SPN Fic: To Everything A Season (Pt 6/?) (Gen, R, FutureFic)
Title: To Everything A Season (Part 6/?)
Author:
dodger_winslow
Challenge: Firsts Chart: First Memory
Genre: Gen (some het, not graphic), FutureFic
Word Count: 74,000 (total)
Pairings/Characters: John/OFC, Dean/OFC, Sam/OFC (hey, did I mention it was Future Fic?)
Rating: R (just to be safe)
Warnings: Language, sexual situations (not graphic)
Spoilers: Oh yeah. Everything S1
Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, I'm just stalking them for a while.
Timeline Note: Set seven years after the events of Devil's Trap. John, Dean and Sam all survived the crash to hunt down and destroy the Demon. For Sam, life goes on. For Dean, life stalls. For John, life has no more meaning, and he begins to self destruct.
Summary: A little piece of good advice: Never hunt a wendigo when you're drunk.
Part 6
The house was exactly where they’d told her it would be, and the Impala was parked right in front of it. The cook at the café was very helpful, and he’d given her very good directions. Of course, this town was so small she could probably have gone knocking door to door and found him, too; but it was a little easier this way, especially since she was tired enough from the trip that walking around even a small town wasn’t a particularly appealing prospect at the moment.
Pulling in behind the Impala, Meredith parked the rental and got out. She locked the doors out of force of habit even though she was pretty sure this Mayberry’s crime rate would have to experience a dramatic spike just to get it up to one crime a decade.
The house was small and quaint, and she found herself wondering once again, as she walked to the door to ring the bell, how in the world Sam actually made friends with these people fast enough to go from eating lunch at their café to getting invited to their house for the night. She supposed it could be something specific to the hospitality of small town America, but she found it far more likely that it was more relevant to the man her husband was.
People liked Sam; they couldn’t help it. He had that quality to him, a gentleness and a sincerity most people found impossible to resist. It was the first thing she noticed when they met, and the last thing she’d expected from anyone who shared a gene pool with his impossible, if charming, older brother.
It was one of the many reasons she loved him so much: that he was, simply put, just nice. And sweet. And gentle. And funny. There were a thousand other things, of course. His intelligence, for one. He dazzled her on a daily basis with how much he knew about everything. Not just the things he was interested in, but everything. And he was the most intensely principled man she had ever met.
And as a father, he was simply stunning. The way he was with Garrison and Olivia made her feel like she’d hit the daddy jackpot every single day. Watching him talk politics with Garrison, so gentle and mentoring of that child’s every passing thought, or seeing him tickle Olivia until she was squealing with delight made her wonder how in the world he had ever learned to be a father from someone as harsh-minded and unforgiving as John. It was amazing to her that a man as gentle as Sam had been raised without a mother in the first place, but to know he was raised by John? It was astounding, and the most persuasive argument she had ever seen for nature over nurture, because certainly, John was the least nurturing individual she had ever met in her entire life.
Although, to be perfectly honest, the whole nature theory took a bit of a hit in that Sam was not only related to John, but also to Dean. The only explanation she’d ever been able to come up with was that Mary must have been an amazing woman with phenomenal genes to be able to counterbalance the Winchester effect - as personified by John and Dean - to the end result of a child who could grow into a man like Sam without ever benefiting from someone in his early life to point out that, despite popular Dean opinion to the contrary, John Winchester was not the begin-all, end-all of what being a man was all about.
Which Sam certainly got, although who he learned it from God only knows.
But for every fifteen things she could cite that were special about Sam, there was always that one quality that trumped them all. He was just a nice guy. Truly nice, in a way that made people remember him long after they forgot all the charm and wit and dazzle of someone like Dean, who seemed so glossy at first glance, but who suffered enormously if you had to spend more than a day with him.
Or more relevantly, a night. Because that was Dean, in a nutshell. He gave the term "one night stand" a whole new meaning; not because he was only willing to stick around for one night, but rather because one night was really all you could stand for him to be around, something she’d learned the hard way.
For every good quality Sam possessed, she could name at least one bad quality Dean personified. But for all that, they did share one trait: They both had a need to save people. She couldn’t fault Dean in that regard. As much as she wanted to hit him with a baseball bat on occasion, he was the kind of man who would put himself on the line for a total stranger without giving it a second thought. He was a born hero; and since finally settling down enough to take on the responsibilities of a real job - one that not only let him be a hero, but that actually paid him for being as much - he’d gotten much easier to tolerate.
Perhaps even like, in a perverse way. As much as you could ever like someone who made you want to hit them with a baseball bat on regular occasion.
And beyond that almost admirable hero mentality, he did love Garrison. That was Dean’s greatest redeeming quality: How much he loved Garrison. That and the fact that Garrison loved him just much. As did Sam, for that matter.
But as much as Sam loved Dean, Dean loved Sam at least that much. Maybe more even, although she wasn’t sure that was possible. But certainly, Dean loved Sam more than he loved anyone else. More even than John, or Garrison.
She’d had trouble seeing that at first - trouble seeing much other than the slick sleeze she’d mistaken for boyish charm when she was too drunk to know better and too foolish to realize it was okay to let a one night stand be just one night instead of stretching it out for three months just so she wouldn’t feel cheap - but she saw it now. She’d seen it for years in fact. It was the only reason she hadn’t put her foot down with John long before she did. Because if John couldn’t come over, Dean wouldn’t. And Sam did love Dean. As did Garrison.
So she’d taken John’s shit for as long as she could. Much longer, in fact, than she otherwise could have. And she would have taken it longer if John hadn’t pushed Sam’s one, no-push button by putting himself on the wrong side of Garrison.
In scaring Garrison, John crossed a line he couldn’t uncross with Sam. She’d even tried to talk him out of the stance he took in anger once he’d calmed down a little, pointing out that John had always been an ass to her, and they’d decided long ago to put up with it for Dean’s sake. But Sam wouldn’t budge. He’d had enough. He said he wasn’t going to have Garrison exposed to his father’s drunken shit any more, and she couldn’t really argue with him on that, so she didn’t.
Luckily, Dean loved Garrison enough to keep contact even though John wasn’t allowed to step foot in their house after that night. Not with her, mind you; but with Garrison and Sam. And that’s all she really cared about. That Garrison and Sam not lose Dean. They loved him that much; and she loved them enough to deal with Dean and all his many failings.
And to be perfectly honest, although she didn’t really like to admit it even to herself, Dean had started growing on her again once John was out of the picture. When he finally decided to settle down, he did it right, bringing home a wonderful girl Sam and Garrison both loved, and she loved just because Mary was so not what she’d always feared Dean would eventually bring into her house and introduce to her son as his new aunt. Aunt Bambi. Or Aunt Buffy. Or, God forbid, Aunt Whatever-Stripper-of-the-Month he got pregnant and wanted to marry just because he wanted kids that bad.
But he didn’t. He brought home Mary. And Mary made more of him than the man Meredith had ever thought he had the potential to be. She made him a good man who took on a good job and who was going to make a good father. Hell, she’d even go so far as to say he was going to make a great father. He had wonderful instincts when it came to children. Olivia was already showing signs of thinking her Uncle Dean was just about as great as Garrison thought he was, so she had not doubt that whatever child he and Mary brought into the world was going to worship at the alter of Dean the same way everyone else who bore Winchester blood did.
Which, now that he’d grown up a little bit and settled down, didn’t really bother her nearly as much as it did when the only time he showed up at their house was with that drunk bastard of a father of his in tow, turning whatever holiday they were trying to celebrate into a war zone where "make Meredith bleed" was the sport of choice, mostly for John, although Dean’s less overt participation in those days wasn’t something she missed, just something she could pretend to miss because he cared enough about Sam to play John’s game in the shadows rather than waving his bloody trophies around in broad daylight for everyone to ooh and ah over at her expense.
Though it probably didn’t speak well of her to think as much, all in all, she couldn’t say she was sorry to find John Winchester finally dead. He wouldn’t be missed by anyone other than his sons, and he shouldn’t be missed by them, but she knew he would be. Both of them would miss him terribly. Even though he was horrible to them. Even though he nearly destroyed Dean’s life, and he did his best to destroy Sam’s. But still, they loved him. God knows why, but they did.
If they didn’t, she wouldn’t have chartered a plane and flown all the way out here to podunk Oregon to be with a man who’d assured her half a dozen times by phone that he was fine, he could do this, he didn’t need her here because he’d known for almost six years that his father was dead, so this was just a matter of closing the books on it.
And she’d been silly enough to believe it. To believe he didn’t need her.
But then Dean called to tell her she was wrong. He said Sam needed her here. And because Dean knew Sam better than anyone, including her, she came. Because the one Winchester, other than her own children, she did love was Sam. She loved him so much it hurt sometimes, and if he needed her, there was nothing she wouldn’t do to be with him.
Including this, at the last moment, and at a cost that made her shiver a bit to consider, even though she knew it was nothing really, in the greater context of the kind of money Sam made.
She pressed the doorbell, smiling at the sound of it ringing through the small house. Like the town itself, this place exuded the sort of charm that normally eluded her. But it seemed warm, somehow. Welcoming, even. Again, she had to consider it something probably specific to small towns, and since she’d never lived anywhere smaller than San Jose, she didn’t know much about them except what Sam told her about his past, when he and his brother and father spent his childhood moving from town to town to town, doing whatever it was that John Winchester did while he was raising two children to be the kind of men they turned out to be.
His only redeeming quality, as far as she had ever seen. As a father, he must have been something before the bottle; because as much as she wanted to clock Dean sometimes, there was no way an honest person could say John had done anything other than a wonderful job, raising two fine men from the small boys he was left in the aftermath of a horrible accident the like of which killed Sam’s mother when he was so young.
Hearing someone moving around inside in response to the doorbell, Meredith smoothed her dress a little, wanting to make a good first impression. These people no doubt loved Sam the moment they saw him; but she wasn’t that kind of easy sell, and she knew it. She had no insecurities about her ability to fit into bigger circles with bigger fish from bigger cities or bigger corporations; but here, in a small town, she wanted them to think her worthy of her husband.
Or at the very least, not think him a fool to have married her.
A haughty cunt, as John was so fond of calling her. Who evidently wouldn’t know a good jump if it fucked her.
She could hear footsteps at the door, so she did her best to put John out of her mind and smile, preparing herself to be as utterly charming as she knew how to be to whomever opened the door, someone willing to play host to a man they’d only just met this afternoon and keep him company in this difficult time until she came to her senses and realized the man she loved didn’t really have any idea what he needed, even if he told her he did.
The smile fell off Meredith’s face when he opened the door, looking better than she’d ever seen him, smiling as if the world was his oyster and as if he couldn’t be farther from the dead man he obviously didn’t know he was supposed to be.
"John," she breathed, stunned beyond the ability to offer anything more.
"Yes?" He looked at her, puzzled; then when she didn’t respond - she couldn’t respond - he said, "I’m sorry, do we know each other?"
"Who is it, John?" someone called from inside the house.
"Pretty lady who looks like she’s going to faint," he called back. Then to her, he said, "You’re awfully pale. Would you like to come in and sit down for a moment?"
She couldn’t think of a thing to say, so she asked the only thing she wanted to know at that particular moment, still staring at him, wondering if such a thing a ghosts existed: "Is Sam here?"
John grinned. It was an expression she’d never seen on his face before, at least not one lacking the malicious intent to cut her as deeply as he thought whatever he was about to say was going to cut her. "As a matter of fact, he is. Come on in." He held the screen door open for her, calling over one shoulder as he did so, "Hey, Sam. Turns out the pretty lady’s here for you."
Meredith just stood there, too dumbfounded to move.
"Did you want to come in?" John prompted helpfully, still holding the door for her.
Sam appeared behind his father’s shoulder. He blanched when he saw her, his eyes going from laughing to horrified in a heartbeat.
"Meredith." He pushed past John’s shoulder, taking her by the arm as she just looked at him, still struck mute, unable to decide what the right thing to say in this particular situation could possibly be.
"Meredith, your wife, Meredith?" John asked, surprised.
"Hold that thought, John," Sam said, guiding her away from the door as he spoke. "I’ll be back in a minute."
"Don’t rush her away, Sam," John returned, frowning as Sam walked her toward the street. "Bring her on in. The more the merrier."
"We’ll be back in a minute," Sam called back over his shoulder. Then to her, in a far more quiet voice, he demanded, "What are you doing here?"
Meredith just blinked at him as he hustled her farther away from the house. For a moment, she couldn’t answer, then she said, "But … I thought …" She looked back to John. He was watching them with a frown, looking almost as confused as she felt. "I thought … Dean said … he said … I thought … I thought John was dead, Sam."
They were at her rental now, and Sam had a grip on her upper arm that was beginning to bruise. "Meredith," he snapped, his tone stinging more than his fingers. "Why are you here?"
"Dean said you needed me." She could hardly believe it was her voice on the words. She sounded so small, so much a little girl.
"Fuck," Sam hissed. "Why would he tell you that? Why the fuck would he tell you that?"
Her eyes filled with tears. She looked down, not wanting him to see how much those words hurt. "I just … I thought you needed me."
She was stammering. She never stammered. It embarrassed her to be so fragile, to care so much that he was angry to see her, rather than pleased, or relieved. Shoring herself up with an effort, she squared her shoulders and looked her husband straight in the eye, determined to tell him what she was thinking rather then stuttering like a schoolgirl being jilted by the boy she wanted to ask her to the prom. "I don’t understand, Sam," she said. "I thought John was dead."
He ignored her like she hadn’t even spoken. "Fuck," he said again. He looked back to the house, waved, then turned to her again. He was angry. His voice trembled with it as he said, "I told you not to come." He shook her a little by the arm, something that infuriated him the few times she’s responded to Garrison that way, shaking his arm just enough to make him understand how much he needed to listen to what his mother was telling him. "I told you I didn’t need you here."
Meredith froze. She looked at him for a long moment, trying to unhear what she’d just heard; but she couldn’t. She heard it. She’d been so careful for so many years not to hear what he didn’t say; but this time, she finally heard it because he finally said it.
And hearing it cut her in a way nothing John or Dean had ever said could.
"Okay," she said, suddenly not caring that John was alive, not caring that he didn’t appear to have any idea who she was. Not caring that her husband had been lying to her for God knows how many years about where his father was and why he might be there. Not caring about any of that, or anything else, only caring that she’d finally heard what she’d always tried not to hear: that he didn’t need her, that more than not needing her, he didn’t want her, not here, not with him, not when he should be needing her, but he didn’t.
He didn’t need her. And why the fuck would she think he did?
"I’ll just go home then. You be sure and call me when you get done identifying John’s body and burying his remains."
She tried to turn away, but he didn’t let her go. "Let me go, Sam," she said calmly, quietly, like what he just said hadn’t melted her world down to nothing.
"No. Just wait a minute. Let me think."
"Let you think? About what? About which lie to tell me to cover up this lie?" She smiled at him because it was the only thing she could do that didn’t involve crying. And she wasn’t going to cry. Not now. Not here. And certainly not in front of John, watching them from the house, no doubt reveling in the fact that he’d finally won Sam back. That he’d finally found whatever words he needed to make Sam see her the same way he did. The same way Dean did. "Don’t think about it, Sam," she said. "Just lie. That’s what you Winchesters do best, isn’t it?"
"Stop it, Meredith," he said, shaking her arm a little.
She wanted to slap him. She wanted to slap him so badly her hand actually clenched to a fist to keep her from doing it.
"Let. Me. Go," she said quietly.
He seemed to hear that. For the first time since he stepped to the door, he seemed to have heard her, realized it was her speaking to him. He let her go.
She turned to the rental and unlocked it, the keys trembling so hard in her hand she could barely fit them in the lock. She was in the car and trying to shut the door when he grabbed it, put himself between the door and the car, crouched down to stare at her, looking at her the way he did at Garrison. Like he loved her that way. Like she really mattered to him as something other than the mother of his children.
"Don’t go," he said, his voice barely a whisper.
She looked up, found John. He was still watching them from the doorway, a woman standing behind him now, one hand on his shoulder, both of them looking concerned. Meredith returned her gaze to Sam.
"It’s all right, Sam," she said calmly. "I came because I thought you needed me. Obviously you don’t, so I’ll wait for you at home. You can explain it to me there." Then, because she couldn’t not say it, she added, "That will give you plenty of time to come up with a plausible lie."
"No." He reached out, put a hand on her forearm. "Don’t go. Stay here. Please, Meredith."
She just looked at him.
"I’m sorry," he said after a beat. "You caught me by surprise. He doesn’t know who he is. I don’t want him to remember. I thought … the only thing I could think was that you were going to start in on him. That you were going to say something that made him remember."
"Me? Start in on him?" She stared at Sam in disbelief.
He closed his eyes, dropped his head without letting go of her arm. His fingers tightened on her skin, but he wasn’t holding on to her because he wanted to keep her from leaving, he was holding on to her because he needed her. For the first time in almost twelve years, he actually needed her. She could tell it by the desperation in his fingertips. By the way his shoulders were trembling, and he wouldn’t look at her.
"Please, Meredith," he whispered. "Please don’t leave."
She reached out and touched his face because she couldn’t not do it. She’d never seen him like this. Never seen him looking like he didn’t know what to do, or what to say, or how to act. Sam always knew the right thing to do. He always knew, and he was always right.
He looked up at her then. His eyes were so lost she couldn’t recognize her husband in them. "I need you," he said. "I need you to stay. Please. Stay."
"Okay, Sam," she said. "It’s okay. I’ll stay if that’s what you want."
For the first time since she met him, introduced at a bar by a friend who thought they’d make a good match and who didn’t know she’d fucked Sam’s older brother to a very ugly breakup, Meredith saw her husband the way she realized now that Dean saw him. Vulnerable. Afraid. Unsure. Looking to her for strength. Needing her to be there for him in a way so much more tangible than simply supporting his career, being his decorator, hosting his social events, taking pride in his accomplishments, raising his children.
He needed her. He actually needed her.
"I’ll stay," she said again.
He nodded, just looking at her.
"I’ll stay, Sam," she said a third time.
He released the breath he was holding then. His fingers relaxed against her arm, and his eyes lost the sheen of panic to them that made him look so unfamiliar.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"It’s okay. Just tell me what you want me to do."
"I don’t know. I … I’m not sure." He swallowed, then glanced up through the windshield. She could tell he was looking at his father. "He doesn’t remember anything. Not Mom. Not Dean. Nothing. We’ve been talking, but he doesn’t know who I am. I’ve told him about Dean, but he doesn’t know who Dean is." He looked at her then. "I need to stay for a little while longer. I need to talk to him some more. I know I shouldn’t, but I do."
"Do you want me to stay with you?" she asked. "Or do you want me to go back home?"
He stared at her as if she’d just asked the hardest question he’d ever heard.
"It’s okay," she assured him. "If you need to be alone with him, I’ll go back to the kids. I just flew out because I was worried about you. Dean said you needed me. I just didn’t want to not be here if you did."
"I want you to stay," Sam said. "I just don’t know how I would explain you being here."
She thought about it for a moment, then smiled. "You’re a lawyer, right?" She reached over to pick up a legal size envelope that sat in the passenger seat beside her. Slapping it against his chest, she said, "Important papers for you, Mr. Winchester. I hate to interrupt, but they just couldn’t wait for your signature."
He cocked his head like he was seeing her for the first time.
"What?" she asked. "You think you’re the only one who can lie?" She smiled at him to take the sting out of the words.
He looked down at the envelope in her hands, then back at her. "What are they?"
"Drawings. Garrison wanted me to send them to you. Did you tell him you were going to the Yukon on a business trip?"
Sam laughed. It was a desperate sound. "Dean must have told him that," he said, his voice harsh with the effort it took not to cry. "Or he decided it for himself, Dean having convinced him a long time ago that the Yukon is someplace people go as a matter of course."
"Well, either way, he wanted to send you these. I promised I’d deliver them. In the Yukon, evidently, because he didn’t believe me when I told him that wasn’t where I was going. He just looked at me with that ‘yeah, right, Mom’ look he gets like he is far too old to be told stories for his own good, but willing to let me tell them anyway, because I probably still need to think he’s a baby. Oh, and there’s a math quiz in there, too. He got a hundred and five percent on it, which he thought was quite funny, considering it was math, so he thought they should know better than to give anyone more than one hundred percent of what was available. I have no idea what he means by that, but he assured me you would."
"Thank you," Sam whispered. "Thank you for coming."
She reached out, took his hand. "Why don’t we go meet your father. You can introduce me again. Maybe I’ll make a better first impression this time."
"It was never you," Sam said. "It was always him."
"Is he still an ass?" she asked sweetly.
Sam laughed again. It wasn’t as desperate this time. More like the way he normally laughed. "You’ll like him this time," he said. "He’s like Dean used to describe him, from before the fire."
Standing, he helped Meredith back out of the car.
"Is he still drinking?" she asked as Sam closed the car door behind her.
"No. Sober for more than five years."
"That’s good news." He hadn’t let go of her hand, and he didn’t look like he wanted to. She smiled at him, tried to reassure him by making her own expression confident. She didn’t think he probably needed her any longer, but she wanted to be there just in case he did. Or in case he changed his mind. "Let’s go meet him then. You lead, and I’ll follow. We dance well together, you and I. I’m sure we can spin around the dance floor a time or two without your old man tumbling to the fact that one of us doesn’t know all the steps."
"Yes," he said, his voice a whisper. "I’m sure we can."
"Hey, Sam." A tall man with a kind face was coming down the walkway their direction. He had a small doctor’s bag in one hand, and the look of a man unsure whether or not he was intruding. "John thought your wife might need a little help. The bill’s on him if you want me to order a CAT scan or something."
"Hey, Danny," Sam let go of her hand, but he moved closer to her, put his palm against the small of her back. "No, we’re fine. She just brought me some papers. A few business things I had to take care of. But we’re good now. I was just headed back in."
Danny was at the car now, studying Meredith with a critical eye.
"My wife, Meredith," Sam said. "This is Danny, Meredith. Julie’s brother. Julie and John are the ones I told you about, the ones who own the café?"
Meredith smiled at Danny. "Of course. Sam told me all about your sister. So kind of she and her husband to offer him a place to stay. I hope it’s not too much of an imposition that I’ve come by."
Danny looked at her for a beat, then shifted his gaze to Sam. "Does she know?"
Sam’s eyes narrowed.
"Ah, come on, Sam. John’s the one with the impaired memory, not me."
"Julie told you?"
"Of course she didn’t. She wouldn’t tell me if my hair was on fire if she thought there was any chance that revelation might hurt John. But I’m a smart guy. He named his daughter after you for Christ’s sake. And the only thing he remembers from his previous life is a son named Dean. If I couldn’t put two and two together and get four, I’d have never made it through medical school. And I did, oddly enough, which is why your father insists on calling me Doctor Danny, as it turns out. Besides which," Danny smiled a little at Sam, "the two of you have the same sense of humor. And the way you look at him tells me you know him a lot better than you’re letting on. And not just from today, but for a long, long time."
Danny looked back to Meredith. "So it’s good to meet you, Meredith. John’s a little puzzled over how you know his name. Your best bet is going to be telling him Stephen mentioned it when he was giving you directions to the house. On the subject of things that have changed since the last time you saw him, John doesn’t drink now, so if you have issues with him from when he did, do your best not to beat him bloody with them, will you? He’s enough of an ass sober that I’m sure he was an insufferable drunk, but he’s found his way clear of that, and as his doctor and his friend, I’d prefer he not be punished for something he doesn’t even remember doing. Are you okay with that?"
"John was always the aggressor in our relationship," Meredith said.
"Good. That should work out fine, because he’s a big fan of Sam here, so he’d bite off his own tongue before he took a chance of offending Sam’s wife unless he knew you well enough to feel comfortable offending you. And whatever he was then, he can actually be quite charming when he wants to be now. Or at least, that’s what my sister tells me. I, myself, don’t see it; but I think that’s just a guy thing."
"I’m sure John can be very charming when he chooses to be," Meredith said. "I’ve actually met his son, and they can be very much alike at times."
Danny glanced at Sam. "I’d take that as an insult if I were you, Sam," he said.
Sam laughed. "She’s talking about Dean," he assured Danny.
Meredith smiled at him. "No I wasn’t. Now let’s go meet your father. I’m dying to see the man he used to be."
*
Dean was pacing their bedroom like a man gone crazy. He couldn’t hold still, couldn’t concentrate on anything for more than a few seconds at a time.
"I should be out there," he said for at least the twentieth time. "Sam has no business doing this by himself. It should be me. I’m the one who lost him; I’m the one who should be out there, cleaning up the mess."
"Come back to bed, Dean," Mary said.
She expected him to argue with her again, but he didn’t. Instead, he threw himself into their bed, landing at her side with enough force to bounce them both.
"He’s lying to me," Dean said yet again.
For every ‘I should be out there,’ there’d been a matching ‘he’s lying to me.’ It was all he’d said for the last six hours, all he could think about, all that was keeping him from the self destruct she could see ticking down in his eyes.
"Let’s go then," she said finally.
He looked at her. "What?"
"I said let’s go," Mary repeated. "If you think Sam is lying to you, let’s get in the car and go. I can’t fly, but I can ride, and God knows you can drive. We’ll be there in ten hours, then you and Sam can hash this out, face to face."
"Why would he lie to me about this?" Dean asked, his voice an open wound.
"He wouldn’t," Mary said. "But since you think he is, let’s go find out."
"He is. I know he is."
"Dean. Look at me." He didn’t want to, but he did. "I love you," she said. "Whatever else is going on, I love you."
"But?" he said.
"But you’re driving me crazy. And worse, you’re driving yourself crazy. So let’s just go. Let’s just get in the car and go."
Dean put a hand over his face and rubbed at his eyes, massaging his temples as he struggled to find anything inside himself that made sense, that seemed right. He rolled over onto his back, dropping his hand to stare at the ceiling.
"What if he’s lying to me, Mary?" he whispered finally. "What if he found Dad, and he won’t tell me because he thinks I’m not strong enough to handle it? Not strong enough to keep from self destructing if Dad’s been alive all this time and letting us think he wasn’t?"
"Would you self destruct?" she asked.
"No. I wouldn’t. I won’t. I have you, now. And the baby. I’m not giving that up. Not for Dad. Not for anyone."
"Then call Sam and tell him that."
"He won’t believe me."
"Why wouldn’t he?"
Dean laughed softly, a sound so bitter it broke her heart for him. "Because he knows me."
"Then just believe him, Dean. Sam loves you. Whatever he’s telling you is what he thinks you need to hear. Does it matter whether it’s the truth or not?"
"It matters to me," Dean said.
"Why?"
"Because if he’s not dead, I need to see him."
"Why?" she asked again.
He turned his head, looked at her. His eyes were hollow. Haunted. Tortured. They looked exactly the same way they did when he looked at her and told her his father was dead.
"Because he’s my dad," Dean whispered.
*
Meredith was so far past stunned and amazed she couldn’t quite put her finger on what she felt. This man was such a stranger to the John she knew she couldn’t actually believe he was the same man who’d tortured her for almost seven years and haunted her husband for another six.
The way he laughed was infectious. The way he teased his wife, and every other person in the room, showed a keen sense of the difference between harassment and affectionate agitation. He was instinctive in the way he dealt with people, part Dean and part Sam, charming but smart, guarded but genuine, ornery but compassionate, funny but gentle.
She’d never seen this man before. She’d never met him for even a moment in the mean, angry, bitter drunk he’d been.
"Can I get you another tea there, Meredith?" he asked her as he stood.
"Yes, John. Thank you."
He took her empty glass and came back with a full one, passing it over to her with a wink as he said, "Better watch out for that caffeine buzz. It can lead you down the road to ruin if you let it crawl up on your back and sink in roots. Before you know it, you’ll be selling off Sam’s clothes just to buy one more can of Coke, one more Snapple, one more cup of cappuccino latte."
"I’ll be vigilant," she assured him, accepting the glass so he could resume his seat on the couch beside his wife.
"I’m sure you will," John said. Then directing himself to Sam, he said, "So tell me again why Garrison thought his uncle was hunting werewolves in the Yukon with some guy named Wolverine?"
*
Mary was asleep, her body pressed against his side in the dark, her breath warm where it fell against the skin of his neck. The baby kicked against his palm where it rested on her belly, reminding him yet again of everything he had that he couldn’t have when his father was still alive.
Dean leaned over and kissed her, then rose from their bed and padded into the living room, his bare feet silent on both the carpet and the hard wood floors beyond. He picked his cell phone up off an end table and flipped it open. The light of the screen glowed eerily in the dark. Sam’s number was there as the last number dialed.
Dean stared at the screen for almost three minutes before he hit send and lifted the phone to his ear.
*
Meredith was asleep in her chair, and Julie had gone to bed hours ago. Sam and Danny and John were still talking, trading stories, telling lies when Sam’s cell vibrated silently against his chest. He pulled it out and glanced at the caller ID. His heart skipped a beat, then began to pound.
"I have to take this," he said, standing and walking away without bothering to explain further.
"Cordless my ass," John called after him. "I can see the umbilical from here, Sam."
"Join the twentieth century, Johnny," Danny said. "It’s not called a cordless phone any more, it’s called a cell phone."
"Potato, cordless …" John was saying as Sam closed the door behind him.
When he was out in the yard, far enough distant from the conversation inside he didn’t have to worry the sound of his father’s laugh might carry across six hundred miles and kill a man who no longer knew he was alive, Sam flipped the cell open and put it to his ear.
There was nothing but silence on the other end of the line. Dean didn’t say a word. He just waited.
"Hey," Sam said after a beat.
"Hey," Dean returned.
"How you doing?" Sam asked.
Silence. More silence.
"Dean?" Sam ventured cautiously.
"I need to know the truth, Sammy," Dean said quietly. "It’s making me crazy."
"I don’t know what you want me to say," Sam allowed.
"I want you to tell me the truth," Dean said. "I need that. I need to know you’ll do it, even if it isn’t what you think I need to hear."
"Dean -" Sam started.
"Please, Sam," Dean interrupted. "I don’t ask you for much, but I’m asking you for this. Just tell me the truth."
Sam glanced back at his father’s house. The lights were still on in both the kitchen and the living room. It made the windows glow warm in the cool of the night chill.
"Okay," he said finally.
"Is Dad still alive?"
"No."
Dean didn’t answer for so long Sam thought he’d lost the connection. When he did finally speak, it was to say, "Okay. That’s what I needed to know. Thanks, Sam. I’ll see you when you get back."
And then he hung up. Sam stared at the lighted screen in the darkness. Call ended. It seemed to be saying much more than just a simple declaration of the end of a single conversation.
He made it three minutes before gave up and called his brother back.
*
Dean was sitting in the dark, wearing nothing but boxers and pain, the cell phone on the coffee table before him, his body hunched over like the last thing he could trust in the world had just sold him down the river for his own fucking good.
His mind was numb. He couldn’t form a thought, couldn’t consider a single thing within the emptiness that had become his every awareness.
The phone buzzed quietly in the dark. It danced a little on the table with the vibration. Sam’s number came up on the caller ID. Dean let it ring twice more before he picked it up and flipped it open.
For a moment, Sam didn’t say anything.
"What is it, Sam?" Dean asked, trying not to sound betrayed, trying not to sound like he’d read in Sam’s answer everything Sam didn’t want him to know.
"Yes," Sam said. "He’s still alive."
Dean closed his eyes. "Where?" he whispered.
"Just outside the Ochoco National Forest in Oregon. The wendigo almost killed him. He doesn’t have any memory of anything before the attack."
"He doesn’t remember us?" Dean asked.
"No."
"Are you with him now?"
"Yes. Or, at least, he’s inside. I’m outside, so he won’t hear us talking." Sam hesitated, then asked, "Do you want me to go inside and give him the phone?"
"What good would that do if he doesn’t remember me?"
"He remembers you. He thinks you died in a fire when you were a kid. He doesn’t remember me at all. Or at least, not consciously."
"Does he remember Mom?"
"He remembers someone named Mary he used to love and he lost. Nothing more than that."
"Is he okay?"
"Yes. He’s married again. He has a family. He’s happy."
Dean closed his eyes.
"What are you going to do, Dean?" Sam asked after several moments of silence.
"I don’t know."
"I told him Meredith and I were leaving in the morning, but I’ll make an excuse; we’ll stay if you’re coming."
"I don’t know," Dean said again.
"He’s not drinking any more."
"Good," Dean said.
"Do you want to think about it and get back to me?" Sam asked.
"Yeah. Let me think about it."
"Okay. Call me when you know what you’re going to do. We’ll stay here until then, just in case." Sam hesitated for a moment, then added, "I’m sorry, Dean. I was trying to protect you."
"I know."
"All right. I’ll talk to you soon then."
"Okay."
"Are you all right?" Sam asked after another beat.
"No."
"Do you want me to come back home? Meredith chartered a flight out. She commissioned it on open-ended standby. It’s still waiting in Portland, fuelled up, ready to go. I can be back home in four hours. We can talk about it, figure it out together."
"He doesn’t know who you are at all?" Dean asked.
"No. Thinks we’re like minded souls who met in his café this morning."
"Did the wendigo eat some of his brains?"
"Wendigo saved him, I think. But his wife knows. She figured it out within fifteen minutes of meeting me."
"Does she look like Mom?"
"No. Not at all."
"Okay. I’m going to go talk to Mary. I’ll call you later."
"I’m sorry, Dean," Sam said again.
"You don’t lie for shit, Sammy," Dean returned.
"What can I say? Guess that’s not my greatest skill."
"I’ll call you later," Dean said again. And then he closed the cell phone and put it back on the table in front of him.
He looked up, knowing he’d see Mary standing at the mouth of the hallway. She was waiting for him to tell her. He could see she already knew by the way she was watching to see if he was going to self destruct.
"He’s still alive," Dean said just to hear the words in his ears.
Mary watched him. "Are you okay?" she asked after a moment.
"Did you know?" he countered.
"No. But I thought maybe he was. Sam doesn’t lie for shit."
Dean smiled a little in the darkness. "That’s what I told him."
"What are you going to do?"
"I don’t know," he said.
"I’ll pack some clothes. We can be on the road in half an hour."
He just looked at her.
"Right?" she asked after a moment.
He nodded.
"Call the station. Tell them you’re taking a leave and you’ll be back when you’re back."
She walked back down the hall as Dean picked up the phone and began to dial.
*
"Hey, Sam," Danny said, walking across the yard to join him where he leaned against the Impala, dragging on his cigarette like he hadn’t given up smoking the same year he started it almost a decade earlier. "We got worried you got all turned around in our little metropolis here. Figured it was time to send out a search party. I lost the coin toss, so here I am."
"That was Dean," Sam said. "I told him."
Danny nodded. He leaned against the Impala, too. "Figured you would. Eventually."
"Not sure it was the right thing to do."
"Wasn’t your choice," Danny said simply.
"I guess."
"So what’s he going to do?"
"I don’t know. Said he’d call me back."
"What do you think he’s going to do?"
"I think he’ll be here before my phone ever rings again," Sam said.
"If he’s as much like John as I suspect he is, that’s what I’d look for, too," Danny agreed.
Sam looked at Danny for a moment, taking another long drag on his cigarette, pulling the smoke down deep into his lungs just to feel it burn. It reminded him of the night Jess died. He held it inside for as long as he could before he let it come out again, a puff of smoke in the darkness.
"How dangerous is this going to be for John?" Sam asked.
"You mean your dad?" Danny corrected gently.
"Yeah. Him."
Danny shrugged. He folded both arms, staring at the house in front of them. "No way to tell. Last time he remembered your brother, he just about fell apart. But periodically he’ll tell me things about your mom like they are things that have always been there. Like they aren’t something he couldn’t have told me five minutes before. Traumatic amnesia is like that. The most unpredictable thing in the world."
"Are you going to be around in case he needs you?" Sam asked.
Danny smiled. "I’m always around, Sam. This town in the size of a postage stamp, in case you hadn’t noticed. There really isn’t anywhere else to be but around."
"Close by," Sam clarified. "Close enough to do something about it if either Dean or my dad falls apart."
"You think that’s a possibility for your brother?" Danny asked.
Sam made a sound that was half way between a grunt and a laugh. "Yeah. It’s a possibility. He’s a bit like traumatic amnesia like that."
Danny chuckled. "Should make for an interesting day," he said.
"Interesting," Sam repeated.
"May you live in interesting times," Danny quipped.
"That’s a Chinese curse," Sam pointed out.
"I said it was going to be interesting," Danny said. "I never said it was going to be fun."
*