Fic: Inheritance (Descent and Distribution)
This is a story about Dean's middle name.
Also, there’s insomnia, cockblocking, laughing, banking, at least three-quarters of a hug, four boxes, and eleven cows. Or maybe twelve. Or thirteen. And a spectacularly bad pun. Oh, and Dean misses his daddy and wears a hoodie and maybe hurts a little, but if he's been paying attention, then he's maybe realized some stuff, too.
(Okay, so. To be clear: I don't have any plans to write a sequel, and this story does not feature a pairing. I know, it was confusing before.) It's rated mature for a little bit of sexual content and language, and it's set three weeks post-AHBL2, but it's not about post-AHBL2 angst.
Beta'd by madame_meretrix, who gets what I'm saying even when I don't and has such an incredibly good grasp on this story that I think I'm gonna ask her to write it down as kind of a companion piece. But, uh, shhhhh. I haven't told her that yet.
Visual aids are linked at the end of the story.
So, here you go. Inheritance (Descent and Distribution), 6,046 words.
(Oh--descent and distribution is a component of intestate succession; it refers to the laws which govern inheritance in the absence of a will.)
Gorgeous cover art made for me by the insanely talented smilla02.
Inheritance (Descent and Distribution)
They don’t have much that belonged to Dad.
The journal, some of the weapons. The car, before it was Dean’s.
Sam’s got an old blue shirt that he hides in the bottom of his duffel. Dean found it a few days ago while he was raiding Sam’s clean underwear stash, but it has to have been there since… yeah.
He went bare assed that day. Friggin’ chafed, too.
He pretends he doesn’t know about it. He wishes he didn’t, and that’s kind of the next best thing, right? He can’t stop seeing it, though, sweat-stained, worn thin from too many washings. Can’t stop wondering whether it still smells like Dad.
He’d be lying if he said this was why. This constant itch in his chest, the breaths that come too fast, too shallow, the feeling that maybe he could get some friggin’ sleep already if he could just bury his face in the worn fabric for a second, imagine the solidness of Dad behind it.
But it’s not. It’s not why, and he fuckin’ knows it, so he can’t even get the satisfaction of a silent I told you so.
Truth is, he didn’t have his head on straight back then, told Sam to destroy everything, truck and all. There was no reason. No why. After Dad-after, he just… couldn’t. And that’s it.
But if he’d known, if he’d been thinking. Yeah, this might have been why. Because that breathing coming from the other bed isn’t ever gonna be Dad again, and he can’t stop-can’t stop. Because what if it doesn’t? What if he picks it up and it smells like laundry detergent or Sam’s socks?
So he’s just-he can’t sleep and… God, he just. He misses his dad.
Maybe if Sammy would’ve just done what Dean said, torched it all-except he did the right thing, keeping the weapons and the lockbox, letting Bobby scrap the truck. But Dad’s stuff, man.
And it’s not like-it’s not like it was. Dad’s done now, he’s… wherever people go when they die. The man clawed his way out of hell, no help from Dean. And now the demon’s dead, and whatever kind of peace there is in the universe, he hopes to hell Dad’s getting his share because he damn well earned it.
So. It should be easier now. Thinking about Dad.
But seeing him again, it was-and now this, and he can’t… and he wants it to be Sam’s fault, somehow, and he wants to bring him black coffee when he orders a latte and put dirty socks in with the clean and maybe even try that Nair thing again, but.
But.
It’s just-they’re three weeks into a war, and this is not the time to be losing sleep or starting a fight with Sam. Dad would’ve wanted him sharp, ready, not… whatever this is.
Fucked up. Sleep deprived. Whatever.
And he can’t blame Sam for wanting to keep something of Dad’s. That just-it wouldn’t be cool.
Sam’s breathing is loud and even in the next bed. Used to piss Dean off, keep him up sometimes, but now. Well, yeah, it still kind of pisses him off, but it’s-good. It’s good.
They haven’t really been apart since-since, but maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing. Take a drive, clear his head.
And that’s. Yeah, it’s a good idea. It’ll be fine.
He grabs a shirt from his duffel and his jeans off the bathroom floor, and he pisses in the dark because the light switch turns the fan on too, and the friggin’ thing’s loud enough to wake the dead.
Not that it makes a difference, because halfway through, Sam slurs out, “Dean? What’re you doing?”
Which is just-yeah, that’s classic Sammy. Smartest guy Dean knows, but he always asks the stupid question when he’s half asleep.
“I’m jerking off. Dude, what does it sound like I’m doing?” And hell, maybe that’s not the worst idea. He cups his balls as the stream dies out, and yeah, maybe this is what he needs. It’s been… too friggin’ long, if he can’t even remember.
A couple of strokes, and okay, he could get into this. No porn in sight, but he’s learned to make do.
“Man, you’re not actually… Dean?”
“Oh yeah, Sammy…” Which-he can’t do it with a straight face, but he keeps talking anyway because messing with Sam like this is always fun. “Keep talking… just… a little more…”
Sam’s laughter carries through the open door. “Hey, want me to read you the plot descriptions from the porn channel?”
And it looks like it’s gonna be a drive after all.
“Oh yeah,” Dean breathes, buttoning his jeans, “you know what that does to me…”
“Loser,” Sam says when Dean sits on the bed to pull on his boots.
“Cockblocker.” Dean throws a pillow in Sam’s direction.
“You going somewhere?”
“Just go back to sleep,” Dean says. “Don’t need any backup on this one.”
“I’m not your backup, Dean; I’m your brother.” The pillow comes back. “You wanna tell me why you’re not sleeping?”
So much for the easy exit.
“Dean?” Sam sits up and gets a foot on the floor, and that puts him like, two strides away from a full-on hug, which-no. Sammy can leave his concerned voice and puppy dog eyes for the people they save. “Dean, you know I’m gonna find a way to-I mean… you know that, right?”
Yeah, like he needs to be thinking about that, too.
“Just leave it, Sam. I’ll be back in time for breakfast.”
It’s maybe five steps to the door, but Dean does it in three.
*
Dean’s got an awesome car. He’s got pretty much the most awesome car he’s ever seen, but sometimes. Sometimes he can’t see anything but Dad’s face reflected back in every mirror, in every piece of glass or chrome.
Sam keeps pictures.
Used to be pictures of Mom, and one of Dean, but now they’re just Dad. Dad and Mom. Dad and Dean. And that’s-it’s fine. It's fine that Sam wants the pictures to remember him by. And he’s had them since before it happened, so it’s not like it’s something new.
But it’s like… seeing him again, like that-it hurts again. In a different way, maybe, but yeah.
And Sam just-he pushes. He gets the pictures out and looks at them, or he puts them on the nightstand or the dresser. One of them’s even framed, and it’s like he tries to make them conspicuous, like they’re friggin’ mistletoe or something and everyone who gets within ten feet has to hug.
Dean called him on it once, but it turned into a whole big thing, a stupid fight about nothing. Just Sammy being a bitch and a lot of yelling, and maybe someone’s last pair of clean underwear got dunked in the toilet, but Dean’s got no idea how that happened. Really.
Didn’t accomplish anything, anyway. Sam still gets the pictures out, and he still gets that look when Dean gets too close.
But he just-he wouldn’t understand. He needs the pictures, and that’s fine, but…
Dean doesn’t need pictures to see Dad.
And that’s-he’s proud of it, that anyone can look at his face and see that he’s John Winchester’s son. But it doesn’t make things easier. He looks in the mirror, clenches his jaw the right way, or catches his nose at just the right angle, and it’s-Dad. Every time.
And even if he wanted to, hell, even if he just needed a break-there’s nothing he can do to stop it.
The door to their room opens and Sam doesn’t say anything when he comes out and climbs onto the hood of the Impala next to Dean. He throws one of his old hoodies in Dean’s lap, and Dean grunts his thanks and they sit. Which-it’s nice. They should do it more often, just. Hang out or whatever.
Dean huffs out a breath that’s almost a chuckle because yeah-he’ll pencil that in right after the demon war.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Dean shrugs the sweatshirt on. “Nothing, it’s-stupid.”
“Huh,” Sam says. “So what’re we doing out here?”
And yeah, Dean could maybe ask that question himself, emphasis on the we, but he should have figured Sam would follow him, and it’s not like he minds, as long as Sam doesn’t start in on the touchy-feely crap.
“Don’t know about you, but I’m spending some quality time with my girl.”
“Dean…”
Dude just cannot let it go.
“Sam.”
“Fine,” Sam says, “I get it, you don’t want to talk about it.”
Which, okay, that’s… good. It’s good.
“Good.” Dean nods. “Okay. Glad we understand each other.”
“I mean, you know you’re gonna tell me eventually.” And there are so many things wrong with that, but number one on the list is that the little shit’s actually smiling. “But if you wanna wait, you know. That’s cool.”
And Dean’s got a totally awesome comeback, he just-
“I know you’ll open up whenever you’re ready.”
And that is just not even-
“So I’ll just. Be here. Waiting.”
And Sam’s actually laughing now, and that’s it-the little bitch is going down. Dean scrambles off the hood, and Sam takes off, still laughing, across the parking lot.
*
“Dude,” Dean says between breaths, because yeah. Breathing is good.
He’s sprawled across the back seat with Sam, which is just in no way a good idea, but he’s too worn out to move, so.
“Dude, move your-wait, no… the other way…”
“Dean! I don’t bend that way, man.”
“Well just… fuck. I don’t think we fit back here anymore.”
Which, yeah, maybe that should have been obvious. But the back seat was always more comfortable than the front, so…
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
“Okay,” Sam says. “We should sit up. On the count of three.”
It’s not exactly the worst plan Sam’s ever had, but it’s got a fatal flaw.
“Sammy?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not counting.”
“Huh.”
“What, you forget how?”
“No, just-wait, move your leg… no, I mean… yeah. Hey.”
“Hey what?” Dean asks, and he’s half sitting with most of Sam in his lap, which-“Shove over.”
Sam gets himself upright and semi-contained and Dean figures he’s not gonna complain about one stray leg, even if it is freak-sized and cutting into his personal space. It’s kinda comfortable, anyway, and Dean closes his eyes.
“D’you think we’ll ever get into it?” Sam asks.
“Sure, Sammy,” Dean says through a yawn, and hey, maybe this is the answer to his insomnia, just run around in the parking lot and then lie down in the car. Stranger things, man.
“Dean.”
“Hmmm?”
“Dean!”
“What,” Dean says-all right, yells, but come on. Sam’s totally screwing up his sorta almost nap. Something digs into his ribs and he eliminates elbow and shoe and fist before he gives up and opens his eyes.
“Oh,” he says, because yeah, he was way off.
“Oh?” Sam asks, dropping the metal box onto Dean’s lap.
And the thing is, he gets why Sam wants into the lockbox so badly. It’s like, the last thing they have of Dad’s, and Sam-turns out he’s all about the things. Which is. Well, it’s not what he expected. From Sam. But with the photos, and now the shirt. Sam obviously needs… stuff.
And it’s not like Dean’s been keeping it from him.
He had an idea, sure, but it’s not like he really knows. And he would have tried it earlier, for Sam, if he’d known Sam was so hung up on having things of Dad’s. Well, probably. As much as Dean doesn’t need them-doesn’t want them-if he’d known, though.
And it’s not like there’s gonna be another shirt or something in Dad’s lockbox. Papers, IDs, whatever. Dean can deal with that stuff.
He slides the numbers into place one at a time. Seven. Eight. Five. He might be wrong, anyway. Eight. Three. Two. It’s not like Dad ever told him the combination, it’s just. Zero. Six. A guess. Six.
Could be any ten numbers in the world, it’s just.
Zero.
Open. It’s open.
“Dean…” Sam says, and he sounds-but it’s not like Dean was keeping this from him, it’s just… “Dude, you knew? This whole time?”
“No, I just. It was a guess. I didn’t know it would work.”
“A guess,” Sam says. “You guessed ten numbers?”
Which-yes. Yes is the right answer. Yes is the answer that he needs to give Sam, and Mr. friggin’ Vision Head can just deal. And besides, it was a guess, technically.
Except not lying to Sam, that’s kinda on his list of things to do. Not way up there, like banging an honest-to-god redhead (and how he’s managed to miss out on that, after all these years, is a friggin’ mystery) but still. It’s there. Kinda between getting the car detailed and seeing the Grand Canyon.
So, the truth. Yeah, he can do that.
“It was our phone number. Before,” Dean says. “In Lawrence. But I didn’t-it was just a guess.”
“That you thought of when?”
And okay, honesty is one thing, but. “Just open the box,” Dean says, handing it over.
*
The Impala’s got a lockbox.
There’s not much in it. Dean does things a little differently than Dad did. Wrong, Dad would’ve said, but it works for Dean.
So all the IDs are in a box in the glove compartment, and the important paperwork’s in there too, and the lockbox-he doesn’t use it. He just. He’s got a few things in there, a couple of pictures, letters. Sam’s baby teeth. But he hasn’t opened it in years.
Dad’s is different. All of his IDs, all of his paperwork. Cash. Everything he needed to do the job.
And a key.
“Did you know about this, too?” Sam asks, holding it up and letting the envelope it came in fall onto the seat. “Or wait, did you have a guess?”
“Sam,” Dean says-and yeah, that’s it. He just. Doesn’t have anything else to say.
“Oh my god, you did?”
“No! You don’t think I would’ve told you about something like this?”
“Honestly,” Sam says, “I don’t know.”
Which, yeah, that’s just…
He’s standing on the pavement, listening to the muted echo of the door slamming shut before he remembers that it’s almost four in the morning.
Sam gets out quietly. “You don’t talk about him.”
“What, you want to cry and hug, share some memories?”
“Maybe,” Sam says, and Dean can’t help the huff of air that escapes him. “We saw him, Dean. We saw him, and-don’t you want to talk about what that means?”
And that’s not-it’s… okay, funny’s maybe not the word he’d use, but that doesn’t stop him from laughing. Only it’s not just laughing. It’s like this borderline crazy-ass howling that he can’t stop, and his ass hitting the ground? Just makes him laugh harder.
Sam’s not joining in, but that’s. Yeah. Hell, he’s probably lucky Sam’s not throwing holy water right about now.
He points a finger at Sam. “You,” he huffs between gasping air in and spitting it back out, but there’s no way he’s gonna manage an entire sentence, so he just smacks the pavement next to him a couple of times and Sam sits.
“Me what?”
Dean shifts back until he can lean against the Impala, right in front of the wheel well. He tips his head back and lets it rest against the car and gets his breathing almost under control.
“Hi,” he says, still chuckling a little. He sticks his hand out in Sam’s direction. “Dean Winchester. My turn-ons include awesome cars, killing evil sons of bitches, and natural redheads.”
Sam just wrinkles his forehead and stares.
“Turn-offs include broccoli, annoying little brothers, and chick flick moments.” Sam cracks a little smile and bats Dean’s outstretched hand away. “Dude, don’t I want to talk about it? It’s like you don’t even know me!”
Sam laughs then, and Dean kind of never really stopped, but it’s good, like something’s shaken loose in his chest and it’s a little easier to breathe, or something.
“I don’t know what to say, Sammy.” He loosens and then tightens the cap on the tire stem. “But, uh… I hear there’s a safe deposit box that might need looking into.”
“Seriously? You wanna go?”
“You wanna go?”
Sam doesn’t say anything, but it’s not like Dean didn’t already know the answer before he asked.
“Gimme that key then,” Dean says.
He stands and stretches and then holds a hand out to Sam.
“What, right now?” Sam asks.
“You got somewhere else to be?”
“No, I just…”
“Then get in,” Dean says.
“But we can’t-I mean, we can’t break into a bank, Dean. We’ve got the key, but they’re gonna need to see some ID.”
Obviously.
“I got it covered,” Dean says. And it’s for Sam, so. He can deal with this.
He can.
Sam’s already got a map out by the time he gets in. “So, uh,” he starts, and then takes a second to clear his throat. “How far to Lawrence?”
*
“Hey,” Dean says, “You wanna get out the IDs?”
“What for?”
Dean sighs-he can’t help it.
“Just do it, all right?”
They’re two hours into the trip, still two and a half hours outside of Lawrence, and they’ve already had to stop for Sam to use the bathroom, which-of course it had to be a gas station, he couldn’t just use a tree ‘cause he’s a friggin’ girl.
Plus, Dean’s got a crick in his neck and a cramp in his leg, and he can’t get the car to a temperature in between too hot and too cold, and he just. Cannot get comfortable. And it’s totally unfair, ‘cause Sam was actually asleep for most of the hour and fifty-five minutes he wasn’t pissing, and Dean’s the one who hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in days, all because of Sam and that stupid shirt.
So Sam-he needs to just get out the goddamn box and stop asking questions.
“It’s uh…” Dean says. “It’s got a false bottom.”
Sam gets the box out of the glove compartment and Dean watches the road. Safety, it’s. Very Important.
“You just,” he says. He makes a waving motion that means dump the box and slide the bottom panel out, but he can’t tell if Sam gets it because he’s still watching the road, which-hey, cows.
“Hey, cows. You remember when you were a kid, you used to count ‘em?” Dean says. “Sam?”
Sam doesn’t answer, and Dean counts eleven cows.
“Okay, listen. I should have told you about the false bottom, all right? But it wasn’t-it’s not important. There’s only one thing in there, and I didn’t think we’d ever need it, and. You were still a kid when I got it, you know? So I couldn’t… It’s not like I was hiding it, okay? I mean, I was, when you were little, but now it’s just. I didn’t think we’d need it. Sam?”
“Twelve,” Sam says.
“Huh?”
“Twelve cows.”
“Uh, I got eleven.”
Sam laughs. “I guess Schoolhouse Rock never covered counting.”
“Oh, Sammy,” Dean says, and he looks over at Sam, because safety-it’s overrated. “Is that a challenge I hear? ‘Cause I can just turn this car around, and then we’ll see who’s right.”
Which-it’s totally him. Sammy always loved counting cows, but man, did he suck at it. Not that Dean ever told him that. Little kid, long car trips, it’s just common sense. Gotta let him win the game, for everyone’s sake.
“I’ve known about the false bottom since I was ten,” Sam says, and he slides it out like he’s done it a million times.
Hell, he probably has. And now Dean’s gotta try and remember everything he’s kept in there since he was fourteen-well, from when he was fourteen until Sam left for college, so that’s like, eight years… eight years of condoms and notes from girls and one notable Miss December, which-maybe it’s better not to think about it after all.
Dean clears his throat. “There a sealed envelope in there?”
Which-of course there is. And it’s the only thing in there, so it’s kind of a dumb question, but. It’s better than thinking about poor, redheaded Miss December falling into Sammy’s sticky paws.
And sticky, yeah, Dean’s just-not going there. Really, really not. Seriously.
Sam holds the envelope up. Dean hasn’t given it a second glance since Dad gave it to him, years ago, but it looks the same. White. Envelope shaped.
“Give it,” Dean says.
Sam holds it out and Dean grabs it. He’s shoving it into his sweatshirt pocket when Sam says, “Seriously? You’re not even gonna tell me what’s in there?”
“I am, just…” He’s gonna have to, now. “I will.”
*
“So, I’ve been thinking,” Dean says, “maybe you just wanna do this. You know, alone. I mean, I’ll go in with you, but. You don’t need me, right? To look at the box?”
He’s rolling his window down with one hand and drumming on the steering wheel with the other.
“Seek and Destroy?” Sam says.
Dean ignores him.
“That’s like, the fourteenth time you’ve rolled your window down in the last hour.”
And apparently, he doesn’t get the hint.
“Dean.”
“What?” Dean says, because it’s not even worth it. Once Sammy gets on a roll, he’s just… Not ignorable.
“Dude, what’s with the attitude?” Sam says. “It was your idea to go.”
“Yeah, well, it was a bad one,” Dean mutters, softly enough that Sam won’t hear him.
Or not.
“It’s not a bad idea,” Sam says. “It’s not. What if it’s got, like... I mean, don’t you even want to know? Don’t you need to know what was so important that Dad kept it all these years?”
And see, that’s just it. That’s why he and Sammy are different, because-no. He doesn’t need to know. He doesn’t even want to know because the last thing he needs is another shirt or whatever just being there all the time, so he can’t even think about anything else.
Besides, as far as he’s concerned, he already knows everything he needs to know about the man John Winchester was, faults and all, and it’s just. Dean knows the things the man kept-really kept.
He kept his wedding ring. He kept a picture of Mom in his wallet. He kept his kids, kept them safe as best he could. And he kept his promise to kill the demon that murdered his wife.
And that’s enough, that’s everything, but Sammy just. Doesn’t see it that way, or something.
“Dean, you saw the date on the envelope. He had it since before I was born, I mean… It has to mean something.”
Which is just such a Sammy thing to say. But he obviously needs this, so.
“All right.” Dean says. “We’ll do this, okay? Together.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, and Dean tries to see the positive side, but.
There just isn’t one, not this time.
He’s running on zero sleep, he can’t stop thinking about Dad, and he can’t help it, he friggin’ resents Sammy’s need to have Dad’s stuff, but-but even that’s not enough to keep him from driving five hours to goddamn Lawrence in the middle of the night just because Sam needs this.
And it’s just. It’s not okay.
He glances in the rearview mirror, and it’s Dad’s eye, Dad’s cheek, Dad’s ear he sees against the backdrop of the Impala. The road stretches out behind them, wide and grey, and he’s seen this a thousand times, from every seat in the car, laughing, crying, bleeding out in the back.
They’re forty-five minutes out, and he’s gotta tell Sam.
“Sammy, before we get there, I…” He pauses to roll his window up. “I just…”
And this is exactly why they’ve never had this conversation. Because Dean doesn’t have a way to say it, and Sam’s not gonna understand. He’s not gonna understand why it was never important, why it still isn’t, and why it is-why it’s something Dean can barely bring himself to say, and god, maybe he can’t.
Maybe he can’t even say it, because it’s too hard.
And it just. It might change things.
Sam makes a noise and Dean looks over, and he pretty much can’t remember ever being so relieved to find Sam asleep.
*
There’s a line inside the bank.
It’s a little too short for comfort, and it gets even shorter when a third teller shows up to help handle the morning rush.
Dean’s rehearsing the beginning of a speech in his head, something along the lines of I swear, I never thought this would come up, when Sam tugs on his sleeve and gives him a look that’s half nervous smile and half indigestion, and yeah, that’s about right.
“How can I help you?” the teller asks when they get to the window.
“Yeah, um. I, uh,” Dean says, and Sam looks like he’s gonna throw up or throw a punch or something, and he’s really gotta pull it together. “I need to get into my safe deposit box.”
“Certainly, Sir. Box number?”
“1048,” Dean says, turning the key over in his hand.
There’s clicking, more clicking than he would have thought there’d be, if he’d been thinking about it. Mouse buttons, keyboard keys. Pulling up info on Dad, and Dean can’t help but wonder what it says.
“Name, please?”
“Winchester,” Dean says. “Um. John.”
Sam’s toe shuffles into Dean’s heel, and Dean scuffs the sole of his boot on the ground, riding out the automatic chill the fuck out stomp reflex before he moves his foot out of Sam’s reach and gives the teller something like a smile.
“Okay, and I’ll just need to see two forms of ID.”
“Yeah.”
Which-yeah.
“License and birth certificate okay?”
The teller nods, and Dean puts his license down on the counter-one of two which haven’t expired and say Dean Winchester and have his picture on the front.
And that’s the easy part. The hard part’s in his pocket, and it’s true, he honestly never thought this would come up, but-it’s up now. It’s way the friggin’ hell up, and for all he’s avoided this, he can’t not look at Sam while he opens the envelope.
Which he does in a kind of horrible slow motion, and he double checks that he’s pulling out the right paper, and this is just-this is it.
He looks at Sammy one more time before laying the paper out on the counter.
“I, uh,” he says, as he taps a finger over the letters in the center of the page, letters that spell out John Dean Winchester, “I go by my middle name.”
There’s more clicking, and then the teller says, “All right, Mr. Winchester, just wait by that door over there, and someone will be out shortly.”
Dean grabs his ID and looks anywhere but at Sam, and he was wrong before because he’s the one who’s gonna throw up.
“Dean,” Sam says, and god, he deserves whatever’s coming, but-“Was that… is it…”
They get to the door somehow, and he knows he has to answer, but it’s like there’s not enough air in the room, and maybe if he could just take in a breath, he could find the right thing to say, but…
“Dean, hey. Are you okay?”
And yeah, kinda no. And maybe he actually says that or something because Sam’s hand comes across his shoulders, and suddenly there’s a chair, and that’s-better.
“Dean…”
“I’m sorry,” he says. And he is, for a lot of reasons, but mostly right now he’s sorry that he’s suddenly got Dad’s face and his name, because he’s always known, but it’s never been real until now.
“So it’s really true? And-you knew and you never…”
“I’m sorry,” he says again, and this time it really is for Sam. “I’m sorry, I…”
“No, don’t… it’s okay,” Sam says. “But… why?”
And yeah, that’s a good question, but he just-he doesn’t have a good answer. There isn’t one. He can tell the truth, though, if he can get the words out.
“It was never important, it was-nothing. I knew, but. And then after he… How was I supposed to bring it up? How was I supposed to tell you?”
“Dean.”
“I mean, come on, Sammy, how was I supposed to say that?”
“No,” Sam says, and Dean suddenly needs to be out of the chair, to just breathe or take a walk or something, but Sam’s blocking his way, and-“Dean, I’m not-would you just stop?”
And he does, with a hand across his forehead and his breath coming too quickly, and Sam-“Dude, are you hugging me?”
“No,” Sam says, not moving his arms from where they’re draped across Dean’s shoulders and over his chest in what is clearly at least three-quarters of a hug.
“Okay, then,” Dean says. “As long as we’re clear on that.”
*
It shouldn’t be this hard, just. Opening a box.
Especially when they’ve got the key.
“So, uh…” Dean says. “I guess we should…”
“Wait.” Sam taps the key against the box. “I just. I’m not mad, Dean. When I asked why, I just meant… I mean, did they ever…”
“No,” Dean says. “No, it was always Dean. Um, I don’t know why they-and then after, it never really mattered. And I mean, I don’t think of myself like that. I haven’t, ever, but…”
“But what?”
“It was never real, you know? It never felt real, until today. And now it’s just…”
“Just…”
“I don’t know,” Dean says. He fingers the envelope in the pocket of his borrowed sweatshirt. “So, you ready?”
Sam taps the key a little closer to the lock for a second, and then he pushes it in. And Dean just-he can’t. Which is why he’s studying the brown-on-brown pattern of the floor tiles when Sam lets out a quiet laugh.
When he looks up, he’s face to face with an empty box, which. It makes sense, maybe. But Sam’s been waiting for this, and…
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Sam says, and he maybe laughs again, just a little. “I think I’m kinda relieved, actually.”
“Seriously?” Dean says. “I thought you were all… I mean, I thought you wanted more of his stuff, you know?”
Sam shuts the box and says, “What do you mean?”
Which, okay. Weird.
“You know, like the pictures, and that friggin’ shirt you carry around. Stuff.”
“What, you mean the blue one? In my bag? Dude, I’ve had that since I left for college,” he says. “And, uh, it wasn’t Dad’s. It was yours.”
And that’s just. Not something Dean has a response for, except he’s kind of biting down on the urge to smack Sam across the back of the head because that’s like, four nights of sleep he lost for no reason.
“I don’t need things, Dean,” Sam says. “I mean, I’m glad we have those pictures, but…”
Sam flips the key over in his hand a few times and then tosses it to Dean.
“Okay, I know it sounds stupid, but I don’t need pictures to see Dad. I just. I look at you, and you like… turn your head at just the right angle or say something he would’ve said, and it’s-Dad. Every time.”
Which. Yeah, that’s…
“And we don’t need things, either, I mean-he was our Dad, you know? And that’s not a thing, it’s…”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah, I know.”
Sam’s still got a hand on the box. “So, uh. What do you think we should we do with it?”
And the thing is-there must be hundreds of boxes, or thousands, even, hell if he knows, but they take up the whole damn room, and it’s like. People just break off little pieces of their lives and stuff them into these tiny containers. And every single box is exactly the same, could be anybody’s stuff on the inside, but.
He shoves the key in his pocket. Just because something’s empty doesn’t mean it’s nothing.
“Same thing Dad did,” he answers.
*
Sam drives on the way back to the motel, which is just not the way things are supposed to be, and Dean pretty much refuses to give up the driver’s seat, except-
“Dude, you can’t drive when you’re asleep.”
Which he’s not.
And he wasn’t, he was just. Resting his eyes for a minute.
“Thirteen,” Sam says.
Which… “Huh?”
“Oh no, you’re not asleep.”
“I’m not,” Dean says.
“Thirteen cows.”
Which-huh. They’ve gotta be like, a half hour out of Lawrence, and he kinda remembers the cows being a lot closer to the motel than that, but. Whatever. “Dude, I was totally right.”
“What?” Sam says, and Dean can already tell this is gonna be fun. “Dean, you said eleven. You said eleven, and I said twelve.”
“I never said eleven.” Which-this is totally the best part of cow counting.
“Right. Just like you haven’t been asleep for the last two and a half hours.”
“Exactly. Now pull over and gimme my car back.”
Sam takes a sip of his coffee, which Dean would obviously remember stopping for if he thought about it for a minute, and doesn’t pull over. “Not until you admit you said eleven.”
“Okay, Sammy, I said eleven,” Dean says. “Plus two, which equals thirteen.”
“Dean!”
And Sam actually looks offended, which-it’s all Dean can do to keep a straight face. “What?”
It’s been way too long since they played this game. And now that Sammy’s all grown up, Dean won’t even have to give in and let him win in the end, which-awesome.
There’s a little too much gravel action when Sam pulls over, and Dean’s about to bitch when Sam says, “How is it that you can’t remember something you said five hours ago, but you can remember your phone number from when you were four years old?”
And Sam’s got this stupid half pissed, half constipated thing going on, and, yeah-there’s no point even trying not to laugh anymore, so Dean just goes with it and says, “Because, little brother. Forgetting a phone number ain’t nearly as much fun.”
Sam snorts way too loud, which means he’s about to be a total prick.
“You really wanna talk about which one of us is little?”
And even after all this time, he still just walks right into it. And sure, Dean could take the high road, but-yeah, not so much.
“Hell yeah, Sammy,” Dean says, and the wink is maybe going a little too far, but what the fuck, right? “You just get out the ruler and we’ll see.”
“Dude!” Sam says.
“Hey, it was your idea. Now get outta my seat.”
He slides the false bottom out of the ID box and digs the key out of his pocket while Sam… just sits there smiling and not getting the hell out of the way.
“I’m not kidding,” Dean says. “Move it.”
Sam runs a hand over the steering wheel. “So I was thinking. I know we were gonna head south next, see if we can find any leads on the demons that killed those people in Nebraska. But I don’t know, don’t you think maybe we should stay put and spend more time focusing on like, possessions?”
“Yeah, why’s that?”
“Well, you know what they say about possession,” he says, and he friggin’ smirks like a bastard and peels out like someone who’s got no appreciation for classic automobiles and is never allowed anywhere near Dean’s car, ever again.
As soon as Dean gets him out.
And possibly beats the crap out of him.
“Nine tenths, big brother,” Sam says, hitting the gas pedal even harder, and he laughs and jostles the ID box when he claps Dean roughly on the knee. “Nine tenths.”
###
Visual aids: here. (If you know who I should credit for these screencaps, please let me know.)
Also, there’s insomnia, cockblocking, laughing, banking, at least three-quarters of a hug, four boxes, and eleven cows. Or maybe twelve. Or thirteen. And a spectacularly bad pun. Oh, and Dean misses his daddy and wears a hoodie and maybe hurts a little, but if he's been paying attention, then he's maybe realized some stuff, too.
(Okay, so. To be clear: I don't have any plans to write a sequel, and this story does not feature a pairing. I know, it was confusing before.) It's rated mature for a little bit of sexual content and language, and it's set three weeks post-AHBL2, but it's not about post-AHBL2 angst.
Beta'd by madame_meretrix, who gets what I'm saying even when I don't and has such an incredibly good grasp on this story that I think I'm gonna ask her to write it down as kind of a companion piece. But, uh, shhhhh. I haven't told her that yet.
Visual aids are linked at the end of the story.
So, here you go. Inheritance (Descent and Distribution), 6,046 words.
(Oh--descent and distribution is a component of intestate succession; it refers to the laws which govern inheritance in the absence of a will.)
Gorgeous cover art made for me by the insanely talented smilla02.
Inheritance (Descent and Distribution)
They don’t have much that belonged to Dad.
The journal, some of the weapons. The car, before it was Dean’s.
Sam’s got an old blue shirt that he hides in the bottom of his duffel. Dean found it a few days ago while he was raiding Sam’s clean underwear stash, but it has to have been there since… yeah.
He went bare assed that day. Friggin’ chafed, too.
He pretends he doesn’t know about it. He wishes he didn’t, and that’s kind of the next best thing, right? He can’t stop seeing it, though, sweat-stained, worn thin from too many washings. Can’t stop wondering whether it still smells like Dad.
He’d be lying if he said this was why. This constant itch in his chest, the breaths that come too fast, too shallow, the feeling that maybe he could get some friggin’ sleep already if he could just bury his face in the worn fabric for a second, imagine the solidness of Dad behind it.
But it’s not. It’s not why, and he fuckin’ knows it, so he can’t even get the satisfaction of a silent I told you so.
Truth is, he didn’t have his head on straight back then, told Sam to destroy everything, truck and all. There was no reason. No why. After Dad-after, he just… couldn’t. And that’s it.
But if he’d known, if he’d been thinking. Yeah, this might have been why. Because that breathing coming from the other bed isn’t ever gonna be Dad again, and he can’t stop-can’t stop. Because what if it doesn’t? What if he picks it up and it smells like laundry detergent or Sam’s socks?
So he’s just-he can’t sleep and… God, he just. He misses his dad.
Maybe if Sammy would’ve just done what Dean said, torched it all-except he did the right thing, keeping the weapons and the lockbox, letting Bobby scrap the truck. But Dad’s stuff, man.
And it’s not like-it’s not like it was. Dad’s done now, he’s… wherever people go when they die. The man clawed his way out of hell, no help from Dean. And now the demon’s dead, and whatever kind of peace there is in the universe, he hopes to hell Dad’s getting his share because he damn well earned it.
So. It should be easier now. Thinking about Dad.
But seeing him again, it was-and now this, and he can’t… and he wants it to be Sam’s fault, somehow, and he wants to bring him black coffee when he orders a latte and put dirty socks in with the clean and maybe even try that Nair thing again, but.
But.
It’s just-they’re three weeks into a war, and this is not the time to be losing sleep or starting a fight with Sam. Dad would’ve wanted him sharp, ready, not… whatever this is.
Fucked up. Sleep deprived. Whatever.
And he can’t blame Sam for wanting to keep something of Dad’s. That just-it wouldn’t be cool.
Sam’s breathing is loud and even in the next bed. Used to piss Dean off, keep him up sometimes, but now. Well, yeah, it still kind of pisses him off, but it’s-good. It’s good.
They haven’t really been apart since-since, but maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing. Take a drive, clear his head.
And that’s. Yeah, it’s a good idea. It’ll be fine.
He grabs a shirt from his duffel and his jeans off the bathroom floor, and he pisses in the dark because the light switch turns the fan on too, and the friggin’ thing’s loud enough to wake the dead.
Not that it makes a difference, because halfway through, Sam slurs out, “Dean? What’re you doing?”
Which is just-yeah, that’s classic Sammy. Smartest guy Dean knows, but he always asks the stupid question when he’s half asleep.
“I’m jerking off. Dude, what does it sound like I’m doing?” And hell, maybe that’s not the worst idea. He cups his balls as the stream dies out, and yeah, maybe this is what he needs. It’s been… too friggin’ long, if he can’t even remember.
A couple of strokes, and okay, he could get into this. No porn in sight, but he’s learned to make do.
“Man, you’re not actually… Dean?”
“Oh yeah, Sammy…” Which-he can’t do it with a straight face, but he keeps talking anyway because messing with Sam like this is always fun. “Keep talking… just… a little more…”
Sam’s laughter carries through the open door. “Hey, want me to read you the plot descriptions from the porn channel?”
And it looks like it’s gonna be a drive after all.
“Oh yeah,” Dean breathes, buttoning his jeans, “you know what that does to me…”
“Loser,” Sam says when Dean sits on the bed to pull on his boots.
“Cockblocker.” Dean throws a pillow in Sam’s direction.
“You going somewhere?”
“Just go back to sleep,” Dean says. “Don’t need any backup on this one.”
“I’m not your backup, Dean; I’m your brother.” The pillow comes back. “You wanna tell me why you’re not sleeping?”
So much for the easy exit.
“Dean?” Sam sits up and gets a foot on the floor, and that puts him like, two strides away from a full-on hug, which-no. Sammy can leave his concerned voice and puppy dog eyes for the people they save. “Dean, you know I’m gonna find a way to-I mean… you know that, right?”
Yeah, like he needs to be thinking about that, too.
“Just leave it, Sam. I’ll be back in time for breakfast.”
It’s maybe five steps to the door, but Dean does it in three.
*
Dean’s got an awesome car. He’s got pretty much the most awesome car he’s ever seen, but sometimes. Sometimes he can’t see anything but Dad’s face reflected back in every mirror, in every piece of glass or chrome.
Sam keeps pictures.
Used to be pictures of Mom, and one of Dean, but now they’re just Dad. Dad and Mom. Dad and Dean. And that’s-it’s fine. It's fine that Sam wants the pictures to remember him by. And he’s had them since before it happened, so it’s not like it’s something new.
But it’s like… seeing him again, like that-it hurts again. In a different way, maybe, but yeah.
And Sam just-he pushes. He gets the pictures out and looks at them, or he puts them on the nightstand or the dresser. One of them’s even framed, and it’s like he tries to make them conspicuous, like they’re friggin’ mistletoe or something and everyone who gets within ten feet has to hug.
Dean called him on it once, but it turned into a whole big thing, a stupid fight about nothing. Just Sammy being a bitch and a lot of yelling, and maybe someone’s last pair of clean underwear got dunked in the toilet, but Dean’s got no idea how that happened. Really.
Didn’t accomplish anything, anyway. Sam still gets the pictures out, and he still gets that look when Dean gets too close.
But he just-he wouldn’t understand. He needs the pictures, and that’s fine, but…
Dean doesn’t need pictures to see Dad.
And that’s-he’s proud of it, that anyone can look at his face and see that he’s John Winchester’s son. But it doesn’t make things easier. He looks in the mirror, clenches his jaw the right way, or catches his nose at just the right angle, and it’s-Dad. Every time.
And even if he wanted to, hell, even if he just needed a break-there’s nothing he can do to stop it.
The door to their room opens and Sam doesn’t say anything when he comes out and climbs onto the hood of the Impala next to Dean. He throws one of his old hoodies in Dean’s lap, and Dean grunts his thanks and they sit. Which-it’s nice. They should do it more often, just. Hang out or whatever.
Dean huffs out a breath that’s almost a chuckle because yeah-he’ll pencil that in right after the demon war.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Dean shrugs the sweatshirt on. “Nothing, it’s-stupid.”
“Huh,” Sam says. “So what’re we doing out here?”
And yeah, Dean could maybe ask that question himself, emphasis on the we, but he should have figured Sam would follow him, and it’s not like he minds, as long as Sam doesn’t start in on the touchy-feely crap.
“Don’t know about you, but I’m spending some quality time with my girl.”
“Dean…”
Dude just cannot let it go.
“Sam.”
“Fine,” Sam says, “I get it, you don’t want to talk about it.”
Which, okay, that’s… good. It’s good.
“Good.” Dean nods. “Okay. Glad we understand each other.”
“I mean, you know you’re gonna tell me eventually.” And there are so many things wrong with that, but number one on the list is that the little shit’s actually smiling. “But if you wanna wait, you know. That’s cool.”
And Dean’s got a totally awesome comeback, he just-
“I know you’ll open up whenever you’re ready.”
And that is just not even-
“So I’ll just. Be here. Waiting.”
And Sam’s actually laughing now, and that’s it-the little bitch is going down. Dean scrambles off the hood, and Sam takes off, still laughing, across the parking lot.
*
“Dude,” Dean says between breaths, because yeah. Breathing is good.
He’s sprawled across the back seat with Sam, which is just in no way a good idea, but he’s too worn out to move, so.
“Dude, move your-wait, no… the other way…”
“Dean! I don’t bend that way, man.”
“Well just… fuck. I don’t think we fit back here anymore.”
Which, yeah, maybe that should have been obvious. But the back seat was always more comfortable than the front, so…
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
“Okay,” Sam says. “We should sit up. On the count of three.”
It’s not exactly the worst plan Sam’s ever had, but it’s got a fatal flaw.
“Sammy?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not counting.”
“Huh.”
“What, you forget how?”
“No, just-wait, move your leg… no, I mean… yeah. Hey.”
“Hey what?” Dean asks, and he’s half sitting with most of Sam in his lap, which-“Shove over.”
Sam gets himself upright and semi-contained and Dean figures he’s not gonna complain about one stray leg, even if it is freak-sized and cutting into his personal space. It’s kinda comfortable, anyway, and Dean closes his eyes.
“D’you think we’ll ever get into it?” Sam asks.
“Sure, Sammy,” Dean says through a yawn, and hey, maybe this is the answer to his insomnia, just run around in the parking lot and then lie down in the car. Stranger things, man.
“Dean.”
“Hmmm?”
“Dean!”
“What,” Dean says-all right, yells, but come on. Sam’s totally screwing up his sorta almost nap. Something digs into his ribs and he eliminates elbow and shoe and fist before he gives up and opens his eyes.
“Oh,” he says, because yeah, he was way off.
“Oh?” Sam asks, dropping the metal box onto Dean’s lap.
And the thing is, he gets why Sam wants into the lockbox so badly. It’s like, the last thing they have of Dad’s, and Sam-turns out he’s all about the things. Which is. Well, it’s not what he expected. From Sam. But with the photos, and now the shirt. Sam obviously needs… stuff.
And it’s not like Dean’s been keeping it from him.
He had an idea, sure, but it’s not like he really knows. And he would have tried it earlier, for Sam, if he’d known Sam was so hung up on having things of Dad’s. Well, probably. As much as Dean doesn’t need them-doesn’t want them-if he’d known, though.
And it’s not like there’s gonna be another shirt or something in Dad’s lockbox. Papers, IDs, whatever. Dean can deal with that stuff.
He slides the numbers into place one at a time. Seven. Eight. Five. He might be wrong, anyway. Eight. Three. Two. It’s not like Dad ever told him the combination, it’s just. Zero. Six. A guess. Six.
Could be any ten numbers in the world, it’s just.
Zero.
Open. It’s open.
“Dean…” Sam says, and he sounds-but it’s not like Dean was keeping this from him, it’s just… “Dude, you knew? This whole time?”
“No, I just. It was a guess. I didn’t know it would work.”
“A guess,” Sam says. “You guessed ten numbers?”
Which-yes. Yes is the right answer. Yes is the answer that he needs to give Sam, and Mr. friggin’ Vision Head can just deal. And besides, it was a guess, technically.
Except not lying to Sam, that’s kinda on his list of things to do. Not way up there, like banging an honest-to-god redhead (and how he’s managed to miss out on that, after all these years, is a friggin’ mystery) but still. It’s there. Kinda between getting the car detailed and seeing the Grand Canyon.
So, the truth. Yeah, he can do that.
“It was our phone number. Before,” Dean says. “In Lawrence. But I didn’t-it was just a guess.”
“That you thought of when?”
And okay, honesty is one thing, but. “Just open the box,” Dean says, handing it over.
*
The Impala’s got a lockbox.
There’s not much in it. Dean does things a little differently than Dad did. Wrong, Dad would’ve said, but it works for Dean.
So all the IDs are in a box in the glove compartment, and the important paperwork’s in there too, and the lockbox-he doesn’t use it. He just. He’s got a few things in there, a couple of pictures, letters. Sam’s baby teeth. But he hasn’t opened it in years.
Dad’s is different. All of his IDs, all of his paperwork. Cash. Everything he needed to do the job.
And a key.
“Did you know about this, too?” Sam asks, holding it up and letting the envelope it came in fall onto the seat. “Or wait, did you have a guess?”
“Sam,” Dean says-and yeah, that’s it. He just. Doesn’t have anything else to say.
“Oh my god, you did?”
“No! You don’t think I would’ve told you about something like this?”
“Honestly,” Sam says, “I don’t know.”
Which, yeah, that’s just…
He’s standing on the pavement, listening to the muted echo of the door slamming shut before he remembers that it’s almost four in the morning.
Sam gets out quietly. “You don’t talk about him.”
“What, you want to cry and hug, share some memories?”
“Maybe,” Sam says, and Dean can’t help the huff of air that escapes him. “We saw him, Dean. We saw him, and-don’t you want to talk about what that means?”
And that’s not-it’s… okay, funny’s maybe not the word he’d use, but that doesn’t stop him from laughing. Only it’s not just laughing. It’s like this borderline crazy-ass howling that he can’t stop, and his ass hitting the ground? Just makes him laugh harder.
Sam’s not joining in, but that’s. Yeah. Hell, he’s probably lucky Sam’s not throwing holy water right about now.
He points a finger at Sam. “You,” he huffs between gasping air in and spitting it back out, but there’s no way he’s gonna manage an entire sentence, so he just smacks the pavement next to him a couple of times and Sam sits.
“Me what?”
Dean shifts back until he can lean against the Impala, right in front of the wheel well. He tips his head back and lets it rest against the car and gets his breathing almost under control.
“Hi,” he says, still chuckling a little. He sticks his hand out in Sam’s direction. “Dean Winchester. My turn-ons include awesome cars, killing evil sons of bitches, and natural redheads.”
Sam just wrinkles his forehead and stares.
“Turn-offs include broccoli, annoying little brothers, and chick flick moments.” Sam cracks a little smile and bats Dean’s outstretched hand away. “Dude, don’t I want to talk about it? It’s like you don’t even know me!”
Sam laughs then, and Dean kind of never really stopped, but it’s good, like something’s shaken loose in his chest and it’s a little easier to breathe, or something.
“I don’t know what to say, Sammy.” He loosens and then tightens the cap on the tire stem. “But, uh… I hear there’s a safe deposit box that might need looking into.”
“Seriously? You wanna go?”
“You wanna go?”
Sam doesn’t say anything, but it’s not like Dean didn’t already know the answer before he asked.
“Gimme that key then,” Dean says.
He stands and stretches and then holds a hand out to Sam.
“What, right now?” Sam asks.
“You got somewhere else to be?”
“No, I just…”
“Then get in,” Dean says.
“But we can’t-I mean, we can’t break into a bank, Dean. We’ve got the key, but they’re gonna need to see some ID.”
Obviously.
“I got it covered,” Dean says. And it’s for Sam, so. He can deal with this.
He can.
Sam’s already got a map out by the time he gets in. “So, uh,” he starts, and then takes a second to clear his throat. “How far to Lawrence?”
*
“Hey,” Dean says, “You wanna get out the IDs?”
“What for?”
Dean sighs-he can’t help it.
“Just do it, all right?”
They’re two hours into the trip, still two and a half hours outside of Lawrence, and they’ve already had to stop for Sam to use the bathroom, which-of course it had to be a gas station, he couldn’t just use a tree ‘cause he’s a friggin’ girl.
Plus, Dean’s got a crick in his neck and a cramp in his leg, and he can’t get the car to a temperature in between too hot and too cold, and he just. Cannot get comfortable. And it’s totally unfair, ‘cause Sam was actually asleep for most of the hour and fifty-five minutes he wasn’t pissing, and Dean’s the one who hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in days, all because of Sam and that stupid shirt.
So Sam-he needs to just get out the goddamn box and stop asking questions.
“It’s uh…” Dean says. “It’s got a false bottom.”
Sam gets the box out of the glove compartment and Dean watches the road. Safety, it’s. Very Important.
“You just,” he says. He makes a waving motion that means dump the box and slide the bottom panel out, but he can’t tell if Sam gets it because he’s still watching the road, which-hey, cows.
“Hey, cows. You remember when you were a kid, you used to count ‘em?” Dean says. “Sam?”
Sam doesn’t answer, and Dean counts eleven cows.
“Okay, listen. I should have told you about the false bottom, all right? But it wasn’t-it’s not important. There’s only one thing in there, and I didn’t think we’d ever need it, and. You were still a kid when I got it, you know? So I couldn’t… It’s not like I was hiding it, okay? I mean, I was, when you were little, but now it’s just. I didn’t think we’d need it. Sam?”
“Twelve,” Sam says.
“Huh?”
“Twelve cows.”
“Uh, I got eleven.”
Sam laughs. “I guess Schoolhouse Rock never covered counting.”
“Oh, Sammy,” Dean says, and he looks over at Sam, because safety-it’s overrated. “Is that a challenge I hear? ‘Cause I can just turn this car around, and then we’ll see who’s right.”
Which-it’s totally him. Sammy always loved counting cows, but man, did he suck at it. Not that Dean ever told him that. Little kid, long car trips, it’s just common sense. Gotta let him win the game, for everyone’s sake.
“I’ve known about the false bottom since I was ten,” Sam says, and he slides it out like he’s done it a million times.
Hell, he probably has. And now Dean’s gotta try and remember everything he’s kept in there since he was fourteen-well, from when he was fourteen until Sam left for college, so that’s like, eight years… eight years of condoms and notes from girls and one notable Miss December, which-maybe it’s better not to think about it after all.
Dean clears his throat. “There a sealed envelope in there?”
Which-of course there is. And it’s the only thing in there, so it’s kind of a dumb question, but. It’s better than thinking about poor, redheaded Miss December falling into Sammy’s sticky paws.
And sticky, yeah, Dean’s just-not going there. Really, really not. Seriously.
Sam holds the envelope up. Dean hasn’t given it a second glance since Dad gave it to him, years ago, but it looks the same. White. Envelope shaped.
“Give it,” Dean says.
Sam holds it out and Dean grabs it. He’s shoving it into his sweatshirt pocket when Sam says, “Seriously? You’re not even gonna tell me what’s in there?”
“I am, just…” He’s gonna have to, now. “I will.”
*
“So, I’ve been thinking,” Dean says, “maybe you just wanna do this. You know, alone. I mean, I’ll go in with you, but. You don’t need me, right? To look at the box?”
He’s rolling his window down with one hand and drumming on the steering wheel with the other.
“Seek and Destroy?” Sam says.
Dean ignores him.
“That’s like, the fourteenth time you’ve rolled your window down in the last hour.”
And apparently, he doesn’t get the hint.
“Dean.”
“What?” Dean says, because it’s not even worth it. Once Sammy gets on a roll, he’s just… Not ignorable.
“Dude, what’s with the attitude?” Sam says. “It was your idea to go.”
“Yeah, well, it was a bad one,” Dean mutters, softly enough that Sam won’t hear him.
Or not.
“It’s not a bad idea,” Sam says. “It’s not. What if it’s got, like... I mean, don’t you even want to know? Don’t you need to know what was so important that Dad kept it all these years?”
And see, that’s just it. That’s why he and Sammy are different, because-no. He doesn’t need to know. He doesn’t even want to know because the last thing he needs is another shirt or whatever just being there all the time, so he can’t even think about anything else.
Besides, as far as he’s concerned, he already knows everything he needs to know about the man John Winchester was, faults and all, and it’s just. Dean knows the things the man kept-really kept.
He kept his wedding ring. He kept a picture of Mom in his wallet. He kept his kids, kept them safe as best he could. And he kept his promise to kill the demon that murdered his wife.
And that’s enough, that’s everything, but Sammy just. Doesn’t see it that way, or something.
“Dean, you saw the date on the envelope. He had it since before I was born, I mean… It has to mean something.”
Which is just such a Sammy thing to say. But he obviously needs this, so.
“All right.” Dean says. “We’ll do this, okay? Together.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, and Dean tries to see the positive side, but.
There just isn’t one, not this time.
He’s running on zero sleep, he can’t stop thinking about Dad, and he can’t help it, he friggin’ resents Sammy’s need to have Dad’s stuff, but-but even that’s not enough to keep him from driving five hours to goddamn Lawrence in the middle of the night just because Sam needs this.
And it’s just. It’s not okay.
He glances in the rearview mirror, and it’s Dad’s eye, Dad’s cheek, Dad’s ear he sees against the backdrop of the Impala. The road stretches out behind them, wide and grey, and he’s seen this a thousand times, from every seat in the car, laughing, crying, bleeding out in the back.
They’re forty-five minutes out, and he’s gotta tell Sam.
“Sammy, before we get there, I…” He pauses to roll his window up. “I just…”
And this is exactly why they’ve never had this conversation. Because Dean doesn’t have a way to say it, and Sam’s not gonna understand. He’s not gonna understand why it was never important, why it still isn’t, and why it is-why it’s something Dean can barely bring himself to say, and god, maybe he can’t.
Maybe he can’t even say it, because it’s too hard.
And it just. It might change things.
Sam makes a noise and Dean looks over, and he pretty much can’t remember ever being so relieved to find Sam asleep.
*
There’s a line inside the bank.
It’s a little too short for comfort, and it gets even shorter when a third teller shows up to help handle the morning rush.
Dean’s rehearsing the beginning of a speech in his head, something along the lines of I swear, I never thought this would come up, when Sam tugs on his sleeve and gives him a look that’s half nervous smile and half indigestion, and yeah, that’s about right.
“How can I help you?” the teller asks when they get to the window.
“Yeah, um. I, uh,” Dean says, and Sam looks like he’s gonna throw up or throw a punch or something, and he’s really gotta pull it together. “I need to get into my safe deposit box.”
“Certainly, Sir. Box number?”
“1048,” Dean says, turning the key over in his hand.
There’s clicking, more clicking than he would have thought there’d be, if he’d been thinking about it. Mouse buttons, keyboard keys. Pulling up info on Dad, and Dean can’t help but wonder what it says.
“Name, please?”
“Winchester,” Dean says. “Um. John.”
Sam’s toe shuffles into Dean’s heel, and Dean scuffs the sole of his boot on the ground, riding out the automatic chill the fuck out stomp reflex before he moves his foot out of Sam’s reach and gives the teller something like a smile.
“Okay, and I’ll just need to see two forms of ID.”
“Yeah.”
Which-yeah.
“License and birth certificate okay?”
The teller nods, and Dean puts his license down on the counter-one of two which haven’t expired and say Dean Winchester and have his picture on the front.
And that’s the easy part. The hard part’s in his pocket, and it’s true, he honestly never thought this would come up, but-it’s up now. It’s way the friggin’ hell up, and for all he’s avoided this, he can’t not look at Sam while he opens the envelope.
Which he does in a kind of horrible slow motion, and he double checks that he’s pulling out the right paper, and this is just-this is it.
He looks at Sammy one more time before laying the paper out on the counter.
“I, uh,” he says, as he taps a finger over the letters in the center of the page, letters that spell out John Dean Winchester, “I go by my middle name.”
There’s more clicking, and then the teller says, “All right, Mr. Winchester, just wait by that door over there, and someone will be out shortly.”
Dean grabs his ID and looks anywhere but at Sam, and he was wrong before because he’s the one who’s gonna throw up.
“Dean,” Sam says, and god, he deserves whatever’s coming, but-“Was that… is it…”
They get to the door somehow, and he knows he has to answer, but it’s like there’s not enough air in the room, and maybe if he could just take in a breath, he could find the right thing to say, but…
“Dean, hey. Are you okay?”
And yeah, kinda no. And maybe he actually says that or something because Sam’s hand comes across his shoulders, and suddenly there’s a chair, and that’s-better.
“Dean…”
“I’m sorry,” he says. And he is, for a lot of reasons, but mostly right now he’s sorry that he’s suddenly got Dad’s face and his name, because he’s always known, but it’s never been real until now.
“So it’s really true? And-you knew and you never…”
“I’m sorry,” he says again, and this time it really is for Sam. “I’m sorry, I…”
“No, don’t… it’s okay,” Sam says. “But… why?”
And yeah, that’s a good question, but he just-he doesn’t have a good answer. There isn’t one. He can tell the truth, though, if he can get the words out.
“It was never important, it was-nothing. I knew, but. And then after he… How was I supposed to bring it up? How was I supposed to tell you?”
“Dean.”
“I mean, come on, Sammy, how was I supposed to say that?”
“No,” Sam says, and Dean suddenly needs to be out of the chair, to just breathe or take a walk or something, but Sam’s blocking his way, and-“Dean, I’m not-would you just stop?”
And he does, with a hand across his forehead and his breath coming too quickly, and Sam-“Dude, are you hugging me?”
“No,” Sam says, not moving his arms from where they’re draped across Dean’s shoulders and over his chest in what is clearly at least three-quarters of a hug.
“Okay, then,” Dean says. “As long as we’re clear on that.”
*
It shouldn’t be this hard, just. Opening a box.
Especially when they’ve got the key.
“So, uh…” Dean says. “I guess we should…”
“Wait.” Sam taps the key against the box. “I just. I’m not mad, Dean. When I asked why, I just meant… I mean, did they ever…”
“No,” Dean says. “No, it was always Dean. Um, I don’t know why they-and then after, it never really mattered. And I mean, I don’t think of myself like that. I haven’t, ever, but…”
“But what?”
“It was never real, you know? It never felt real, until today. And now it’s just…”
“Just…”
“I don’t know,” Dean says. He fingers the envelope in the pocket of his borrowed sweatshirt. “So, you ready?”
Sam taps the key a little closer to the lock for a second, and then he pushes it in. And Dean just-he can’t. Which is why he’s studying the brown-on-brown pattern of the floor tiles when Sam lets out a quiet laugh.
When he looks up, he’s face to face with an empty box, which. It makes sense, maybe. But Sam’s been waiting for this, and…
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Sam says, and he maybe laughs again, just a little. “I think I’m kinda relieved, actually.”
“Seriously?” Dean says. “I thought you were all… I mean, I thought you wanted more of his stuff, you know?”
Sam shuts the box and says, “What do you mean?”
Which, okay. Weird.
“You know, like the pictures, and that friggin’ shirt you carry around. Stuff.”
“What, you mean the blue one? In my bag? Dude, I’ve had that since I left for college,” he says. “And, uh, it wasn’t Dad’s. It was yours.”
And that’s just. Not something Dean has a response for, except he’s kind of biting down on the urge to smack Sam across the back of the head because that’s like, four nights of sleep he lost for no reason.
“I don’t need things, Dean,” Sam says. “I mean, I’m glad we have those pictures, but…”
Sam flips the key over in his hand a few times and then tosses it to Dean.
“Okay, I know it sounds stupid, but I don’t need pictures to see Dad. I just. I look at you, and you like… turn your head at just the right angle or say something he would’ve said, and it’s-Dad. Every time.”
Which. Yeah, that’s…
“And we don’t need things, either, I mean-he was our Dad, you know? And that’s not a thing, it’s…”
“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah, I know.”
Sam’s still got a hand on the box. “So, uh. What do you think we should we do with it?”
And the thing is-there must be hundreds of boxes, or thousands, even, hell if he knows, but they take up the whole damn room, and it’s like. People just break off little pieces of their lives and stuff them into these tiny containers. And every single box is exactly the same, could be anybody’s stuff on the inside, but.
He shoves the key in his pocket. Just because something’s empty doesn’t mean it’s nothing.
“Same thing Dad did,” he answers.
*
Sam drives on the way back to the motel, which is just not the way things are supposed to be, and Dean pretty much refuses to give up the driver’s seat, except-
“Dude, you can’t drive when you’re asleep.”
Which he’s not.
And he wasn’t, he was just. Resting his eyes for a minute.
“Thirteen,” Sam says.
Which… “Huh?”
“Oh no, you’re not asleep.”
“I’m not,” Dean says.
“Thirteen cows.”
Which-huh. They’ve gotta be like, a half hour out of Lawrence, and he kinda remembers the cows being a lot closer to the motel than that, but. Whatever. “Dude, I was totally right.”
“What?” Sam says, and Dean can already tell this is gonna be fun. “Dean, you said eleven. You said eleven, and I said twelve.”
“I never said eleven.” Which-this is totally the best part of cow counting.
“Right. Just like you haven’t been asleep for the last two and a half hours.”
“Exactly. Now pull over and gimme my car back.”
Sam takes a sip of his coffee, which Dean would obviously remember stopping for if he thought about it for a minute, and doesn’t pull over. “Not until you admit you said eleven.”
“Okay, Sammy, I said eleven,” Dean says. “Plus two, which equals thirteen.”
“Dean!”
And Sam actually looks offended, which-it’s all Dean can do to keep a straight face. “What?”
It’s been way too long since they played this game. And now that Sammy’s all grown up, Dean won’t even have to give in and let him win in the end, which-awesome.
There’s a little too much gravel action when Sam pulls over, and Dean’s about to bitch when Sam says, “How is it that you can’t remember something you said five hours ago, but you can remember your phone number from when you were four years old?”
And Sam’s got this stupid half pissed, half constipated thing going on, and, yeah-there’s no point even trying not to laugh anymore, so Dean just goes with it and says, “Because, little brother. Forgetting a phone number ain’t nearly as much fun.”
Sam snorts way too loud, which means he’s about to be a total prick.
“You really wanna talk about which one of us is little?”
And even after all this time, he still just walks right into it. And sure, Dean could take the high road, but-yeah, not so much.
“Hell yeah, Sammy,” Dean says, and the wink is maybe going a little too far, but what the fuck, right? “You just get out the ruler and we’ll see.”
“Dude!” Sam says.
“Hey, it was your idea. Now get outta my seat.”
He slides the false bottom out of the ID box and digs the key out of his pocket while Sam… just sits there smiling and not getting the hell out of the way.
“I’m not kidding,” Dean says. “Move it.”
Sam runs a hand over the steering wheel. “So I was thinking. I know we were gonna head south next, see if we can find any leads on the demons that killed those people in Nebraska. But I don’t know, don’t you think maybe we should stay put and spend more time focusing on like, possessions?”
“Yeah, why’s that?”
“Well, you know what they say about possession,” he says, and he friggin’ smirks like a bastard and peels out like someone who’s got no appreciation for classic automobiles and is never allowed anywhere near Dean’s car, ever again.
As soon as Dean gets him out.
And possibly beats the crap out of him.
“Nine tenths, big brother,” Sam says, hitting the gas pedal even harder, and he laughs and jostles the ID box when he claps Dean roughly on the knee. “Nine tenths.”
###
Visual aids: here. (If you know who I should credit for these screencaps, please let me know.)