The greens and the yellows and the browns
At exactly seven thirty in the morning, Dean and Seth climbed the steps to Bobby’s porch. Rumsfeld was throwing a fit in the background, practically foaming at the mouth, angry barks rebounding off the piles of junk cars. Dean almost expected to see Bobby’s shotgun before the man himself, but the house stayed silent. He glanced at Seth and gave him a smile that was meant to be reassuring despite the fact that they might be walking into a trap. Because Dean had already decided. Had positioned himself half a step ahead of Seth before knocking. He wasn’t entirely useless after all; he was still over six feet of flesh and muscle, and if someone wanted to get at Seth, they would have to go through Dean first. He might be a shitty shot now, but he could still stop bullets. Of course, he’d probably die in the process but it’s not like he had a lot of options here. Seth made a small sound that was more exasperated than anything else but stayed behind Dean’s shoulder without complaining. He looked exhausted. They were both exhausted. An easy meal for anything that wanted to take them down. Maybe this was a bad idea. Why didn’t he call Bobby first? Because he’d been too busy throwing a temper tantrum that Bobby had kept things from him. A valid reason, sure, but maybe he should’ve called first. Just to make sure it was Bobby that picked up the phone.
Everything had looked and felt normal though. The moment they’d stepped out of the car, Dean had assessed his surroundings, scented the air, glanced over the amount of dirt on Bobby’s truck and the amount of food in Rumsfeld’s bowl. There wasn’t even an inkling of something out of place. Dean had checked in right before leaving the job in Virginia and Bobby had mentioned pulling out the ’59 El Camino. The thing was up on a lift and missing the engine, so he’d already gotten started. Everything fit. So where the fuck was Bobby?
He knocked again, wondering if he should tell Seth to go back to the car. The door swung open and there was Bobby, finally, looking like he hadn’t slept in days. Looking as crappy as Dean felt.
His eyes jerked from Dean to Seth, widened, and before Dean could draw breath to say anything, Bobby had a handful of his jacket and was slamming him against the doorway,
“You goddamned moron! You brought him here?! You drove him across the goddamned country to bring him here?! What the fuck w--“
The gunshot was so loud that even the fucking dog shut up. Something inside the house shattered. Dean actually saw the hair sticking out of the back of Bobby’s hat move as the bullet passed it. So close that Dean’s ears were ringing slightly and he would bet that Bobby wouldn’t hear anything out of his right ear for a few hours at least.
Bobby turned his head, mouth gaping open, and if the situation was any less serious Dean would’ve laughed at the expression on his face.
“Take you hands off him,” Seth said calmly, the gun now pointing at Bobby’s forehead.
Jesus.
The kid had almost shot Bobby and Dean knew that he should say something, maybe tell him to put the gun down, but holy fuck. He couldn’t look away from the hard mask on Seth’s face, the fingers gripping the gun, perfectly grounded, legs spread slightly, shoulders relaxed. A stance that said he’d killed things before and he’d do it again and it would be as easy as breathing. A weeks worth of exhausted bruises under his eyes, nose recently broken, the last pair of Dean’s jeans loose on his hips and torn at the knee. Dangerous. He looked fucking dangerous. And this was probably the worst possible time to feel an unbearable wave of affection for the kid. An even worse time to be growing hard at the thought of that hard mask looking down at him, the fingers gripping Dean’s hair instead of the gun.
Bobby released his hold on Dean’s jacket slowly, carefully, with that same stupid expression on his face, and why the fuck didn’t Dean have a camera for this? It was priceless.
“Step back,” Seth said.
Bobby turned his palms out,
“Listen, kid--“
Seth’s thumb leisurely cocked the hammer and Bobby’s mouth snapped shut. He took two steps back.
Dean decided that now was probably a good time to say something.
“Seth. It’s ok. Put the gun down.”
“Why?” Seth said cooly, eyes and gun still locked on Bobby.
“Because. He wasn’t gonna hurt me.”
“I just patched you up,” Seth said, and now there was an undertone of anger in his voice and fuck everything if that didn’t make it even hotter.
“I’m not gonna watch some redneck push you around.”
No. Not gonna think like that. Seth was waving a gun around. He tried to shoot Bobby. So maybe Dean wanted to fuck him right here and now but his penis really needed to chill out because this was a bad, bad time, the worst possible time to be thinking about sex.
“He wasn’t gonna hurt me Seth. Give me the gun.”
“Why do you trust him? He almost got us killed.”
“True. But he didn’t mean to. I thought we had that settled. And I trust him for a million reasons I don’t have time to explain. If you kill him I’m gonna be pretty pissed off, ok? So just give me the gun.”
For a few seconds nothing happened. Then Seth lowered the gun and offered it to Dean.
“I wasn’t gonna kill him,” he said, sounding slightly offended,
“I would’ve just taken out his kneecap.”
“Just the kneecap,” Dean said, releasing the hammer,
“Right. That makes it better. Where did-- you stole MY gun?”
“I ‘borrowed’ one of your guns. It’s just a six-shooter. I figured you wouldn’t even notice.”
“Borrowing usually entails asking permission. Did you ‘borrow’ anything else?”
“Do you really expect me to go around unarmed?”
Bobby cleared his throat and Dean decided to save the ‘ethics of borrowing’ conversation for some other time.
“Bobby,” he said,
“This is Seth. Seth? Bobby.”
Seth grunted,
“Am I supposed to say ‘nice to meet you’?”
Bobby rubbed his mouth.
“Seth,” he said, as if clarifying it.
“Yeah, Seth,” Dean said,
“You know? The kid you wanted me to drive back to NY State and leave him there even though he’s got a demon on his tail? The kid you sent Rufus after? He’s dead by the way, if you haven’t figured that out on your own. Rufus and whoever you sent with him.”
“Tim,” Bobby said, studying Seth carefully,
“and yeah, I’ve got the police report copy. The one about the cabin ‘vandalism’ too. Maybe you should both come in. I think I could use a drink now.”
--
They ended up at the kitchen table, Seth and Dean on one side, Bobby on the other, a bottle of scotch in the middle. Dean had already downed half of his glass, Bobby was pouring a second for himself and Seth had not even made a move to touch his. Dean was pretty sure that there was a joke in there somewhere.
“I never thought I’d be the one doing this,” Bobby said,
“I always thought John would be alive when the time came.”
“Dad? What’s dad got to do with this?”
Bobby leaned back in the chair, his gaze focused somewhere on the space between Seth and Dean. Dean wasn’t sure if it was because he wanted to keep an eye on both of them or because he didn’t wanna be looking at either one.
“I guess I better start at the beginning, huh? I just never--,” he laughed sharply,
“Never woulda thought. I mean what are the fucking chances? Makes you think maybe there’s such a thing as destiny.”
He downed the second class quickly, adam’s apple moving under a week’s worth of unshaved scruff.
“Ain’t that a fucking scary thought. Destiny.”
Dean was starting to get irritated. If he’d been drinking non stop for the last day or so then nothing coming out of his mouth would make sense and Dean was in no fucking mood for drunk talk.
“Just spit it out Bobby.”
Bobby slammed his glass back on the table.
“You think this is easy, you little shit? Being the only one left who knows what the fuck is going on? This wasn’t my fucking job! I’d already done more than my share, and I told your dad-- I fucking told him it wouldn’t work, it wouldn’t make a difference. I fucking told him. Now he’s dead and I’m supposed to, what? Explain to you what his plans were? I don’t even know what the fuck he was thinking.”
“Bobby, you’re not making any fucking sense.”
Bobby glanced at Seth and pushed the bottle towards Dean.
“On November 2nd, 1983, a demon killed your mother. Burned the house down. You carried your brother out of the nursery where the fire started.”
“Yeah,” Dean said, feeling more and more pissed off by the moment,
“And Sam died hours later. Smoke. I didn’t get him out fast enough. Why the fuck are we talking about this?”
Bobby spun his glass slowly,
“John called me from the road, told me the demon was after Sam. He told me he had a plan. I argued, he didn’t listen, same old same old.”
“Bobby--“
“Sam didn’t die Dean,” Bobby said, his eyes hard and serious, like he wanted to make sure that Dean heard every word loud and clear,
“John drove here straight from Lawrence. Handed Sam over to me. I didn’t know what he was gonna tell you, but if I’d had any fucking idea that he would-- that he would tell you Sam was dead, I woulda put a stop to it. Never wanted you to think that. Anything else but that.”
Dean felt his fingers starting to cramp around the glass and forced himself to let go. His mouth was suddenly desert dry, full of ash.
“What are you saying?”
“Sam didn’t die. We hid him. I took him to Ellen because I didn’t know who else I could trust--“
“Ellen Harvelle??”
“-- and Ellen took him to an old High School girlfriend. Didn’t tell her anything except that Sam was an orphan and in danger. And her friend-- she couldn’t have any kids. She even moved from Nebraska to New York State and Ash forged the papers. He didn’t know what he was forging or who he was doing it for. None of us really knew, see? Cause I never told John I took Sam to Ellen and Ellen never told me who she gave him to. It was safer that way. She kept in contact with Lillian, a phone call every couple of years or so. It wasn’t until Sam went missing that the red flag went up. We didn’t know. You didn’t tell me where you were going after Virginia. I didn’t know you’d be in New York, and even if I’d known-- I was sure his cover got blown, that the demon found him. I mean what were the fucking chances? Three hundred million people in the country and you managed to--“
Seth’s chair scraped loudly.
“You’re drunk,” he said, his voice shaking,
“And insane. You’re drunk and insane.”
Dean barely heard him over the loud thud in his ears. He was gonna be sick.
“You made that up,” Seth said, backing away from the table, voice edging into hysterics,
“My name was on tv, my parent’s names, you pulled all that shit out of your ass cause you’re fucking crazy.”
“I’m sorry kid,” Bobby said slowly,
“We just wanted to protect you. That’s all. You weren’t supposed to find out like this.”
“No. Just-- no. No.”
Bobby got up and walked over to the assortment of phones on the wall. Untangled an old beat up cordless with an answering machine. Punched the play button with his finger.
A female voice came out of the crappy little speaker, sounding tearful and afraid,
“Hello? Is this-- I’m looking for Bobby Singer. My name is Lillian Brooks. Lillian Rose Brooks. My-- Seth is missing. I was told to call because-- I have-- I have the pictures, his most recent pictures. I’m faxing them now, just please-- let me know if there’s anything else you need. Anything. I want my son back. I did everything I was told,” her voice cracked,
“I don’t understand why this is happening--“
Seth made a noise that sounded like a sob. Dean wanted to get up and grab him, to hide him from this. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t even look at him right now. Seth was Sam, Sam was Seth, and Dean had-- Dean had-- he was gonna throw up. His mouth was full of bitter spit, a fucking river of it. He covered it with his hand. Squeezed the bridge of his nose until he couldn't breathe.
“She was afraid that they’d done something wrong,” Bobby said,
“I told her it wasn’t her fault. She knew so little anyway and your-- your dad even less. They’d done a good job keeping you safe until--“
“Until I showed up,” Dean rasped.
“No,” Seth said again and it sounded so broken that Dean wanted to scream.
He was moving before he’d even decided to do so.
“I can’t-- I have to--“
And then he was fucking leaving as fast as his feet would carry him. Running like a fucking coward. Across the damn house, out and away from Seth. Because if he looked at him right now, if he even thought about everything they’d done, he was gonna eat a bullet.
He could hear Seth calling his name, sounding panicked and that fucking hurt, but he couldn’t. He had to get out.
He was panting by the time he got into the car, black dots dancing in front of his eyes, feeling lightheaded. Maybe he’d pass out while driving. Maybe he’d pass out and drive into a fucking telephone pole and die. What a treat that would be.
He peeled out of the driveway, his last glance in the review mirror showing him Seth standing on the porch, still yelling his name.
--
“He left,” Seth heard himself say,
“He left.”
“He sure did,” Bobby said behind him,
“Didn’t expect that. Thought maybe he’d try and punch me out or shoot me or something.”
“Shut up,” Seth ground out,
“Just-- shut up or might still shoot you.”
He didn’t even hear him walk away.
The dust in the driveway was staring to settle already, the sound of the impala had faded and Seth felt numb. He sat down on the porch step.
How is it possible that this was the worst part of everything?
His parents weren’t his parents. His life wasn’t his life. His name wasn’t his name. He’d truly lost everything in less than fifteen minutes. Everything. His whole fucking life was one big ridiculous joke, lies on top of lies. He could still hear mom’s voice on the answering machine, the voice he’d recognize anywhere. It had argued with him, praised him, sang him lullabies. Lied to him. His whole life, that voice had lied to him. They used to joke about his height, how one of them must’ve had some tall ancestors they didn’t know about. His hair. His eyes. So ridiculous. He wasn’t the only one who didn’t look like either one of his parents, had never given it a second thought. But the first thing he’d noticed about Dean was the dimple in his chin. And had compared it to his own.
He heard himself making a small whining noise and put a stop to it. Some things were now so glaringly obvious. The fights over med school. The hissy fit mom threw when she found out he’d applied for colleges as far as three states away. The endless fights they had over his EMT job. And her friend Ellen. Ellen that called maybe once a year to ‘catch up.’ Seth never thought it strange that he’d never met Ellen, that Ellen never came over, that mom never had lunch dates with this mysterious High School friend. He just knew that mom had a friend called Ellen who called once in a great while, who mom always talked to in private.
He could now fully appreciate Bobby’s disbelief at the whole thing. The comment about three hundred million people in the country, and yet somehow, Dean had ended up in his area, in his ambulance. Had old lady McEllin really had a heart attack instead of a false alarm caused by a couple of burritos. Had Seth not picked up that shift and opted to get some sleep instead. Had traffic been any more congested when they were responding to the scene. Had Seth been the one driving instead of Mike.
No. He was gonna drive himself insane thinking like that. There was no point to it now. Over and done with. Dean had snatched him and in a matter of days Seth couldn’t imagine a life without him. In a matter of days they’d had sex and Seth had realized that he was insanely in love with a man he’d just met.
He’d had sex with his brother.
He was pretty sure that this should bother him, that it was one of those things people would react violently to. The way Dean did. Seth didn’t have any siblings, for reasons that were now pretty fucking obvious. He didn’t know how he’s supposed to feel towards a brother. Except that he knew he wasn’t supposed to want to have sex with a sibling. Cause that was kind of fucked up and unnatural and whateverthefuckyoucallit, immoral? A sin? Seth wasn’t sure, he wasn’t religious. It was definitely frowned upon, to say the least. But if he was gonna be honest with himself, he didn’t give a flying fuck about the morality of it. Whether it was unnatural or not. Dean might be his brother, but he was still Dean and Seth still loved him. Still wanted him. It wasn’t something he could just shut off. He didn’t wanna shut it off. He’d never met anyone like Dean. There was no one in the world like Dean. And Seth had never felt like this towards anyone else. He remembered reading Romeo and Juliet in High School and thinking Shakespeare was a sentimental blow hard. Not being able to imagine loving someone so much that he would willingly die for them. Turns out Shakespeare knew a thing or two.
Seth couldn’t just stop being in love with Dean and be his brother instead. The idea was fucking preposterous. And he didn’t see why he should be bothered by it. So they were related by blood. Why the fuck did that even matter? It didn’t. It didn’t matter to him.
But it mattered to Dean.
And that was somehow the worst part of all this insanity. That Dean had left. That Dean had just fucking left him there, in a stranger’s house, without a word. For five days they were never apart for longer than a few minutes, they’d been tangled even in their sleep. And Dean had just left. All the craziness of the vampires and the demon and having this scary fucking thing inside of him that he didn’t understand, it was all somehow bearable because of Dean. And then just like that, Dean was gone and Seth was on his own. On his own with a stranger in a strangle place. His life wasn’t his life, his name wasn’t his name, but the worst part of it all was that Dean wasn’t here.
--
He wasn’t sure how long he’d sat out there, ears straining, hoping he’d hear the telltale rumble of impala’s engine. By the time he stood back up his legs were stiff, his ass numb, and the sun had moved a good bit across the sky. He’d made a list of all the things he wanted to say to Dean. Reasonable things. And he was sure that Dean would come back eventually, that they would talk about this and sort it out. Because he was pretty fucking sure that Dean felt the same way about him. If he could just explain to Dean that he didn’t care about the whole ‘incest’ thing, and God, he already hated that fucking word so much, then maybe Dean wouldn’t be as upset. Maybe they could go back to the way they were before. It probably wouldn’t be easy and Seth could respect that. Dean needed time to figure shit out, to deal with this. And as long as he knew that Dean loved him, it didn’t matter how long it took. Seth could wait. He would wait.
The house was silent and cool. He found Bobby in the living room, the half-empty bottle on the table, a large cardboard box next to it.
When he saw him in the doorway, Bobby waved toward the box and cleared his throat,
“I wasn’t sure if you’d want to-- John had left some stuff. For you. To look at.”
“John,” Seth repeated,
“My father. John Winchester.”
The hits just kept on coming. John Winchester was his dad. The man he hated without ever having met him. The man who raised Dean like a good little soldier. The man that lied to his son, let him think that his brother’s death was his fault, cause he didn’t carry him out of the nursery fast enough. John Winchester was his dad.
“Listen, I know this must be hard--“
“You don’t. You don’t know. You couldn’t possibly even imagine, ok? So spare me. And I don’t want anything that belonged to John Winchester.”
“Actually, most of it is Mary’s.”
“Mary?”
“Your mom.”
Mom. Of course. If he’d had a dad he never met, reason stood that he also had a mom he never met. Mom that was killed by a demon. Dean’s mom. His mom and Dean’s mom were the same person. Ok, so maybe there were things abut this ‘incest’ problem that he hadn’t yet considered. Because that small realization suddenly seemed overwhelming.
Bobby had reached into the box to pull out a photo frame,
“I knew her, somewhat. Mainly cause I’d known her old man. Campbell was a piece of work but he dotted on that girl like she was a princess. Never spoiled her though. Here.”
He was offering Seth the picture and Seth found himself taking it.
He didn’t know what he expected. But it definitely wasn’t a girl about his own age, the blonde hair and a bright smile, with eyes the same color as his own. He’d always wondered where had such a bizarre color come from, the greens and the yellows and the browns. Now he knew. He studied the picture carefully, trying to find something else to go on, anything else. The shape of her mouth, her nose, her forehead. There was nothing. Just the eyes. And then he figured out why. Because he didn’t look like her. Dean looked like her, he had her mouth, her nose, her forehead. Every exquisite line of Dean’s face had come from this smiling, beautiful woman.
“Your grandparents were Samuel and Deanna. So they named you two Sam and Dean. After her parents.”
Seth sat down slowly, still griping the picture.
“Can I have that bottle please?”
Bobby handed it over and Seth swallowed as much as he could hold without throwing up. He put the picture in his lap. He couldn't figure out if it was odd that he already felt protective of it.
He cleared his throat roughly, feeling the scotch burning in his stomach.
“What-- what else is in there?”
Chapter 15 →