at least get out of the middle of the road until they could figure out what to do. Dean hadn't really heard him with his head buried in the crook of Sam's neck, and Sam, well . . . He wasn't going to be hearing anything ever again, now, was he? At least, not that Dean or Bobby would know. It had taken Bobby a couple of tries just to get Dean's attention, but he'd finally been able to help the man up off the ground. He'd only allowed Bobby to help carry Sam just to get them out of the rain. Sam could have sworn he'd heard Dean say that the last thing his little brother needed right now was to catch a cold.
Dean had fallen to his knees immediately inside the doorway of the building Bobby had chosen, taking Sam's body down with him. That was shelter enough. He pulled Sam's body back in to his chest, trying to share what warmth he had. Seeing the act had sent Bobby into tears again, but he kept them quietly, instead offering to go find someplace for them to lay Sam's body out that would be more comfortable than the rickety table he could see in what might have once been a dining area. Sam thought it odd that they were both more concerned with how comfortable his body was than they were with their own survival. They did realize that The Demon was still out there at this very moment looking to do something terrible with the newly-anointed winner of this horrible contest amongst the chosen children, didn't they? Everything that Sam had been taught over the years told him to scream at them to run and get the hell out. He wasn't going anywhere, but he sure didn't want them to join him in that way either.
Bobby. Bobby would be the voice of reason. He'd get Dean out. Bobby had got them out of so many situations already. It hadn't passed Sam's notice that Bobby had a way with Dean that was incredibly close to the way their father had had. Bobby knew how to get the best out of Dean as well as how to pull him back when it was necessary. He didn't have a whole lot of ideas on how in the Hell to tell the man that, but he had to figure out something.
Sam started out with plain old simple words because they were the thing that had always come easiest to him. "Bobby, please. Get him up. You have to make him get up."
There wasn't even a twitch in the man's face to show he'd somehow picked up the ghostly vibes.
"Okay, so that didn't work . . . " Sam voiced the exact same plea, this time shouting it right in the hunter's ear to try to boost the effect a little. Sam was slightly encouraged when Bobby reached up and scratched at his ear but felt his heart plummet right back down to his stomach when Singer didn't turn his attention to the brother in the hallway. "Damn it!"
It was probably ten minutes later that Bobby crossed the distance between himself and Dean and knelt close to the two bodies fused together. One hand laid gently on the head of Sam's body while the other found the tense back of Dean's neck. He waited for a moment, visibly steeling himself, then, like he was talking to a spooked horse, said so quietly, "I want you to stay here with Sam. I'm just going to do a quick sweep to make sure we're alone. I don't want any more surprises. Dean?"
"Yeah. Go."
The hand around Dean's neck squeezed reassuringly hard as the hunter stood. He pulled a silver automatic from the small of Dean's back and set it at the hunter's hip on the floor. "It won't do you much good against Casper, but it'll work better than a whistle. Keep it here in easier reach. I'll be back as soon as I can. You going to be all right?"
Dean simply nodded as if to say, 'Yes, Dad, I remember how to fire a weapon, thank you'. All that actually escaped his mouth was a quiet, pain-filled sigh.
"Okay. You boys stay here. I'll be back," said Bobby, not even realizing that he was still including Sam in the present tense. It wasn't until he was out the door that he realized what he'd said. He stopped dead in his tracks as the screen door slammed behind him, snapping reality into his head. With a heavy sigh, he swiped his shotgun from where it was propped against the wall and stalked off to do the promised security check.
Sam sat down cross-legged next to his brother and himself, taking in for the first time the sheer absurdity of the situation. He was dead. This was it. In less than three days' time, he was going to be carted off to Wherever, leaving his brother alone. And he'd thought leaving Dean behind to go to college for all of four years was the worst he could feel . . .
"Hey, Dean," he said softly. He wanted so badly to reach out and touch his brother, to let him know that (for now) he was still there. If he treated this like any other nightmare, all he had to do was give his brother a simple touch and it would all be okay. It worked for Dean with Sam. Well, that's how Dean had always handled it until Jessica's death. After Jess, touch didn't feel like such a good idea. Dean had shied away from it because that's what Sam had encouraged. But until that night he'd walked out of the house for the last time, Dean had had a magic touch. He had been able to make any nightmare go away. On the few occasions when Dean had them, Sam's mere presence had always seemed to work in the same way. Whether that was because he was what Dean needed or because his body told Dean that his dreams were only dreams, Sam didn't know. All he knew was that they both needed that slight touch to make it all okay again. So how in the hell was he going to make this one better if he couldn’t touch the guy?
"Sammy . . ."
"I'm here."
The only answer he received was a torn sob as Dean pulled his corporeal body closer, as if the half an inch between them was too much to bear. As the sobbing turned to keening, it was all Sam could do to keep sitting there next to them. Sam had always known that he would be lost without his big brother. Hell, part of him had been when he was away at school, even with the safety net of being able to call the guy whenever he needed. This? This was too much. Dean was supposed to be okay without him. That had been the thing that Sam had told himself over and over when he was at school - it didn't matter how he was doing because, as long as Dean was okay, that was all that mattered there. And Dean was supposed to be okay. Dean didn't get lost. Then again, this was more than lost. This was gone. Dean was gone. He might as well have been cut down in the middle of the road right along with Sam.
The keening softly turned to singing after a while, immediately forming the soothing tune that Sam remembered Dean singing to him when they were kids. The Last Waltz had always been their mother's favorite album. At least, that was what Dean remembered being her favorite album, so he'd embraced it. (His father had told him once that the White Album was actually her favorite, but not to tell Dean.) Music had been his way of bringing their mother to them to calm their fears in the middle of the night. It was their answer to anything remotely nightmarish.
"Oft, in dreams, I wander to that cot again, I feel her arms a'huggin' me . . . "
It was then that Sam knew for sure that all of this had to be a mistake. This was the stuff nightmares were made of.
"Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-rai," Dean hummed in the crook of the body's neck, sweeping the hair out of his eyes. "Hush now don't you cry. . . It's okay, Sammy. I'm here, baby brother. I won't let you go."
Sam let his brother do the crying for them both, instead hoping that somehow Dean could feel him at least attempting to be strong for him. "Okay, big brother . . . Okay. You . . . You do what you need to do. I'll keep watch. It's my turn to keep watch."
He wasn’t sure how long they had been sitting like that, but he heard the noise on the steps, even if Dean didn't. Immediately he leapt to attention and looked out the door to make sure the noise hadn't been even the slightest hint of a threat against his brother. He hadn't even poked his head out the door when he suddenly felt guilty for apparently invading what was intended to be a private moment. Bobby stood just to the left outside the door, listening to Dean's trembling sobs. He dropped his head to his chest, shaking out a few silent sobs of his own. Softly, the man wept, "I'm sorry, Johnny. I tried. God help me, I tried."
"Oh, Bobby," Sam grimaced.
The man pulled a grease-stained but clean rag from his back pocket and wiped at his eyes, letting his hand ghost his sight for longer than was needed. He collected himself as much as he could then added quietly, "Dean will be okay, Sam. Wherever you are, Kid, don't worry. I'll take care of him."
When Bobby opened the door, he looked like the ghost town had been a little rough on him. He was pale and shaking, stroking his beard over and over to keep himself grounded. Dean didn't acknowledge the man's footsteps, giving Bobby a few more seconds' reprieve before he asked, "Dean? You okay?"
There was barely enough air to push out the defeated words Dean whispered. "He's cold."
A horrified look overtook Singer's face. He knew that, medically, that was bound to be the case eventually. But there was something in Dean's tone that sounded more like the little nine-year-old kid he remembered telling him the same thing so many years ago. Sam had been nearly hypothermic that night, barely four years old, coming in from the blizzard John had tried to force their little family through to someplace safe to hunker down in instead of a rapidly filling motel. He'd broken across the interstate exit arms to get them as far as he could. The thoroughly ticked off demon on their tail had forced John's hand, sending the family on foot the two miles of Bobby's country driveway. Still, they had arrived in one piece. Cold, but in one piece. That was a cold that Singer had been able to deal with. The worry in Dean's voice then had been something he could deal with. This, though . . . No fire or shot of blackberry brandy was going to fix this one.
"Then let's get you two out of the hallway," Bobby said much more gently than the normal timbre of his voice should have allowed. He stooped down to brace a hand against Dean's back. "I promise, Son, you don't have to let him go." He waited for a nod of acknowledgement then helped Dean get to his feet. They struggled for a moment, trying to be as graceful as possible with Sam, putting his comfort above their own. There were none of the usual comments about Sam's height or dead weight or anything even remotely normal. Together, unnaturally reverent, they brought Sam's body further into the house to where Bobby had dragged the discarded mattress up off the floor onto the table. It would have to do. It took some work on Bobby's part, but he was able to lay Sam's body out flat and pull the hands over the boy's chest. When it was done, Bobby pulled Dean's discarded gun and a bottle from his inside jacket pocket. "I went back to the car. Thought you might want this. It won't warm Sam up any, but it will you."
Bobby stepped out of the room only long enough to pull a chair from the adjacent room and bring it to the body's side. Dean hadn't moved. Sam watched as Bobby set the chair down, laid a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder, then steered him toward the chair, all the while saying softly, "I'm not taking you away from him. You just need to sit down. I'll move the chair closer if you want, but you need to sit."
As if his brother could actually hear him, Sam ordered, "Sit down, Dean. Let Bobby help you. Please."
Never had Dean Winchester been so pliable as he was right then. To both Sam and Bobby, it was the most unnatural thing either of them had ever seen.
"You probably don't want to hear this right now, but you should know, there are bodies," Bobby said quietly. "Kids, like Sam. Some of them have been here a lot longer than others, and there's a couple two buildings down who look like they might have been here with Sam. We should probably check them out and try to figure out if that kid who cut Sam is the one who did this. It might help us find him so we can return the favor."
"Yeah. You should do that," said Dean as if from very far away.
"Dean?"
"We're okay. Go."
Sam chuckled in spite of himself. "All things being relative."
Bobby lifted the brim of his cap and scratched at his hairline, more for something to do than because of an actual itch. "I don't know that I should be leaving you alone right now."
Dean raised the bottle that was still in his hands, unscrewed the cap, and took a long, dark swig. "I'm fine, man. You go on ahead."
Singer studied the younger hunter for a moment as if he could see something that he shouldn't be able to. He wiped a hand over his face, dragging more tears down with it. He cocked his head to the side, thinking, then held his hand out to Dean. "I want your gun, Dean."
"Bobby," Sam started, surprised at the request. Whether it was surprise that Bobby thought it necessary, that the thought had even crossed the man's mind, or that he was ballsy enough to do it, Sam wasn't sure. He was just plain surprised that the man would think of Dean as someone he would have to have those kinds of concerns about in the first place.
Of course, if that surprised him, Sam was pretty much floored when Dean reached behind him, pulled out the weapon he worshipped almost as much as he did his car, and dropped it heavily into the older hunter's hand without even bothering to look at the man.
Bobby looked at the gun, closing his fingers tightly around the barrel. He shut his eyes for a little too long a moment to be a blink, then nodded himself back to the situation. He nodded a few more times, thinking and processing things through. Finally, he laid a hand on Dean's shoulder, squeezing tighter than he probably should. "Thanks, Kid."
Dean held up the bottle in salute as his only answer.
"I'll be back as soon as I can."
Without further acknowledgement, Bobby slipped out through the screen door with a horrified look back into the room on the way. Sam felt really sorry for the guy. To be honest, he didn't know much about who Bobby was outside of the job. When he thought about it, he realized that he had never even noticed if there were pictures around the man's house of family or friends. He didn't know if there were family heirlooms peppering the shelves or anything remotely resembling a life outside of hunting. Come to think of it, he couldn't even remember if he'd ever seen a wedding ring on the man's finger or if he had ever had that kind of life at all. What he did know was that Bobby had been there for his family in ways that the Winchester men just didn't let people be there for them. Pastor Jim, Caleb, and sometimes Jefferson had been all he and Dean had ever really known besides Bobby. It was Bobby who had helped clean up their lives when their father had passed. It was Bobby who had helped put Dean back together. It was Bobby who had stepped in at every turn when it was most important, shotguns aimed at John notwithstanding.
Sam wished like hell he could tell Bobby he knew that, that he appreciated it.
Coulda, shoulda, woulda, Buddyboy. Better luck next time.
From behind the screen door, Sam watched their friend stalk down the road for a while until there wasn't much of Bobby left to see. He did have a tendency to blend in. They all did. He hoped Bobby would keep his promise and return soon. Bobby was right: Dean really shouldn't be alone.
A crash of thunder sent a shiver through Sam, jolting him back into the moment. He shook off his worries for Bobby and turned his attention back on his brother, hoping that focusing what energy he had would give him a better in to his brother. He couldn't let the guy just sit there. This vigil he was keeping, while certainly deserved on Dean's part, was starting to weird Sam out a little. It was obvious that Dean hadn't moved a single muscle, not even a twitch. His eyes still stared at Sam's body, unblinking.
With the Bobby-shaped audience no longer in attendance, Dean slid down the doorframe, his knees unable to lock in place any longer. His head jarred against the wood, echoing the loudest sound the room had heard in probably a good hundred years. For a moment, his shoulders and everything else about him slumped, almost as lifeless as the body on the mattress five feet away. Then the groaning started from his gut, slowly turning his body from side to side until both arms curled in around his middle. His knees pulled in on him, collapsing him into a shaking, withering ball. He didn't take his eyes off Sam's body, but from the water in them, there was little chance that he could see much of anything at all.
Sam crouched down in front of his brother, wishing like hell he could stop it all. Seeing his brother falling apart like this was the last thing he'd expected. With Dad, it had been a slow burn. Dean had gone quiet, he'd gone angry, he'd gone cold. Sam had expected more of the same. Maybe he'd take it out on the car again or on a tree. Maybe he'd find a hunt to immerse himself in. Maybe he'd go after Jake or something else. Something. Anything. Anything but this.
He wanted to beg his brother to crack a joke, to say something other than his name. He wanted to put his hand behind Dean's head so that he'd quit driving it into the wall. He wanted the last two days back. He wanted to erase all of this for Dean. There was no reason in the world that his brother deserved any of this. There was nothing that would ever convince him that his brother didn't deserve the best of everything, especially after all that Dean had been through for him. There was nothing about this that was in any way right.
There had been a time in his life (most of it, actually) that Sam considered the greatest punishment he could face to be the disappointment of his father and brother. He and Dean had rarely misbehaved just for that reason. They never needed spankings or a smack in other places. All they ever needed was to hear those four words: I'm disappointed in you. It was the most awful punishment that John Winchester had doled out to his children. Having spent more time on that end of the spectrum than his brother, Sam had thought that it was hell to live under those words.
Now he knew better. That was no hell compared to this. Nothing was ever going to be right again after seeing Dean fall apart like this. He wondered if he had just dreamed the bargain he'd made with the reaper. He really was in hell now. Somehow it wasn't quite what he'd imagined. He was the first to admit he had a rather active imagination - what kid wouldn't after leading this lifestyle - but this was far more cruel than even he could have conjured. A broken Dean was something he never would have imagined in his worst nightmares because his big brother couldn't be broken. He could be shaken and rattled and out of whack, but so completely broken had never been on the list. This was just plain fucked.
"This is all my fault," said Sam quietly. "Not that I'm dead, because even I'm not going to blame myself for getting skewered by a freak with Mighty Mouse's bastard son's strength. The guy has one hell of a punch behind him. When you finally crack out of this and go after him, you have to watch for his right upper cut, okay? You can't let him get the drop on you or you'll be sitting right here with me. I just . . . I'm wondering . . . "
He faltered, saddened by the idea that he was about to admit something that his brother would never hear him say anyway. It had sounded like such a good idea at the time. Just seventy-two hours, that's all. Right. Because packing in a lifetime of apologies and admissions was really only going to help him. It wasn't going to give Dean anything. And yet, he couldn't stop himself, because really, what chance was he going to get otherwise? God, this sucked.
"I wonder sometimes if I wasn't even worse than Dad. He made it your job to take care of me, but maybe I needed it too much? I needed you to make everything better all the time. I made you take care of me. Maybe, if I hadn't put you in that position, you would be okay now. Not that I would mind you shedding a few tears, but I . . . You can't be like this, Dean. You just can't. I can't be all there is in your world. Please, don't let me be all there is to your world."
Of course, the only answer Sam got back was another groaning, hitched sob.
"I really fucked this one up, didn't I?" Sam asked, even though there really was no question in his mind. He knew he'd messed up. The bitter laugh that answered the question for him would have bothered Dean if he could have heard it. Sam knew that. Dean never liked it when Sam tried to take the blame for things that were in any way out of his sphere of control. But then, Sam was good at finding a way to blame himself anyway. "That's what I do, isn't it?" he asked. "You're the hero and I'm the fuck up. I suppose that was the way it was always going to be. Dad did his best with what he had to work with, though, right?"
Dean had stopped banging his head against the wall, but the tears had come again. He didn't even bother to try and wipe them away. Part of Sam wanted to yell at his brother and tell him to snap out of it because there was no way that all of that water soaking into the collar of his shirt could be comfortable. Sam wanted to tell his brother to knock it off, but he couldn't. He wasn't going to. Maybe, just maybe, some of these tears were for Dean himself, but more likely some were for their father. And Sam would never deny his brother his tears for that reason.
The other part of him wanted Dean to fight back. God, how he wished Dean would fight with him right now. This one-sided confession thing was going to drive him crazy here pretty soon. And yet, he couldn't seem to stop it anyway.
"This is the part where you're supposed to tell me that I'm an idiot. You're supposed to tell me that none of it is my fault and how you're going to find a way to work it all out. I just have to give you time, and if I ever even think about taking all of this on my shoulders again, you're going to kick my beanpole ass. Come on, Dean. Say something, please. You can't just sit there like this. Yell at me, call me whatever you want, just please, yell at me."
To Sam's surprise Dean did start to say something, but it was hardly the scolding that he wanted his brother to give him. Dean started out talking like it was any other day, like they had been separated for a few hours and needed to catch up on the goings on before they could move on. The casual smile that came over Dean's face scared Sam, serving to escalate his worries that he was never going to get his brother to leave this place if he didn't come up with something fast.
"Don't mind Bobby, Sammy. He said he'll be back. I'm guessing that means he'll be back. He probably just needs some air. Finding half the hunters you know flambéed to a crisp is bound to make you want to stay out of wood buildings for a while, you know? Yeah, I guess I didn't tell you that part yet, did I? Ellen's joint burned down to the ground. Just pfft! We never could have got there in time. We found Ash, and Bobby thought he recognized a few bits and pieces, but he didn’t name names. It's been a rough day for him."
Dean hauled himself to his feet and started pacing back and forth in front of Sam's body, casually, like he did so often when Sam was simply sitting on the edge of his bed in their room of the week. He ran his hands through his hair a few times. What he couldn't see was Sam mirroring the same movement throughout the room. The motion seemed to be comforting to them both, though, as if Dean kind of but didn't know that Sam was there needing comfort as much as needing to give it. It was only when Dean reached down and tapped the inside of Sam's body's ankle that Sam noticed that his brother was crying again.
Dean snorted out a laugh and said, "So you're never going to believe this one. I didn't get a chance to tell you, but I had a vision. Can you believe that shit? Man, you should've . . . I tell you what, I am never calling you a girl ever again, not after that. I gotta tell you, too, the look on Bobby's face there was priceless. You, uh . . . " The smile vanished from Dean's face as if it had never even tried to make an appearance. "I've tried really hard to give you the brave face because I know that's what you need, but I gotta tell you, ever since we went home and your nightmare about Jenny turned out to be right, I have been scared shitless. I don't know why. I mean, I do, but I don't. I knew from the minute that you told me that this was something that I couldn’t fix. And then when things kept getting worse - not just staying bad, but getting worse - I couldn't do a goddamned thing to help you. It's my job to take care of you, to protect you, but this was something that was totally out of my league. The thing is, after yesterday, I don't know why I was the one who was scared because I can tell you now that you should have been a lot more afraid of this than I was. I knew you were wigged, especially after Dad, but you never . . . I'm wondering now how you managed to hold it together as much as you did. You managed to come through every time, told me what was going on. We saved Jenny and the kids, even that Andy kid. You did that, and now I'm thinking that you complained a lot less than you should have. Hell, I would have been driving the Emo Short Bus, too, if it had been me. I guess I just . . . God, I feel like we're little kids again and I'm trying to tell you that you did a good job tying your freakin' shoe or something. I don't mean it like that. I guess I'm just trying to tell you that you are a helluva - "
Dean's face screwed up in pain, the knot in his throat becoming too hard to move around. Tears fell again as he struggled only to fail. When he was able to manage again, his voice sounded higher than usual as he worked around the pain, pleading with everything he had at the body, "Wake up. Please. I will never make a joke about you hurling on the interior or anything ever again. Just wake the fuck up, Sam. Open your eyes and make this just a nightmare, please. I have never asked you for anything. I let you walk out the door that night; I have let you get by with freakin' murder over the years. You always got the long straw. Just this once, please, if you ever loved me at all, wake the hell up."
"Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, jackass," Sam growled.
He wanted to slug his brother for that last comment. It was wrong on so many levels. That Dean would dump that kind of guilt at his feet was unbelievable. If you ever loved me. God! Dean knew damned well that that wasn't going to be good enough. He wanted so badly to be able to yell at him for that one, but considering that his foot went right through the table leg he kicked, he knew it wouldn’t do either of them any good. There was nothing fair about that comment at all. There was nothing fair about any of it. And then there was the pleading part of it, as if all of this was within Sam's power to fix. It had been a long time since Dean had wanted Sam to fix anything for him. It was always the other way around, at least out loud. Sam knew he had used the equivalent on his brother far too many times. If he was going to be around after this, he would have promised himself that he wouldn't do that to his brother ever again. Too little, too late, just like always. Still, as much as Dean would like to think that he was the only one who had any kind of control here, Sam knew perfectly well that he spent just as much time fixing his brother up as Dean did him. You didn't grow up under John Winchester's revolving roof without learning to fix a few things.
As if Dean knew the battle Sam was having within himself not a foot away, he said quietly, "That wasn't fair. I'm sorry."
"Thanks," Sam whispered, smiling. "Me, too."
"I didn't mean . . . This isn't your fault. None of this was ever your fault. I wish to God I could blame you for something in all of this. It's not your fault that demon came after our family. I don't know whose fault it is, but I know it isn't yours. And you should know, because I know you've been thinking this lately, not once - not one fucking time - have I thought that you were going to go Dark Side on us. Okay? Not because I'm here, not because I promised that I wouldn't let anything bad happen to you, but because I know you. You know, you always bitch that Dad and I smothered you when you were a kid and we kept you too protected. You said we never let you grow up. That's the thing, though; I think I know now that that's what was going to save you. You're too good a person to be in this world we live in right now. You should be off to college, being that guy, because you're too good for this stuff. You were always going to beat The Demon's plans because there was too much of you that evil couldn't touch. Right now, I'm thinking that's about the only thing I did right by you. You think I made you weak, but I think maybe that I made you strong. I'll never call you a girl again, I promise."
"You did a lot more than that right. God, Dean, you did it all right. Okay, maybe not all of it, but I . . .You did better than any brother should have to."
Dean stared at the body, once again struggling to find his voice. "This isn't going to be like the last time, is it? I mean, yeah, I know it can't be. You aren't going to be off living the easy life. You aren't going to be safe with your books and school and all those things that you love. When I walk away from you this time, you aren't going to follow me and make me promise to call you. How am I supposed to walk away from you this time? Huh? When you left last time, I wanted to give you a chance. I wanted you to have a life where you wouldn't have to look over your shoulder or keep a knife under your head at night. I could never have wanted this for you. You didn't want it. If you had wanted it, that would be different, but . . . I didn't want it for you like this."
Oddly, Sam was reassured by his brother's words. He understood, better than Dean thought. He knew Dean didn't understand, though, not really. He smiled as he confessed, "When I left, I wanted to give you a chance. I wanted you to have a chance to be something other than . . . I wanted you to have something besides taking care of me. You deserved better than me."
"You deserved better than this," said Dean quietly.
"We all did," said Sam.
"So you know where we are now, right? We're so far past FUBAR, I don't even know where to go next. This is the part where I'm supposed to call Dad, have him swoop in at the last minute and save us like he did when we were little. And if he's too unavailable - " Dean laughed humorlessly at his joke. They should have left a marker at the man's pyre site. Johnathan Jesse Winchester. Unavailable Since 1983. "If we can't find him, I'm supposed to be able to call Pastor Jim or Caleb, depending on who's closer." Again, Dean laughed before taking a slug from the bottle. "Every single thing that Dad taught me to do, everyone we're supposed to fall back on, is gone. It's all - poof! - gone."
Before he could stop himself, Sam reached out and tried to put a hand on his brother's arm, only to get just close enough to remember that all it would probably do is spook his brother all to hell. Instead, he settled for a soft, "I'm still here, Dean."
Dean leaned his head back against the wall so far that he left his throat completely exposed (yet another of those things he'd been taught to never do). He palmed his eyes to keep his little brother from going blurry on him. His memories would be blurry soon enough. When he looked back over at Sam, he stared hard. With a shaky breath, he said, "When we went to see you that first Christmas after you left, Dad said something to me that I didn't quite understand at the time. I mean, I did, but I hadn't really felt it until now. We watched you load your roommate's stuff into the cab and wave him off and he started talking like he always did. We talked about how good you looked, how fucked up it was that you were so mad at us that you would rather stay holed up in that room for two weeks alone than come on the road with us. We talked about getting a room and staying in town until people started to come back to campus, just to be safe. Then Pastor Jim called and we had to get out of there. I don't think he meant for me to hear him, but when you went back inside and we didn't follow, he said, 'There is nothing in the world more terrible than the two of you. I hope you never have to know how terrible it is to love your children.' Hallmark priceless, huh? That gem belongs in a MasterCard commercial with the chick and the fridge with the big red bow. I . . . I guess that's why I got so mad at you whenever you said he didn't deserve for us to love him. Something like that, it sticks with you, you know? I don't think I ever loved him as much as I did at that moment. And the crazy, fucked up part about it was that I know I wasn't even supposed to hear it. He was saying it to you, not me, anyway. How do you like that? The single most important piece of advice the man ever gave me about life wasn't even meant for me."
Sam bit his lip, willing the tears to stay put, and said tightly, "He didn't have to share that little nugget with you because you already knew all about it. I'd already taught you that one."
"I mean, sure, I already knew that about you," Dean said. "I just didn’t know he thought the same about us. You just take for granted that your parents love you. You don’t think about how they really feel, you know? But hey, we got the answer to that little mystery of life, didn't we?"
Dean took a very, very long drag on the bottle. He got up and circled the room a few times until he finally stood at his brother's head. He swept his kid brother's hair off his face then tapped the body's cheek twice.
"If there was ever any doubt, Kiddo, I'm here to tell you, Dad was right."
On to the other half ...
Summary: For twenty-five hours, Sam Winchester was dead, but he wasn't exactly playing a harp or wearing Birkenstocks...
Disclaimer: Maybe when the student loan sharks have stopped calling me forty years from now, there might be something left in my pockets besides lint to buy myself the copyright. Until then, this is just for fun, folks!
Author's Note: This little ditty is going to be posted in two parts on the journal (silly little entry limits), but you can consider it a one-shot. / Rated PG13 for language because I've been married to the military too long not to have a mouth. / This takes place during All Hell Breaks Loose.
Thanks for reading, kiddos!
Six
Leave Me Here With You
So I'm thinking of throwing the battle -
Would you kindly direct me to hell?
. . . pain in the ass little brother . . .
Those words sounded so very far away. He wasn't entirely sure he'd heard them at all. Part of him wanted to tell his brother that he was the pain in the ass, not the other way around. Big brothers were natural born pains in the ass. Ask any little brother out there. They'd side with Sam. They would. He wanted to say that. At the same time, he wanted to tell Dean how happy he was to see him. He wanted Dean to know that he was so very grateful that his big brother was okay. He'd spent so long not knowing if Dean was okay, if he had been carved up like Ava's fiancée had been, or if he was out there looking. It wasn't like Andy - oh, man, Andy - could tell if he'd been able to get his little message through or not. But to see Dean there in the middle of the road, everything had been okay again. For all of two seconds, it had all been okay.
He wanted to say all of that and more, but somehow, he couldn't get his mouth to move the way he wanted it to. He couldn't move anything the way he wanted it to. Maybe, if Dean would stop yammering for all of half a second, he could find a way to get a word in edgewise, but it was so hard to concentrate. It was hard to understand. Why did Dean sound so scared? Dean is never scared. Dean isn't . . . Why was he so far away? He felt so far away. Cold Oak's main drag wasn't that long.
It was the scream he heard loud and clear, ringing in his ears and sucking all of the air out of his chest.
SAM.
He wanted to tell his brother to take it down a notch, that he wasn't deaf, but he couldn't. He was too busy looking for Jake. He had looked behind him, to make sure that Jake was still out cold, but when he didn't see the guy where he was supposed to be, he knew they had to get out of there. He could tell Dean to shut up later. Right now, they had to get out. They had to get Bobby and get out.
They had to . . .
They had . . .
Dean?
SAM!
Sam dropped to his knees, unable to hold his own weight. Dean was rocking them both back and forth, rocking and rocking and . . .
Oh, god. Fuck.
He probably would have had a more eloquent (or at least useful) reaction if his thought process or lack thereof hadn't been interrupted by a lilty little voice behind him. "Hi, Sam."
He looked up to find a hefty but beautiful woman smiling down at him, radiating patience and danger at him as she folded her hands in front of her. Immediately her identity clicked into place for him. She made sense. They had gone the seductive route with Dean, most likely. He'd be more likely to listen to a beautiful woman, no matter what she had to say, at least for a while. Sam, on the other hand, he'd had sexy. He'd had perfection. That's what Jess had been. No, for Sam it would have to be someone safe, someone he could talk to and who looked nice enough to listen back. She looked like she would be the best friend he ever had besides his brother. She looked open. Damn, they were good.
"You've got me at a disadvantage," he said casually as he hauled himself back to his feet, even though every sob he heard from behind him struck a knife through his insides. "Or do you want me to just call you 'Reaper'?"
She cocked her head at him thoughtfully before saying pleasantly enough, "I don't know that I have a name. Is there something you would like to call me?"
"There are plenty of things I'd like to call you, Lady, but my brother raised me better than that," he said without even thinking about whether or not defensive posturing was the best way to get himself out of this one.
"Thank you for that," she agreed easily enough. Her head tilted to the other side as if she were listening to something on the breeze that only she could hear. When she focused her eyes back on him, her smile shone like the moonlight. "Your favorite name is Mary. If you like, I can use that for you."
Sam wanted to tell her what she could do with that suggestion but thought better of it. As odd as it was, he knew she really was trying to be nice and make things easier for him. Hearing his brother shattering at his feet wasn't going to make that possible, though, no matter how hard she tried. He shook his head at her and suggested, "If my brother could see you right now, he'd probably call you something like 'Lucky' or 'Sweetheart'. Can't we just go with something like that?"
Amused, she smiled at him. "Lucky. I like that. You road types tend to give me that one a lot. It works."
"Then 'Lucky' it is."
"Would you like to lay a line on me as well? My personal favorite has always been 'if I said you had a beautiful body would you hold it against me'. Granted, that one is a little before your time, but Dean would appreciate it."
Sam felt himself stiffen at the mention of his brother. Without realizing he was doing it, he sheltered his brother from the woman's view, as if that could somehow protect him from her. It didn't even register with him that she wasn't there for Dean at all. All he knew was that she knew his name and what definitely sounded like a line his brother would use. That was enough. "Leave him out of this."
The reaper raised both eyebrows at him so that they disappeared under her hair. "You do realize that I'm not here for him, don't you, Sam?"
He shrugged, not really able to answer around the painful brick forming in the back of his throat. He'd been so sure that this was what he wanted. No more worrying about The Demon or its plans for him, no more scaring Dean, no more pain or fear of any kind. It was funny how those things seemed like a lifeline at the moment.
"It's okay, Sam. Really." To Sam's surprise, she seemed to know what he was thinking even though he didn't know of reapers having that sort of capability at all. "All you have to do is come with me. There is nothing to worry about, not anymore."
The breath Sam took in - reflex, he supposed, considering he wasn't exactly in need of oxygen anymore - was shaky at best and rattled his nose on the way both in and out. A broken whimper at his feet reminded him that he had to at least try to fight what she was saying. "You never had a brother, did you?"
"How do you mean?"
"If you don't know, then I can't tell you," he said. Sam straightened his shoulders, taking control of as much of the situation as he could. "I have everything to worry about."
A crooked smile graced her features that could easily have been a signal of either understanding or malice. Sam wasn’t sure which. "Ah, right. Dean. Well, I suppose we better get on with it then. If you're anything like your brother, this is the part where you start to tell me how you have to stay behind to take care of your family, that you can't really be dead, that this isn't fair . . . "
"Okay," said Sam with a slight tone of amusement. She thought she knew him so well? Let's see about that. "Then what do you say?"
"I tell you that none of that is your concern anymore, that it's time for you to move on. Then you tell me again that you just can't and that you have too much left to do. I tell you that you got twenty-three years, which is a helluva lot more than some people get. I tell you that you lived a fuller life than many and have to accept that that is what you were meant to do. You saved plenty of people along the way. Then I tell you that it's time to let go."
"You have this all scripted out, huh?"
The woman held out her hands to her sides, pointing all fingers on both hands toward herself in an invitation to appraise her. "Boy, this girl's been around. There's nothing you can say to me that I haven't heard before."
"Give me seventy-two hours," offered Sam quickly.
"Excuse me?"
"I won't fight you after that. Just give me three days to make sure my brother gets himself out of here okay. Give me a little time to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. That's all I ask. After that, you can take me wherever."
A crinkled eyebrow was the immediate response, clearly saying, Okay, maybe I haven't heard exactly that one before. "Well, that's a new one."
Sam looked down at the ground a little sheepishly, kicking around at the pebbles under what used to be his very solid, corporeal feet, not really surprised that they weren't moving under his pressure. He could practically hear her waiting, but he wasn't sure how to say what he wanted to say to her yet. What he had to say, quite frankly, didn't belong to her. It belonged to Dean. He was the one who deserved to hear this, not her. But maybe, if he put this the right way, she would let his brother hear it, too, as much as he could anyway. "Look, the funny thing about all of this? My brother is the one who has actually said this out loud lately, but he isn't the only one here who's tired. I don't want him spending any more time worrying about stupid promises my father pretty much forced him - heavily medicated, might I add - to make and thinking that he might have to . . . I'm tired of all of this. I'm tired of worrying about what The Demon wants from me. To be honest, I'm glad I'm not the last one standing in this. The Demon said I'm his favorite. I don't want that. God, I don't want that. I . . . I want this all to be over."
"And it is," she said in an almost motherly voice that oddly reminded him of Missouri. He wondered fleetingly if she knew what had happened to him, if she could feel it. He hoped she could. Maybe she'd be able to help Dean when this was all over. She seemed like maybe she would be good at that.
"I know it is," said Sam. "And I'm okay with that, as long as you can just give me a little time."
"Sam - "
"No, listen. Please. I know my brother fought tooth and nail with one of you after the accident. He wouldn't have done anything less because that's what he does. And a few days from now, he might wonder why I'm not doing the same thing. At least, he'll probably think I didn't do the same thing since he won't even know I'm there. He isn't going to understand, I know that. But if I can just have a couple of days to get him out, to make sure he is okay enough to figure out what he's going to do with the rest of his life . . . Please? I'm sure everybody tells you that their case should be different and that their families deserve it or that they've been through more than most, but I think you and I both know that this is a special situation."
Pleasantly enough, she agreed with him, but not with the part he necessarily wanted her to agree with. "Yes, Sam, everyone thinks they're special."
Sam crossed his arms over his non-existent chest, effectively planting himself against her argument for the moment. He needed a new tactic, and he needed it fast. He eyed the black dress she wore so seductively across her ample chest and down her strong legs and found an in. Raising both eyebrows at her, he asked casually, "Who do you work for?"
"How do you mean?"
With a smirk, he asked, "Are you a good witch or a bad witch?"
"I don't travel around in pink bubbles, but for the most part, we don't have any unsavory affiliations, if that's what you mean."
He hated hearing his brother's words slicing around in his head - I shouldn't have come back, Sam, it was unnatural - but he wasn't above using them against anyone at this point. "So if you're one of the good guys, you probably know about how my brother came back. It wasn't his fault. Evil did that to him, and as grateful as I am that he was brought back, you and I both know that it was not a natural act. He was brought back by evil for a purpose besides getting that gun away from my father."
"Your point being?"
"If you really are playing on our team here, wouldn't it be a good chance to stick it to the other guy to give me a little time to fix things for him a little better before you whisk me away to wherever you're supposed to drop me off at?"
"Seventy-two hours isn't going to make that kind of a difference," she said, although her eyes did sparkle a little at the thought. Her sister reaper had been cheated most horribly out of that job; payback wouldn't be an entirely bad thing. "Still . . . "
"Well, then let me put it this way: can it hurt me? It's only three days, not an entire lifetime. I can't become something else just by staying here for a few days, right?"
"No."
"Do you guys work on a quota system or something?"
"Not exactly, no."
Sam shrugged then glanced down at his brother, sparing him a glance in case he couldn't work with this woman. Dear God, don't let her say 'no'. "Then where's the problem? Three days to put my affairs in order is all I'm asking. Please?"
She almost looked like she would agree to it until her face clouded over with a business-like straightness again. "Sam, he wouldn't be able to hear you. He won't even know you're there. You can't do anything from this side to help him."
"You know Dean and I are different. He'll know at least enough so that I can steer him in the right direction. If I don't, he'll sit here until Doom's Day. If you really are one of the good guys, you know as well as I do that we can't afford to lose another soldier, not with whatever that demon has planned coming. Dean's needed, but he won't do a damn thing about it unless I push him that way. Don't let my death be for nothing, please."
Eyeing her charge in a wary gauge, she asked, "Seventy-two hours and you won't try to get anything more out of me? You'll come without a fight?"
"For my brother, I won't fight you. I swear."
She sighed heavily, shaking her head at him. She reached forward and cupped the side of his face tenderly. Then, with a sharp smack upside his ear, she pointed sternly at him. "Seventy-two hours, young man. I won't entertain any further discussion. Understood?"
"Thank you." He smiled genuinely at her. "You won't regret this."
"I better not. I'll see you then, Sam. Good luck."
"Thanks, Lucky."
With a blink, she was gone.
In an instant, Sam was back to focusing solely on his brother. Dean hadn't moved from his spot at all, save the distraught rocking back and forth. Bobby was sitting on the steps of a building a few feet away, his head buried in his hands. He glanced back and forth between the two before absently scratching at his head in frustration.
Okay, Genius. What the hell are you going to do now?
*
When the skies had opened up and started to more than just spitz on them, Bobby had suggested they at least get out of the middle of the road until they could figure out what to do. Dean hadn't really heard him with his head buried in the crook of Sam's neck, and Sam, well . . . He wasn't going to be hearing anything ever again, now, was he? At least, not that Dean or Bobby would know. It had taken Bobby a couple of tries just to get Dean's attention, but he'd finally been able to help the man up off the ground. He'd only allowed Bobby to help carry Sam just to get them out of the rain. Sam could have sworn he'd heard Dean say that the last thing his little brother needed right now was to catch a cold.
Dean had fallen to his knees immediately inside the doorway of the building Bobby had chosen, taking Sam's body down with him. That was shelter enough. He pulled Sam's body back in to his chest, trying to share what warmth he had. Seeing the act had sent Bobby into tears again, but he kept them quietly, instead offering to go find someplace for them to lay Sam's body out that would be more comfortable than the rickety table he could see in what might have once been a dining area. Sam thought it odd that they were both more concerned with how comfortable his body was than they were with their own survival. They did realize that The Demon was still out there at this very moment looking to do something terrible with the newly-anointed winner of this horrible contest amongst the chosen children, didn't they? Everything that Sam had been taught over the years told him to scream at them to run and get the hell out. He wasn't going anywhere, but he sure didn't want them to join him in that way either.
Bobby. Bobby would be the voice of reason. He'd get Dean out. Bobby had got them out of so many situations already. It hadn't passed Sam's notice that Bobby had a way with Dean that was incredibly close to the way their father had had. Bobby knew how to get the best out of Dean as well as how to pull him back when it was necessary. He didn't have a whole lot of ideas on how in the Hell to tell the man that, but he had to figure out something.
Sam started out with plain old simple words because they were the thing that had always come easiest to him. "Bobby, please. Get him up. You have to make him get up."
There wasn't even a twitch in the man's face to show he'd somehow picked up the ghostly vibes.
"Okay, so that didn't work . . . " Sam voiced the exact same plea, this time shouting it right in the hunter's ear to try to boost the effect a little. Sam was slightly encouraged when Bobby reached up and scratched at his ear but felt his heart plummet right back down to his stomach when Singer didn't turn his attention to the brother in the hallway. "Damn it!"
It was probably ten minutes later that Bobby crossed the distance between himself and Dean and knelt close to the two bodies fused together. One hand laid gently on the head of Sam's body while the other found the tense back of Dean's neck. He waited for a moment, visibly steeling himself, then, like he was talking to a spooked horse, said so quietly, "I want you to stay here with Sam. I'm just going to do a quick sweep to make sure we're alone. I don't want any more surprises. Dean?"
"Yeah. Go."
The hand around Dean's neck squeezed reassuringly hard as the hunter stood. He pulled a silver automatic from the small of Dean's back and set it at the hunter's hip on the floor. "It won't do you much good against Casper, but it'll work better than a whistle. Keep it here in easier reach. I'll be back as soon as I can. You going to be all right?"
Dean simply nodded as if to say, 'Yes, Dad, I remember how to fire a weapon, thank you'. All that actually escaped his mouth was a quiet, pain-filled sigh.
"Okay. You boys stay here. I'll be back," said Bobby, not even realizing that he was still including Sam in the present tense. It wasn't until he was out the door that he realized what he'd said. He stopped dead in his tracks as the screen door slammed behind him, snapping reality into his head. With a heavy sigh, he swiped his shotgun from where it was propped against the wall and stalked off to do the promised security check.
Sam sat down cross-legged next to his brother and himself, taking in for the first time the sheer absurdity of the situation. He was dead. This was it. In less than three days' time, he was going to be carted off to Wherever, leaving his brother alone. And he'd thought leaving Dean behind to go to college for all of four years was the worst he could feel . . .
"Hey, Dean," he said softly. He wanted so badly to reach out and touch his brother, to let him know that (for now) he was still there. If he treated this like any other nightmare, all he had to do was give his brother a simple touch and it would all be okay. It worked for Dean with Sam. Well, that's how Dean had always handled it until Jessica's death. After Jess, touch didn't feel like such a good idea. Dean had shied away from it because that's what Sam had encouraged. But until that night he'd walked out of the house for the last time, Dean had had a magic touch. He had been able to make any nightmare go away. On the few occasions when Dean had them, Sam's mere presence had always seemed to work in the same way. Whether that was because he was what Dean needed or because his body told Dean that his dreams were only dreams, Sam didn't know. All he knew was that they both needed that slight touch to make it all okay again. So how in the hell was he going to make this one better if he couldn’t touch the guy?
"Sammy . . ."
"I'm here."
The only answer he received was a torn sob as Dean pulled his corporeal body closer, as if the half an inch between them was too much to bear. As the sobbing turned to keening, it was all Sam could do to keep sitting there next to them. Sam had always known that he would be lost without his big brother. Hell, part of him had been when he was away at school, even with the safety net of being able to call the guy whenever he needed. This? This was too much. Dean was supposed to be okay without him. That had been the thing that Sam had told himself over and over when he was at school - it didn't matter how he was doing because, as long as Dean was okay, that was all that mattered there. And Dean was supposed to be okay. Dean didn't get lost. Then again, this was more than lost. This was gone. Dean was gone. He might as well have been cut down in the middle of the road right along with Sam.
The keening softly turned to singing after a while, immediately forming the soothing tune that Sam remembered Dean singing to him when they were kids. The Last Waltz had always been their mother's favorite album. At least, that was what Dean remembered being her favorite album, so he'd embraced it. (His father had told him once that the White Album was actually her favorite, but not to tell Dean.) Music had been his way of bringing their mother to them to calm their fears in the middle of the night. It was their answer to anything remotely nightmarish.
"Oft, in dreams, I wander to that cot again, I feel her arms a'huggin' me . . . "
It was then that Sam knew for sure that all of this had to be a mistake. This was the stuff nightmares were made of.
"Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-rai," Dean hummed in the crook of the body's neck, sweeping the hair out of his eyes. "Hush now don't you cry. . . It's okay, Sammy. I'm here, baby brother. I won't let you go."
Sam let his brother do the crying for them both, instead hoping that somehow Dean could feel him at least attempting to be strong for him. "Okay, big brother . . . Okay. You . . . You do what you need to do. I'll keep watch. It's my turn to keep watch."
He wasn’t sure how long they had been sitting like that, but he heard the noise on the steps, even if Dean didn't. Immediately he leapt to attention and looked out the door to make sure the noise hadn't been even the slightest hint of a threat against his brother. He hadn't even poked his head out the door when he suddenly felt guilty for apparently invading what was intended to be a private moment. Bobby stood just to the left outside the door, listening to Dean's trembling sobs. He dropped his head to his chest, shaking out a few silent sobs of his own. Softly, the man wept, "I'm sorry, Johnny. I tried. God help me, I tried."
"Oh, Bobby," Sam grimaced.
The man pulled a grease-stained but clean rag from his back pocket and wiped at his eyes, letting his hand ghost his sight for longer than was needed. He collected himself as much as he could then added quietly, "Dean will be okay, Sam. Wherever you are, Kid, don't worry. I'll take care of him."
When Bobby opened the door, he looked like the ghost town had been a little rough on him. He was pale and shaking, stroking his beard over and over to keep himself grounded. Dean didn't acknowledge the man's footsteps, giving Bobby a few more seconds' reprieve before he asked, "Dean? You okay?"
There was barely enough air to push out the defeated words Dean whispered. "He's cold."
A horrified look overtook Singer's face. He knew that, medically, that was bound to be the case eventually. But there was something in Dean's tone that sounded more like the little nine-year-old kid he remembered telling him the same thing so many years ago. Sam had been nearly hypothermic that night, barely four years old, coming in from the blizzard John had tried to force their little family through to someplace safe to hunker down in instead of a rapidly filling motel. He'd broken across the interstate exit arms to get them as far as he could. The thoroughly ticked off demon on their tail had forced John's hand, sending the family on foot the two miles of Bobby's country driveway. Still, they had arrived in one piece. Cold, but in one piece. That was a cold that Singer had been able to deal with. The worry in Dean's voice then had been something he could deal with. This, though . . . No fire or shot of blackberry brandy was going to fix this one.
"Then let's get you two out of the hallway," Bobby said much more gently than the normal timbre of his voice should have allowed. He stooped down to brace a hand against Dean's back. "I promise, Son, you don't have to let him go." He waited for a nod of acknowledgement then helped Dean get to his feet. They struggled for a moment, trying to be as graceful as possible with Sam, putting his comfort above their own. There were none of the usual comments about Sam's height or dead weight or anything even remotely normal. Together, unnaturally reverent, they brought Sam's body further into the house to where Bobby had dragged the discarded mattress up off the floor onto the table. It would have to do. It took some work on Bobby's part, but he was able to lay Sam's body out flat and pull the hands over the boy's chest. When it was done, Bobby pulled Dean's discarded gun and a bottle from his inside jacket pocket. "I went back to the car. Thought you might want this. It won't warm Sam up any, but it will you."
Bobby stepped out of the room only long enough to pull a chair from the adjacent room and bring it to the body's side. Dean hadn't moved. Sam watched as Bobby set the chair down, laid a gentle hand on Dean's shoulder, then steered him toward the chair, all the while saying softly, "I'm not taking you away from him. You just need to sit down. I'll move the chair closer if you want, but you need to sit."
As if his brother could actually hear him, Sam ordered, "Sit down, Dean. Let Bobby help you. Please."
Never had Dean Winchester been so pliable as he was right then. To both Sam and Bobby, it was the most unnatural thing either of them had ever seen.
"You probably don't want to hear this right now, but you should know, there are bodies," Bobby said quietly. "Kids, like Sam. Some of them have been here a lot longer than others, and there's a couple two buildings down who look like they might have been here with Sam. We should probably check them out and try to figure out if that kid who cut Sam is the one who did this. It might help us find him so we can return the favor."
"Yeah. You should do that," said Dean as if from very far away.
"Dean?"
"We're okay. Go."
Sam chuckled in spite of himself. "All things being relative."
Bobby lifted the brim of his cap and scratched at his hairline, more for something to do than because of an actual itch. "I don't know that I should be leaving you alone right now."
Dean raised the bottle that was still in his hands, unscrewed the cap, and took a long, dark swig. "I'm fine, man. You go on ahead."
Singer studied the younger hunter for a moment as if he could see something that he shouldn't be able to. He wiped a hand over his face, dragging more tears down with it. He cocked his head to the side, thinking, then held his hand out to Dean. "I want your gun, Dean."
"Bobby," Sam started, surprised at the request. Whether it was surprise that Bobby thought it necessary, that the thought had even crossed the man's mind, or that he was ballsy enough to do it, Sam wasn't sure. He was just plain surprised that the man would think of Dean as someone he would have to have those kinds of concerns about in the first place.
Of course, if that surprised him, Sam was pretty much floored when Dean reached behind him, pulled out the weapon he worshipped almost as much as he did his car, and dropped it heavily into the older hunter's hand without even bothering to look at the man.
Bobby looked at the gun, closing his fingers tightly around the barrel. He shut his eyes for a little too long a moment to be a blink, then nodded himself back to the situation. He nodded a few more times, thinking and processing things through. Finally, he laid a hand on Dean's shoulder, squeezing tighter than he probably should. "Thanks, Kid."
Dean held up the bottle in salute as his only answer.
"I'll be back as soon as I can."
Without further acknowledgement, Bobby slipped out through the screen door with a horrified look back into the room on the way. Sam felt really sorry for the guy. To be honest, he didn't know much about who Bobby was outside of the job. When he thought about it, he realized that he had never even noticed if there were pictures around the man's house of family or friends. He didn't know if there were family heirlooms peppering the shelves or anything remotely resembling a life outside of hunting. Come to think of it, he couldn't even remember if he'd ever seen a wedding ring on the man's finger or if he had ever had that kind of life at all. What he did know was that Bobby had been there for his family in ways that the Winchester men just didn't let people be there for them. Pastor Jim, Caleb, and sometimes Jefferson had been all he and Dean had ever really known besides Bobby. It was Bobby who had helped clean up their lives when their father had passed. It was Bobby who had helped put Dean back together. It was Bobby who had stepped in at every turn when it was most important, shotguns aimed at John notwithstanding.
Sam wished like hell he could tell Bobby he knew that, that he appreciated it.
Coulda, shoulda, woulda, Buddyboy. Better luck next time.
From behind the screen door, Sam watched their friend stalk down the road for a while until there wasn't much of Bobby left to see. He did have a tendency to blend in. They all did. He hoped Bobby would keep his promise and return soon. Bobby was right: Dean really shouldn't be alone.
A crash of thunder sent a shiver through Sam, jolting him back into the moment. He shook off his worries for Bobby and turned his attention back on his brother, hoping that focusing what energy he had would give him a better in to his brother. He couldn't let the guy just sit there. This vigil he was keeping, while certainly deserved on Dean's part, was starting to weird Sam out a little. It was obvious that Dean hadn't moved a single muscle, not even a twitch. His eyes still stared at Sam's body, unblinking.
With the Bobby-shaped audience no longer in attendance, Dean slid down the doorframe, his knees unable to lock in place any longer. His head jarred against the wood, echoing the loudest sound the room had heard in probably a good hundred years. For a moment, his shoulders and everything else about him slumped, almost as lifeless as the body on the mattress five feet away. Then the groaning started from his gut, slowly turning his body from side to side until both arms curled in around his middle. His knees pulled in on him, collapsing him into a shaking, withering ball. He didn't take his eyes off Sam's body, but from the water in them, there was little chance that he could see much of anything at all.
Sam crouched down in front of his brother, wishing like hell he could stop it all. Seeing his brother falling apart like this was the last thing he'd expected. With Dad, it had been a slow burn. Dean had gone quiet, he'd gone angry, he'd gone cold. Sam had expected more of the same. Maybe he'd take it out on the car again or on a tree. Maybe he'd find a hunt to immerse himself in. Maybe he'd go after Jake or something else. Something. Anything. Anything but this.
He wanted to beg his brother to crack a joke, to say something other than his name. He wanted to put his hand behind Dean's head so that he'd quit driving it into the wall. He wanted the last two days back. He wanted to erase all of this for Dean. There was no reason in the world that his brother deserved any of this. There was nothing that would ever convince him that his brother didn't deserve the best of everything, especially after all that Dean had been through for him. There was nothing about this that was in any way right.
There had been a time in his life (most of it, actually) that Sam considered the greatest punishment he could face to be the disappointment of his father and brother. He and Dean had rarely misbehaved just for that reason. They never needed spankings or a smack in other places. All they ever needed was to hear those four words: I'm disappointed in you. It was the most awful punishment that John Winchester had doled out to his children. Having spent more time on that end of the spectrum than his brother, Sam had thought that it was hell to live under those words.
Now he knew better. That was no hell compared to this. Nothing was ever going to be right again after seeing Dean fall apart like this. He wondered if he had just dreamed the bargain he'd made with the reaper. He really was in hell now. Somehow it wasn't quite what he'd imagined. He was the first to admit he had a rather active imagination - what kid wouldn't after leading this lifestyle - but this was far more cruel than even he could have conjured. A broken Dean was something he never would have imagined in his worst nightmares because his big brother couldn't be broken. He could be shaken and rattled and out of whack, but so completely broken had never been on the list. This was just plain fucked.
"This is all my fault," said Sam quietly. "Not that I'm dead, because even I'm not going to blame myself for getting skewered by a freak with Mighty Mouse's bastard son's strength. The guy has one hell of a punch behind him. When you finally crack out of this and go after him, you have to watch for his right upper cut, okay? You can't let him get the drop on you or you'll be sitting right here with me. I just . . . I'm wondering . . . "
He faltered, saddened by the idea that he was about to admit something that his brother would never hear him say anyway. It had sounded like such a good idea at the time. Just seventy-two hours, that's all. Right. Because packing in a lifetime of apologies and admissions was really only going to help him. It wasn't going to give Dean anything. And yet, he couldn't stop himself, because really, what chance was he going to get otherwise? God, this sucked.
"I wonder sometimes if I wasn't even worse than Dad. He made it your job to take care of me, but maybe I needed it too much? I needed you to make everything better all the time. I made you take care of me. Maybe, if I hadn't put you in that position, you would be okay now. Not that I would mind you shedding a few tears, but I . . . You can't be like this, Dean. You just can't. I can't be all there is in your world. Please, don't let me be all there is to your world."
Of course, the only answer Sam got back was another groaning, hitched sob.
"I really fucked this one up, didn't I?" Sam asked, even though there really was no question in his mind. He knew he'd messed up. The bitter laugh that answered the question for him would have bothered Dean if he could have heard it. Sam knew that. Dean never liked it when Sam tried to take the blame for things that were in any way out of his sphere of control. But then, Sam was good at finding a way to blame himself anyway. "That's what I do, isn't it?" he asked. "You're the hero and I'm the fuck up. I suppose that was the way it was always going to be. Dad did his best with what he had to work with, though, right?"
Dean had stopped banging his head against the wall, but the tears had come again. He didn't even bother to try and wipe them away. Part of Sam wanted to yell at his brother and tell him to snap out of it because there was no way that all of that water soaking into the collar of his shirt could be comfortable. Sam wanted to tell his brother to knock it off, but he couldn't. He wasn't going to. Maybe, just maybe, some of these tears were for Dean himself, but more likely some were for their father. And Sam would never deny his brother his tears for that reason.
The other part of him wanted Dean to fight back. God, how he wished Dean would fight with him right now. This one-sided confession thing was going to drive him crazy here pretty soon. And yet, he couldn't seem to stop it anyway.
"This is the part where you're supposed to tell me that I'm an idiot. You're supposed to tell me that none of it is my fault and how you're going to find a way to work it all out. I just have to give you time, and if I ever even think about taking all of this on my shoulders again, you're going to kick my beanpole ass. Come on, Dean. Say something, please. You can't just sit there like this. Yell at me, call me whatever you want, just please, yell at me."
To Sam's surprise Dean did start to say something, but it was hardly the scolding that he wanted his brother to give him. Dean started out talking like it was any other day, like they had been separated for a few hours and needed to catch up on the goings on before they could move on. The casual smile that came over Dean's face scared Sam, serving to escalate his worries that he was never going to get his brother to leave this place if he didn't come up with something fast.
"Don't mind Bobby, Sammy. He said he'll be back. I'm guessing that means he'll be back. He probably just needs some air. Finding half the hunters you know flambéed to a crisp is bound to make you want to stay out of wood buildings for a while, you know? Yeah, I guess I didn't tell you that part yet, did I? Ellen's joint burned down to the ground. Just pfft! We never could have got there in time. We found Ash, and Bobby thought he recognized a few bits and pieces, but he didn’t name names. It's been a rough day for him."
Dean hauled himself to his feet and started pacing back and forth in front of Sam's body, casually, like he did so often when Sam was simply sitting on the edge of his bed in their room of the week. He ran his hands through his hair a few times. What he couldn't see was Sam mirroring the same movement throughout the room. The motion seemed to be comforting to them both, though, as if Dean kind of but didn't know that Sam was there needing comfort as much as needing to give it. It was only when Dean reached down and tapped the inside of Sam's body's ankle that Sam noticed that his brother was crying again.
Dean snorted out a laugh and said, "So you're never going to believe this one. I didn't get a chance to tell you, but I had a vision. Can you believe that shit? Man, you should've . . . I tell you what, I am never calling you a girl ever again, not after that. I gotta tell you, too, the look on Bobby's face there was priceless. You, uh . . . " The smile vanished from Dean's face as if it had never even tried to make an appearance. "I've tried really hard to give you the brave face because I know that's what you need, but I gotta tell you, ever since we went home and your nightmare about Jenny turned out to be right, I have been scared shitless. I don't know why. I mean, I do, but I don't. I knew from the minute that you told me that this was something that I couldn’t fix. And then when things kept getting worse - not just staying bad, but getting worse - I couldn't do a goddamned thing to help you. It's my job to take care of you, to protect you, but this was something that was totally out of my league. The thing is, after yesterday, I don't know why I was the one who was scared because I can tell you now that you should have been a lot more afraid of this than I was. I knew you were wigged, especially after Dad, but you never . . . I'm wondering now how you managed to hold it together as much as you did. You managed to come through every time, told me what was going on. We saved Jenny and the kids, even that Andy kid. You did that, and now I'm thinking that you complained a lot less than you should have. Hell, I would have been driving the Emo Short Bus, too, if it had been me. I guess I just . . . God, I feel like we're little kids again and I'm trying to tell you that you did a good job tying your freakin' shoe or something. I don't mean it like that. I guess I'm just trying to tell you that you are a helluva - "
Dean's face screwed up in pain, the knot in his throat becoming too hard to move around. Tears fell again as he struggled only to fail. When he was able to manage again, his voice sounded higher than usual as he worked around the pain, pleading with everything he had at the body, "Wake up. Please. I will never make a joke about you hurling on the interior or anything ever again. Just wake the fuck up, Sam. Open your eyes and make this just a nightmare, please. I have never asked you for anything. I let you walk out the door that night; I have let you get by with freakin' murder over the years. You always got the long straw. Just this once, please, if you ever loved me at all, wake the hell up."
"Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, jackass," Sam growled.
He wanted to slug his brother for that last comment. It was wrong on so many levels. That Dean would dump that kind of guilt at his feet was unbelievable. If you ever loved me. God! Dean knew damned well that that wasn't going to be good enough. He wanted so badly to be able to yell at him for that one, but considering that his foot went right through the table leg he kicked, he knew it wouldn’t do either of them any good. There was nothing fair about that comment at all. There was nothing fair about any of it. And then there was the pleading part of it, as if all of this was within Sam's power to fix. It had been a long time since Dean had wanted Sam to fix anything for him. It was always the other way around, at least out loud. Sam knew he had used the equivalent on his brother far too many times. If he was going to be around after this, he would have promised himself that he wouldn't do that to his brother ever again. Too little, too late, just like always. Still, as much as Dean would like to think that he was the only one who had any kind of control here, Sam knew perfectly well that he spent just as much time fixing his brother up as Dean did him. You didn't grow up under John Winchester's revolving roof without learning to fix a few things.
As if Dean knew the battle Sam was having within himself not a foot away, he said quietly, "That wasn't fair. I'm sorry."
"Thanks," Sam whispered, smiling. "Me, too."
"I didn't mean . . . This isn't your fault. None of this was ever your fault. I wish to God I could blame you for something in all of this. It's not your fault that demon came after our family. I don't know whose fault it is, but I know it isn't yours. And you should know, because I know you've been thinking this lately, not once - not one fucking time - have I thought that you were going to go Dark Side on us. Okay? Not because I'm here, not because I promised that I wouldn't let anything bad happen to you, but because I know you. You know, you always bitch that Dad and I smothered you when you were a kid and we kept you too protected. You said we never let you grow up. That's the thing, though; I think I know now that that's what was going to save you. You're too good a person to be in this world we live in right now. You should be off to college, being that guy, because you're too good for this stuff. You were always going to beat The Demon's plans because there was too much of you that evil couldn't touch. Right now, I'm thinking that's about the only thing I did right by you. You think I made you weak, but I think maybe that I made you strong. I'll never call you a girl again, I promise."
"You did a lot more than that right. God, Dean, you did it all right. Okay, maybe not all of it, but I . . .You did better than any brother should have to."
Dean stared at the body, once again struggling to find his voice. "This isn't going to be like the last time, is it? I mean, yeah, I know it can't be. You aren't going to be off living the easy life. You aren't going to be safe with your books and school and all those things that you love. When I walk away from you this time, you aren't going to follow me and make me promise to call you. How am I supposed to walk away from you this time? Huh? When you left last time, I wanted to give you a chance. I wanted you to have a life where you wouldn't have to look over your shoulder or keep a knife under your head at night. I could never have wanted this for you. You didn't want it. If you had wanted it, that would be different, but . . . I didn't want it for you like this."
Oddly, Sam was reassured by his brother's words. He understood, better than Dean thought. He knew Dean didn't understand, though, not really. He smiled as he confessed, "When I left, I wanted to give you a chance. I wanted you to have a chance to be something other than . . . I wanted you to have something besides taking care of me. You deserved better than me."
"You deserved better than this," said Dean quietly.
"We all did," said Sam.
"So you know where we are now, right? We're so far past FUBAR, I don't even know where to go next. This is the part where I'm supposed to call Dad, have him swoop in at the last minute and save us like he did when we were little. And if he's too unavailable - " Dean laughed humorlessly at his joke. They should have left a marker at the man's pyre site. Johnathan Jesse Winchester. Unavailable Since 1983. "If we can't find him, I'm supposed to be able to call Pastor Jim or Caleb, depending on who's closer." Again, Dean laughed before taking a slug from the bottle. "Every single thing that Dad taught me to do, everyone we're supposed to fall back on, is gone. It's all - poof! - gone."
Before he could stop himself, Sam reached out and tried to put a hand on his brother's arm, only to get just close enough to remember that all it would probably do is spook his brother all to hell. Instead, he settled for a soft, "I'm still here, Dean."
Dean leaned his head back against the wall so far that he left his throat completely exposed (yet another of those things he'd been taught to never do). He palmed his eyes to keep his little brother from going blurry on him. His memories would be blurry soon enough. When he looked back over at Sam, he stared hard. With a shaky breath, he said, "When we went to see you that first Christmas after you left, Dad said something to me that I didn't quite understand at the time. I mean, I did, but I hadn't really felt it until now. We watched you load your roommate's stuff into the cab and wave him off and he started talking like he always did. We talked about how good you looked, how fucked up it was that you were so mad at us that you would rather stay holed up in that room for two weeks alone than come on the road with us. We talked about getting a room and staying in town until people started to come back to campus, just to be safe. Then Pastor Jim called and we had to get out of there. I don't think he meant for me to hear him, but when you went back inside and we didn't follow, he said, 'There is nothing in the world more terrible than the two of you. I hope you never have to know how terrible it is to love your children.' Hallmark priceless, huh? That gem belongs in a MasterCard commercial with the chick and the fridge with the big red bow. I . . . I guess that's why I got so mad at you whenever you said he didn't deserve for us to love him. Something like that, it sticks with you, you know? I don't think I ever loved him as much as I did at that moment. And the crazy, fucked up part about it was that I know I wasn't even supposed to hear it. He was saying it to you, not me, anyway. How do you like that? The single most important piece of advice the man ever gave me about life wasn't even meant for me."
Sam bit his lip, willing the tears to stay put, and said tightly, "He didn't have to share that little nugget with you because you already knew all about it. I'd already taught you that one."
"I mean, sure, I already knew that about you," Dean said. "I just didn’t know he thought the same about us. You just take for granted that your parents love you. You don’t think about how they really feel, you know? But hey, we got the answer to that little mystery of life, didn't we?"
Dean took a very, very long drag on the bottle. He got up and circled the room a few times until he finally stood at his brother's head. He swept his kid brother's hair off his face then tapped the body's cheek twice.
"If there was ever any doubt, Kiddo, I'm here to tell you, Dad was right."
On to the other half ...