SPN FIC - Journey (conclusion - Chapter 12, part 2 of 2)
JOURNEY began here: http://ficwriter1966.livejournal.com/9849.html#cutid1
And...whew...it concludes here. With thanks once again to my very special betas,
ravenrants and
mitchsgirl . Thanks and cookies also to
dodger_winslow and
janissa11 for rec'ing!
More cookies to the very funny
eighth_horizon , whose brilliant Sammy's Drunken Letters to Stephen King are here: http://eighth-horizon.livejournal.com/tag/drunken+sam-fu, and to the awesomeness that is Shaun Cassidy, who may well watch Supernatural. I think he'd understand Dean's open-mouthed horror of "Hey Deanie."
I'd thank my agent, except I don't have one. Don't need one. 'Cause...no money being made here.
Hugs to Kripke and the JJ's. You inspire me, boys.
Journey
By Carol Davis
Chapter Twelve
Tomorrow and Tomorrow (conclusion)
“Pass,” Sam said. Then: “We’re leaving tomorrow?”
“Guess so.” Dean lost Sam’s attention to the computer, so he sat on one of the empty chairs and looked at the picture for a while. They could both hear voices from inside the house, Sarah talking to her father. “Maybe you oughta stay,” Dean said earnestly. “She’s kinda lookin’ around, and you’re not even gone yet.”
“What?”
“She was gettin’ kinda grabby with Willy-boy, there.”
“Who? What are you talking about? You mean Reverend Hanson? She wasn’t grabby. She gave him a hug goodbye.”
“She was all over him, from where I was standing.”
“You’re insane.”
“Whatever.” Dean got up from his chair, tucking the picture into his shirt pocket, intending to go back to the Impala - but not quickly enough. He’d gone only a couple of steps when Sam got in front of him and cut him off.
“She wasn’t ‘all over’ anybody,” Sam groaned. “She gave him a kiss on the cheek.”
Dean blinked at him. “Huh.”
“You want to tell me what’s going on in your head? Or is that just going to make things worse?”
“I’m just sayin’.”
“Oh, no, no. Not this again. Look - she’s a very…what, a warm kind of a person. She hugs people. I don’t have any problem with her giving somebody a hug and a kiss. Especially since I don’t have any claim on her.”
“You ought to.”
“Yeah. You know, we need to find you something else to dwell on.” Dean reversed course and again tried to walk away, with no better luck than before. “I’m serious, man,” Sam said. “What’s the deal?”
“Nothing.”
“You want me to try to beat it out of you?”
“I just…liked the way things were. Is all.”
“The way what things were?”
“In the future.”
That confused Sam enough that this time Dean was able to get past him and walk into the kitchen. When he realized Sarah was in there, he walked quickly through the room to the hallway. Sam caught up with him at the foot of the stairs, with Sarah a couple of steps behind. “Okay,” Sam challenged his brother, “you can either keep trying to duck me, or you can do me a favor and tell me what the hell you’re talking about.”
Because Sam was blocking her view of Dean, Sarah moved up to stand beside him, one hand absently coming to rest on his arm. “That,” Dean said. “See? That.”
“Man, I’m gonna end up in an asylum.”
“The demon showed me the future. Okay?”
“He did.”
“Yeah. He did.”
“And?”
“It was kinda bad.”
Dean’s expression had gone somber enough to keep Sam quiet for a moment - and to make Sarah tighten her grip on Sam’s arm. “Maybe he was lying,” Sam ventured.
“I don’t know, man.”
Sam watched his brother gnaw on his lower lip long enough to begin unconsciously copying him. “We don’t…I mean, we don’t have any evidence that they know the future, do we?”
“You’re the one with the visions. You tell me.”
Sam let out a long breath. “Then just say it.”
The elder Winchester shoved his hands through his hair and paced off a small circle, then stopped and looked first at his brother, then at Sarah. He let out a breath that matched Sam’s, and after a moment of weighty silence, pointed at Sam. “You -“
“Dean, just say it.”
“You had a lot of gray hair, man.”
“I had what?”
“Gray hair. And wrinkles. And you” - Dean gestured at Sarah - “you were poppin’ out babies like some kind of machine. Had some big house in the ‘burbs you probably had mortgaged up the ass. I figure there was some kind of seriously sick minivan in the garage, but I didn’t see that. Okay, I know it sounds bad, but the demon said it was a possible future. So you can probably avoid it if you play your cards right.”
Sarah took a long look at Sam, then asked Dean, “Babies?”
“Place was infested with ‘em.”
Dean waited. Sam and Sarah had begun to grin at each other. “Oh - you named one of ‘em after me.”
Sarah seemed puzzled by that, then broke into a smile. “Right…the Natalie Wood character in ‘Splendor in the Grass.’ Deanie. Okay, sure.”
“It was a boy,” Dean said crossly.
“I’m pretty sure Natalie Wood was a girl, Dean,” Sam chipped in helpfully.
“Your kid was a boy,” Dean barked. “Jesus, you people. Last time I tell you anything. You’re the one with the visions,” he repeated to Sam. “Figure out your own damn future.”
Sarah told him sweetly, “There was a song, too. ‘Hey, Deanie.’”
“Yeah? Well, that’s just freakin’ hilarious.”
Sam moved closer to his brother and gave him a hearty thump on the back. “I’ll tell you what, man - if all of that comes true, there’ll always be a room for you over the garage.”
* * * * *
They ate dinner together, the four of them.
A couple of times during the two years he had been with Jess, she had taken Sam home with her to spend a little time with her family. After the usual “so you’re the guy who’s after my daughter/sister” psychological assault, her parents and siblings had all welcomed him, made him feel as if he belonged at their table.
None of them had been too fierce about table manners, but still, Sam had taken every bite with care. Paid attention to the food and the conversation. Tried to act like a “normal human being.” It was like walking on hot coals.
This dinner, he decided, must be ten times worse than that for Dean.
But Dean didn’t pick at his food. Didn’t make faces at any of it. Made a point of listening to Daniel’s comments about an estate he’d been offered, as if he wanted to understand. As if he wanted to hang on to something. To people who had at least begun to accept him for what he was. Seeing that made Sam badly want to stay. Eight months ago, Dean had suggested sticking around - but he’d meant for a few days. A couple of weeks, at the outside.
Then again, maybe he hadn’t.
“So…tomorrow?” Sam asked when they retreated to the guest room to start packing their few belongings.
Dean looked down at his open duffel. “Isn’t that why we’re doing this?”
“Just making sure.”
“Tomorrow,” Dean confirmed. Then he caught the look on Sam’s face and said, “Go. Talk to Sarah. You can pack that stuff in the morning. Or I’ll do it.”
“Leave it. You always mess up my shirts.”
“Dude. I taught you how to pack.”
As with laundry, Dean’s method of packing was Dump It All In. Sam shook his head at his brother and left the duffel in Dean’s questionable care.
Sarah was coming up the stairs as Sam approached them. She smiled as Sam pulled the door shut. He’d been doing that all week, to give the guest room more of the motel-room feel Dean was used to.
“That was…interesting,” she said.
“Dinner?”
“Our very suburban future.”
“I could work with it, I guess.”
She glanced at the guest room door. “So could Dean, apparently.”
“If I could build it for him right now, I would. But I need - we both need - to find the thing that took Mom and Dad.”
“Will you be back?”
“I’ll try to.”
She accepted that with a nod. “You look…a little less wiped out. The road must be calling to you.”
“Not that. I just feel like we’ve got somewhere to go.” Sam shook his head thoughtfully. “It’s kind of -“ He snorted softly, then went on, “I can’t remember the last time I went to bed thinking, ‘Man, this was a great day.’ It’s usually more like, ‘Wow, okay, we killed’ - you know, fill in the blank.”
“So the last good one would have been with Jess?”
“I…yeah.”
“Then I guess it just is what it is.”
“That’s pretty vague.”
Sarah went on down the hall and into her room with Sam wandering along behind. “If things were different,” she said as she shrugged out of the sweater she’d put on to sit outside after dinner, “if you were someone else…”
“Peter from the bank?”
“Peter from the bank. God, I can’t imagine letting him go on about his ex.”
Sam cracked a smile. “You’re going to cut me some slack because the spirit of my girlfriend possessed you.”
“It is what it is.”
Her remark wasn’t all that funny, but a chuckle bubbled up and Sam barely managed to cut it off before it got past his lips. His face was contorted with the effort of holding it back as he moved into Sarah’s room and closed the door. His hand was still on the knob when he realized what he’d done. “Sorry. I shouldn’t just barge in here.”
“You didn’t barge. You followed.”
“Then I shouldn’t follow.”
“Follow. Sit. You can’t tell me you’ve never been in a girl’s bedroom before.”
“Several,” Sam admitted.
Like the guest room, Sarah’s room had a reading area: a big, cushy chair with an enormous matching ottoman. Sarah took the chair, settling into it once she’d toed her shoes off, and pushed the ottoman toward Sam. As he sat down he noticed the book lying on the table beside the chair. “You read Stephen King?” he asked.
“Why? Am I not the type?”
“No. He just…kind of gets it all wrong.” That was…where? Oklahoma? “You tell ‘im, Sammy. Dumb sumbitch has it all bass-ackwards and upside down.” “I got kind of drunk one night and wrote him this letter. I don’t remember much of it, but it was kind of…abusive. And Dean mailed it. He -“ Sam cut himself off. “I guess that was a good day. We didn’t kill anything.”
“I think my last really good day was with my mom.”
“That’s a gift,” Sam said. “That you knew her. You remember her. I wish I had had some time with my mom.” Rather than pursue that, he got up from the ottoman and half-turned toward the door. “I should go. Let you relax for a while. And…read.”
“Sam.”
Her face didn’t give anything away. “Hmm?”
“Stay?”
“What? Here?”
“I’ve still got what’s left of that box of Trojans.”
All he could come up with was, “Buh?”
She got up from the chair with an impish look on her face. “I experimented once, when we first moved into this house. Turned some music on pretty loud, then went into my parents’ room to see if I could hear it. I think the builders went a little crazy with the insulation in the walls, because I couldn’t hear a thing. Ditto with the guest room.”
“I think Dean’s going to notice if I’m not there.”
“He has eight hundred channels of high-definition cable to keep him busy. And besides…he’s done everything but throw you in here head-first.”
“Sarah…” Sam’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I can’t stay. We have to finish this thing. Dean and me.”
“I know you do.”
“It wouldn’t be right to start something.”
“Because of Jess?”
“Because of you. I don’t want to be unfair to you.”
“It’s not a commitment, Sam. It’s not even an implied commitment.”
“Presumably, it leads to a big house and a whole bunch of kids.”
“Possibly. Right now I think it would just lead to sweatiness and an interesting amount of moaning and gasping.”
“You’re sure nobody can hear anything.”
“I’m sure.”
“Because -“
Sarah’s gaze drifted southward and the impish look came back. “Hey, sailor,” she teased. “Looking for a good time?”
“Jesus, Sarah.”
“Nobody ever accused me of being shy,” she told him.
He woke up in the middle of the night, Sarah curled up warm against his side. For a moment he expected her to wake up too, or already be awake - but it’d been Jess who was so restless at the hotel, Jess who wanted more of his attention at the expense of getting any sleep.
He supposed she hadn’t slept at all, if that was all the time she’d had, those few hours.
To be with him. To say goodbye.
To say “I love you” one more time.
Was it that that had driven Dad so hard all those years? It was Dean who’d known Mom and Dad before, but he’d said precious little about Lawrence, about what he remembered. Still, Sam couldn’t imagine that his mother - or any woman, really - would choose to say “I do” to John Winchester if he’d been so angry, so obsessive, so hair-triggered at the time.
If it’d been someone human who killed her, would you have done what you did? Would you have dragged me and Dean around the country, let go of everything you had - the house, the business, your friends? If it had been a human intruder who killed her?
I wish you had talked to me, Dad. I wish you had told me what was in your heart.
Sarah stirred a little but didn’t wake.
Maybe Dean was asleep, too, by this time. Dean, who had said to him after the electrocution, “You’re not gonna let me die in peace, are you?” Because he had to be strong, even then. Had to be the one who took care of Sammy.
Always - “You go. I’ll do this.”
And where would I be if I’d let you die in peace? Do you really think I could do that? Ever?
* * * * *
“You ready?”
“Been ready,” Dean said.
Sam watched his brother shoulder his duffel, then stop, knowing there was something Sam needed to ask. Dean asked “What?” without a sound.
“What happened in Saganaw? With the Pied Piper killer. The reason you wanted to go to Brooklyn.”
Dean frowned, shrugged.
“Was it like the shtriga? Some kind of unfinished business?”
With a small sign Dean put the bag back down on the bed. “No, Sam.” His eyes searched Sam’s, and he half-turned away and shoved a hand through his hair. “Nothin’ like that. They were… somebody’s kids, you know? All of ‘em.”
“You did what you could, man. You’ve always done that.”
“Yeah,” Dean said. “Sometimes it doesn’t seem like enough.”
“It’s enough.”
The Blakes met them at the car. If Daniel Blake knew what his daughter and Sam had been doing the night before, he made no sign of it - or maybe he simply accepted it. Either way, he shook hands with both brothers, then pretended to be fascinated with the contrail of a plane passing overhead as Sarah and Sam kissed goodbye.
Dean stood waiting for his brother with his butt resting against the driver’s door of the Impala. When Sam and Sarah finally broke apart, he turned and grasped the door handle, but Sarah reached him before he could open the door. “See ya, Sarah,” he said, still intending to get in.
Her arms circled his waist and she stretched up to kiss him on both cheeks. “Listen - call if you ever want to talk.”
“I don’t -“
“No chick-flick stuff. Just talk. About…anything.”
Dean hiked a brow. “You mean if I want to badmouth Sam, you’ll listen?”
“Sure. Or if you’re hanging around the motel, watching some old movie -“ A thought occurred to her, and she grasped Dean’s hand and tugged him toward the house. Reluctant, but curious, he let himself be pulled along, tossing an inquisitive glance at Sam as they passed him and getting a “you got me, man” shrug in response.
They went from the foyer to a long hall that reached toward the back of the house, passing a closed door that was either a closet or a bathroom, a formal dining room, and the kitchen en route. Although out of boredom he’d sat through a few home remodeling shows during the past few years, by the time they reached the far end of the hall Dean’s list of possibilities for their destination had dropped down to pantry, great room, bedroom. The latter made him grin fleetingly. Maybe she’s expanding her horizons…
“Look,” Sarah said.
The room made his mouth loll open. “You’re showing me this now?”
He’d overlooked home theater.
“My mom loved movies,” Sarah explained. “So Dad built this for her. We don’t use it as much now, but it’s nice to come in here on a rainy day and curl up and watch a movie.”
Staring Dean in the face was a sixty-inch plasma TV. A quick look around the room confirmed the presence of surround-sound speakers, tucked above cabinets that were better stocked than the Wal‑mart DVD department. For his family’s seating enjoyment Daniel Blake had chosen a U-shaped sectional sofa that looked cushy enough to sink into and vanish.
“Now,” Dean repeated. “Lady, your timing sucks.”
“You could stay a while.”
He had to turn away from her and blink hard a couple of times. When he turned back, he said softly, “Can’t. We have to -“
“I know.”
“But maybe you and Sammy could max out the credit cards and put one of these in that house I saw.”
“And you could come over and watch Disney movies with -“
“Don’t say it.”
She stretched up again and sang softly, “‘Hey, Deanie, won’t you come out tonight…’”
Dean’s forehead creased. “Is that it? What’s the -“ He searched his memory, eyes squeezed almost shut. “Is there something about moonlight? Something something moonlight? I think -“ His voice trailed off, and it took him a moment to find it again. “I think my mom used to sing me that song.” His lips formed a few more words as the picture came clear in his mind: gentle hands tucking him into bed, smoothing his hair away from his face. “Dear God,” he whimpered. “Don’t tell me my mother named me after some bad pop song.”
Sarah ducked her head apologetically. “Sorry.”
“Don’t tell Sam. If you’ve got any mercy for me at all, don’t tell Sam.”
“Of course not.”
“Swear to me. Oh, forget it. You’ll do it anyway.”
Shuddering, Dean turned on one heel and retraced the path through the house. He was still shaking when he reached the Impala. Sam, waiting with the passenger door open, frowned at his brother, then at Sarah, who had followed Dean out.
“Just get in the car,” Dean said.
“What’s the -“
Ignoring Sam, Dean jerked open the driver’s door, dropped into the seat, keyed the ignition on, popped the glove box open and groped around inside, seizing the first cassette his fingers located. Sam was still standing alongside the car as he jammed the cassette into the player. The speakers were cranked loud enough that the Blakes’ neighbors within a mile in any direction could now enjoy some classic Motorhead.
“Dean,” Sam yelled above the music.
Dean slammed his door shut and began tapping his foot staccato against the floor mat. Still puzzled, Sam got into the passenger seat and turned the music down to a less-than-brainsplitting level.
“Door,” Dean barked.
Then Sarah’s face appeared in his window. “‘Bye, Dean,” she said sweetly.
“Huh,” Dean said.
“Take care of Sam.”
Something in her voice made him turn to look at her. Her hands were resting on the windowsill, and the teasing look was gone out of her eyes.
“I will,” he said.
“I’ll call you tonight,” Sam promised.
Sarah’s eyes didn’t leave Dean’s. The twinkle reappeared as she told Sam, “You’d better.” Then she stepped away from the car, retreating to a spot near the edge of the lawn. She was behind the Impala, but the Winchester brothers could still see her in the rearview mirrors, standing near her father. They both looked at her reflection for a minute, then looked at each other.
“You waiting for something?” Sam asked.
“Nope,” Dean said. With a movement that was more natural to him than breathing, he dropped the car into gear, gave her some gas, and aimed for the road.
As the rear wheels crunched from gravel onto asphalt, Sam twirled the volume knob back up.
And...whew...it concludes here. With thanks once again to my very special betas,
ravenrants and
mitchsgirl . Thanks and cookies also to
dodger_winslow and
janissa11 for rec'ing!
More cookies to the very funny
eighth_horizon , whose brilliant Sammy's Drunken Letters to Stephen King are here: http://eighth-horizon.livejournal.com/tag/drunken+sam-fu, and to the awesomeness that is Shaun Cassidy, who may well watch Supernatural. I think he'd understand Dean's open-mouthed horror of "Hey Deanie."
I'd thank my agent, except I don't have one. Don't need one. 'Cause...no money being made here.
Hugs to Kripke and the JJ's. You inspire me, boys.
Journey
By Carol Davis
Chapter Twelve
Tomorrow and Tomorrow (conclusion)
“Pass,” Sam said. Then: “We’re leaving tomorrow?”
“Guess so.” Dean lost Sam’s attention to the computer, so he sat on one of the empty chairs and looked at the picture for a while. They could both hear voices from inside the house, Sarah talking to her father. “Maybe you oughta stay,” Dean said earnestly. “She’s kinda lookin’ around, and you’re not even gone yet.”
“What?”
“She was gettin’ kinda grabby with Willy-boy, there.”
“Who? What are you talking about? You mean Reverend Hanson? She wasn’t grabby. She gave him a hug goodbye.”
“She was all over him, from where I was standing.”
“You’re insane.”
“Whatever.” Dean got up from his chair, tucking the picture into his shirt pocket, intending to go back to the Impala - but not quickly enough. He’d gone only a couple of steps when Sam got in front of him and cut him off.
“She wasn’t ‘all over’ anybody,” Sam groaned. “She gave him a kiss on the cheek.”
Dean blinked at him. “Huh.”
“You want to tell me what’s going on in your head? Or is that just going to make things worse?”
“I’m just sayin’.”
“Oh, no, no. Not this again. Look - she’s a very…what, a warm kind of a person. She hugs people. I don’t have any problem with her giving somebody a hug and a kiss. Especially since I don’t have any claim on her.”
“You ought to.”
“Yeah. You know, we need to find you something else to dwell on.” Dean reversed course and again tried to walk away, with no better luck than before. “I’m serious, man,” Sam said. “What’s the deal?”
“Nothing.”
“You want me to try to beat it out of you?”
“I just…liked the way things were. Is all.”
“The way what things were?”
“In the future.”
That confused Sam enough that this time Dean was able to get past him and walk into the kitchen. When he realized Sarah was in there, he walked quickly through the room to the hallway. Sam caught up with him at the foot of the stairs, with Sarah a couple of steps behind. “Okay,” Sam challenged his brother, “you can either keep trying to duck me, or you can do me a favor and tell me what the hell you’re talking about.”
Because Sam was blocking her view of Dean, Sarah moved up to stand beside him, one hand absently coming to rest on his arm. “That,” Dean said. “See? That.”
“Man, I’m gonna end up in an asylum.”
“The demon showed me the future. Okay?”
“He did.”
“Yeah. He did.”
“And?”
“It was kinda bad.”
Dean’s expression had gone somber enough to keep Sam quiet for a moment - and to make Sarah tighten her grip on Sam’s arm. “Maybe he was lying,” Sam ventured.
“I don’t know, man.”
Sam watched his brother gnaw on his lower lip long enough to begin unconsciously copying him. “We don’t…I mean, we don’t have any evidence that they know the future, do we?”
“You’re the one with the visions. You tell me.”
Sam let out a long breath. “Then just say it.”
The elder Winchester shoved his hands through his hair and paced off a small circle, then stopped and looked first at his brother, then at Sarah. He let out a breath that matched Sam’s, and after a moment of weighty silence, pointed at Sam. “You -“
“Dean, just say it.”
“You had a lot of gray hair, man.”
“I had what?”
“Gray hair. And wrinkles. And you” - Dean gestured at Sarah - “you were poppin’ out babies like some kind of machine. Had some big house in the ‘burbs you probably had mortgaged up the ass. I figure there was some kind of seriously sick minivan in the garage, but I didn’t see that. Okay, I know it sounds bad, but the demon said it was a possible future. So you can probably avoid it if you play your cards right.”
Sarah took a long look at Sam, then asked Dean, “Babies?”
“Place was infested with ‘em.”
Dean waited. Sam and Sarah had begun to grin at each other. “Oh - you named one of ‘em after me.”
Sarah seemed puzzled by that, then broke into a smile. “Right…the Natalie Wood character in ‘Splendor in the Grass.’ Deanie. Okay, sure.”
“It was a boy,” Dean said crossly.
“I’m pretty sure Natalie Wood was a girl, Dean,” Sam chipped in helpfully.
“Your kid was a boy,” Dean barked. “Jesus, you people. Last time I tell you anything. You’re the one with the visions,” he repeated to Sam. “Figure out your own damn future.”
Sarah told him sweetly, “There was a song, too. ‘Hey, Deanie.’”
“Yeah? Well, that’s just freakin’ hilarious.”
Sam moved closer to his brother and gave him a hearty thump on the back. “I’ll tell you what, man - if all of that comes true, there’ll always be a room for you over the garage.”
* * * * *
They ate dinner together, the four of them.
A couple of times during the two years he had been with Jess, she had taken Sam home with her to spend a little time with her family. After the usual “so you’re the guy who’s after my daughter/sister” psychological assault, her parents and siblings had all welcomed him, made him feel as if he belonged at their table.
None of them had been too fierce about table manners, but still, Sam had taken every bite with care. Paid attention to the food and the conversation. Tried to act like a “normal human being.” It was like walking on hot coals.
This dinner, he decided, must be ten times worse than that for Dean.
But Dean didn’t pick at his food. Didn’t make faces at any of it. Made a point of listening to Daniel’s comments about an estate he’d been offered, as if he wanted to understand. As if he wanted to hang on to something. To people who had at least begun to accept him for what he was. Seeing that made Sam badly want to stay. Eight months ago, Dean had suggested sticking around - but he’d meant for a few days. A couple of weeks, at the outside.
Then again, maybe he hadn’t.
“So…tomorrow?” Sam asked when they retreated to the guest room to start packing their few belongings.
Dean looked down at his open duffel. “Isn’t that why we’re doing this?”
“Just making sure.”
“Tomorrow,” Dean confirmed. Then he caught the look on Sam’s face and said, “Go. Talk to Sarah. You can pack that stuff in the morning. Or I’ll do it.”
“Leave it. You always mess up my shirts.”
“Dude. I taught you how to pack.”
As with laundry, Dean’s method of packing was Dump It All In. Sam shook his head at his brother and left the duffel in Dean’s questionable care.
Sarah was coming up the stairs as Sam approached them. She smiled as Sam pulled the door shut. He’d been doing that all week, to give the guest room more of the motel-room feel Dean was used to.
“That was…interesting,” she said.
“Dinner?”
“Our very suburban future.”
“I could work with it, I guess.”
She glanced at the guest room door. “So could Dean, apparently.”
“If I could build it for him right now, I would. But I need - we both need - to find the thing that took Mom and Dad.”
“Will you be back?”
“I’ll try to.”
She accepted that with a nod. “You look…a little less wiped out. The road must be calling to you.”
“Not that. I just feel like we’ve got somewhere to go.” Sam shook his head thoughtfully. “It’s kind of -“ He snorted softly, then went on, “I can’t remember the last time I went to bed thinking, ‘Man, this was a great day.’ It’s usually more like, ‘Wow, okay, we killed’ - you know, fill in the blank.”
“So the last good one would have been with Jess?”
“I…yeah.”
“Then I guess it just is what it is.”
“That’s pretty vague.”
Sarah went on down the hall and into her room with Sam wandering along behind. “If things were different,” she said as she shrugged out of the sweater she’d put on to sit outside after dinner, “if you were someone else…”
“Peter from the bank?”
“Peter from the bank. God, I can’t imagine letting him go on about his ex.”
Sam cracked a smile. “You’re going to cut me some slack because the spirit of my girlfriend possessed you.”
“It is what it is.”
Her remark wasn’t all that funny, but a chuckle bubbled up and Sam barely managed to cut it off before it got past his lips. His face was contorted with the effort of holding it back as he moved into Sarah’s room and closed the door. His hand was still on the knob when he realized what he’d done. “Sorry. I shouldn’t just barge in here.”
“You didn’t barge. You followed.”
“Then I shouldn’t follow.”
“Follow. Sit. You can’t tell me you’ve never been in a girl’s bedroom before.”
“Several,” Sam admitted.
Like the guest room, Sarah’s room had a reading area: a big, cushy chair with an enormous matching ottoman. Sarah took the chair, settling into it once she’d toed her shoes off, and pushed the ottoman toward Sam. As he sat down he noticed the book lying on the table beside the chair. “You read Stephen King?” he asked.
“Why? Am I not the type?”
“No. He just…kind of gets it all wrong.” That was…where? Oklahoma? “You tell ‘im, Sammy. Dumb sumbitch has it all bass-ackwards and upside down.” “I got kind of drunk one night and wrote him this letter. I don’t remember much of it, but it was kind of…abusive. And Dean mailed it. He -“ Sam cut himself off. “I guess that was a good day. We didn’t kill anything.”
“I think my last really good day was with my mom.”
“That’s a gift,” Sam said. “That you knew her. You remember her. I wish I had had some time with my mom.” Rather than pursue that, he got up from the ottoman and half-turned toward the door. “I should go. Let you relax for a while. And…read.”
“Sam.”
Her face didn’t give anything away. “Hmm?”
“Stay?”
“What? Here?”
“I’ve still got what’s left of that box of Trojans.”
All he could come up with was, “Buh?”
She got up from the chair with an impish look on her face. “I experimented once, when we first moved into this house. Turned some music on pretty loud, then went into my parents’ room to see if I could hear it. I think the builders went a little crazy with the insulation in the walls, because I couldn’t hear a thing. Ditto with the guest room.”
“I think Dean’s going to notice if I’m not there.”
“He has eight hundred channels of high-definition cable to keep him busy. And besides…he’s done everything but throw you in here head-first.”
“Sarah…” Sam’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I can’t stay. We have to finish this thing. Dean and me.”
“I know you do.”
“It wouldn’t be right to start something.”
“Because of Jess?”
“Because of you. I don’t want to be unfair to you.”
“It’s not a commitment, Sam. It’s not even an implied commitment.”
“Presumably, it leads to a big house and a whole bunch of kids.”
“Possibly. Right now I think it would just lead to sweatiness and an interesting amount of moaning and gasping.”
“You’re sure nobody can hear anything.”
“I’m sure.”
“Because -“
Sarah’s gaze drifted southward and the impish look came back. “Hey, sailor,” she teased. “Looking for a good time?”
“Jesus, Sarah.”
“Nobody ever accused me of being shy,” she told him.
He woke up in the middle of the night, Sarah curled up warm against his side. For a moment he expected her to wake up too, or already be awake - but it’d been Jess who was so restless at the hotel, Jess who wanted more of his attention at the expense of getting any sleep.
He supposed she hadn’t slept at all, if that was all the time she’d had, those few hours.
To be with him. To say goodbye.
To say “I love you” one more time.
Was it that that had driven Dad so hard all those years? It was Dean who’d known Mom and Dad before, but he’d said precious little about Lawrence, about what he remembered. Still, Sam couldn’t imagine that his mother - or any woman, really - would choose to say “I do” to John Winchester if he’d been so angry, so obsessive, so hair-triggered at the time.
If it’d been someone human who killed her, would you have done what you did? Would you have dragged me and Dean around the country, let go of everything you had - the house, the business, your friends? If it had been a human intruder who killed her?
I wish you had talked to me, Dad. I wish you had told me what was in your heart.
Sarah stirred a little but didn’t wake.
Maybe Dean was asleep, too, by this time. Dean, who had said to him after the electrocution, “You’re not gonna let me die in peace, are you?” Because he had to be strong, even then. Had to be the one who took care of Sammy.
Always - “You go. I’ll do this.”
And where would I be if I’d let you die in peace? Do you really think I could do that? Ever?
* * * * *
“You ready?”
“Been ready,” Dean said.
Sam watched his brother shoulder his duffel, then stop, knowing there was something Sam needed to ask. Dean asked “What?” without a sound.
“What happened in Saganaw? With the Pied Piper killer. The reason you wanted to go to Brooklyn.”
Dean frowned, shrugged.
“Was it like the shtriga? Some kind of unfinished business?”
With a small sign Dean put the bag back down on the bed. “No, Sam.” His eyes searched Sam’s, and he half-turned away and shoved a hand through his hair. “Nothin’ like that. They were… somebody’s kids, you know? All of ‘em.”
“You did what you could, man. You’ve always done that.”
“Yeah,” Dean said. “Sometimes it doesn’t seem like enough.”
“It’s enough.”
The Blakes met them at the car. If Daniel Blake knew what his daughter and Sam had been doing the night before, he made no sign of it - or maybe he simply accepted it. Either way, he shook hands with both brothers, then pretended to be fascinated with the contrail of a plane passing overhead as Sarah and Sam kissed goodbye.
Dean stood waiting for his brother with his butt resting against the driver’s door of the Impala. When Sam and Sarah finally broke apart, he turned and grasped the door handle, but Sarah reached him before he could open the door. “See ya, Sarah,” he said, still intending to get in.
Her arms circled his waist and she stretched up to kiss him on both cheeks. “Listen - call if you ever want to talk.”
“I don’t -“
“No chick-flick stuff. Just talk. About…anything.”
Dean hiked a brow. “You mean if I want to badmouth Sam, you’ll listen?”
“Sure. Or if you’re hanging around the motel, watching some old movie -“ A thought occurred to her, and she grasped Dean’s hand and tugged him toward the house. Reluctant, but curious, he let himself be pulled along, tossing an inquisitive glance at Sam as they passed him and getting a “you got me, man” shrug in response.
They went from the foyer to a long hall that reached toward the back of the house, passing a closed door that was either a closet or a bathroom, a formal dining room, and the kitchen en route. Although out of boredom he’d sat through a few home remodeling shows during the past few years, by the time they reached the far end of the hall Dean’s list of possibilities for their destination had dropped down to pantry, great room, bedroom. The latter made him grin fleetingly. Maybe she’s expanding her horizons…
“Look,” Sarah said.
The room made his mouth loll open. “You’re showing me this now?”
He’d overlooked home theater.
“My mom loved movies,” Sarah explained. “So Dad built this for her. We don’t use it as much now, but it’s nice to come in here on a rainy day and curl up and watch a movie.”
Staring Dean in the face was a sixty-inch plasma TV. A quick look around the room confirmed the presence of surround-sound speakers, tucked above cabinets that were better stocked than the Wal‑mart DVD department. For his family’s seating enjoyment Daniel Blake had chosen a U-shaped sectional sofa that looked cushy enough to sink into and vanish.
“Now,” Dean repeated. “Lady, your timing sucks.”
“You could stay a while.”
He had to turn away from her and blink hard a couple of times. When he turned back, he said softly, “Can’t. We have to -“
“I know.”
“But maybe you and Sammy could max out the credit cards and put one of these in that house I saw.”
“And you could come over and watch Disney movies with -“
“Don’t say it.”
She stretched up again and sang softly, “‘Hey, Deanie, won’t you come out tonight…’”
Dean’s forehead creased. “Is that it? What’s the -“ He searched his memory, eyes squeezed almost shut. “Is there something about moonlight? Something something moonlight? I think -“ His voice trailed off, and it took him a moment to find it again. “I think my mom used to sing me that song.” His lips formed a few more words as the picture came clear in his mind: gentle hands tucking him into bed, smoothing his hair away from his face. “Dear God,” he whimpered. “Don’t tell me my mother named me after some bad pop song.”
Sarah ducked her head apologetically. “Sorry.”
“Don’t tell Sam. If you’ve got any mercy for me at all, don’t tell Sam.”
“Of course not.”
“Swear to me. Oh, forget it. You’ll do it anyway.”
Shuddering, Dean turned on one heel and retraced the path through the house. He was still shaking when he reached the Impala. Sam, waiting with the passenger door open, frowned at his brother, then at Sarah, who had followed Dean out.
“Just get in the car,” Dean said.
“What’s the -“
Ignoring Sam, Dean jerked open the driver’s door, dropped into the seat, keyed the ignition on, popped the glove box open and groped around inside, seizing the first cassette his fingers located. Sam was still standing alongside the car as he jammed the cassette into the player. The speakers were cranked loud enough that the Blakes’ neighbors within a mile in any direction could now enjoy some classic Motorhead.
“Dean,” Sam yelled above the music.
Dean slammed his door shut and began tapping his foot staccato against the floor mat. Still puzzled, Sam got into the passenger seat and turned the music down to a less-than-brainsplitting level.
“Door,” Dean barked.
Then Sarah’s face appeared in his window. “‘Bye, Dean,” she said sweetly.
“Huh,” Dean said.
“Take care of Sam.”
Something in her voice made him turn to look at her. Her hands were resting on the windowsill, and the teasing look was gone out of her eyes.
“I will,” he said.
“I’ll call you tonight,” Sam promised.
Sarah’s eyes didn’t leave Dean’s. The twinkle reappeared as she told Sam, “You’d better.” Then she stepped away from the car, retreating to a spot near the edge of the lawn. She was behind the Impala, but the Winchester brothers could still see her in the rearview mirrors, standing near her father. They both looked at her reflection for a minute, then looked at each other.
“You waiting for something?” Sam asked.
“Nope,” Dean said. With a movement that was more natural to him than breathing, he dropped the car into gear, gave her some gas, and aimed for the road.
As the rear wheels crunched from gravel onto asphalt, Sam twirled the volume knob back up.