What if I don't want a brother?
Pictures. So many pictures.
Old dusty photo albums, full of people he didn’t know and would never meet. Mary as a little girl, pigtails and ruffled dresses, looking like a tiny princess perching on her father’s knee. Mary again, no more than ten years old, at a shooting range, her small face twisted in fierce concentration. Her last day of grade school. Her first day of High School. Her graduation, cap and gown, diploma clutched in one hand. Mary with her friends, at the beach, in her first car, horseback riding. Growing taller and bolder and more beautiful.
Then a stack of photos tied together with a string, dog eared and yellowed. The top picture showed a little boy and a young man, both smiling. On the back of the photo there was a date, 1958, and a hurried scribble, ‘John and Henry.’ John Winchester and his father. The stack of photos was depressingly small when compared to Mary’s albums, all her childhood carefully documented. That was the last and only picture of Henry. The last and only picture of John as a child. The rest showed a tired looking woman with rough hands and wispy hair, always looking like she’s out of breath. John growing into a sullen looking boy, dark eyes too large for his face, all knees and elbows much like Seth was at that age. A few class photos, then John at 16, in a uniform, about to ship off to Vietnam. John leaving as a boy and coming back as a man, dark, tall, and some would even say handsome.
Oh, and then, John and Mary together. On dates, camping, at the movies. Clumsy photos, probably taken by friends, but they caught their happiness, the way they used to look at each other, like nothing else mattered. John and Mary getting married. Their house, still new and empty of furniture, Mary already round with Dean.
Dean as a baby.
This is where Seth couldn’t help but smile. Dean as a toddler, chubby and perpetually unhappy, face always on the verge of screaming. Little fists always clenched and ready to fight. Dean at 2 years old, running across the back yard. Dean at 3, trying to blow out the candles of his birthday cake. Dean at 4, standing in between John and Mary, carefully studying the bundle in Mary’s arms even as the flash of the camera went off. The bundle that was his brother, Sam. The bundle that was Seth. Seth was Sam and and Sam was Seth and this was his family, most of them gone.
He tucked the photos back in the box, deciding that he didn’t want them. That Dean would probably want them more. But after a moment, he went back in and dug out a small photo of Mary. Blonde hair shining in the sun, smiling into the camera, her whole life stretching ahead of her. He tucked the photo carefully into his pocket. A small part of who he was that he was actually willing to accept.
Then he dug through the rest.
A leather jacket that looked like it had belonged to John. He put that aside. Dean would probably want it and Seth wanted nothing to do with it. Some memorabilia from the wedding. A surprisingly small shoulder holster for a gun. Another, larger one, and more worn. He put both of them aside, assuming they were John’s. And a gun. Colt MKIV Series 80 with pearl grips and an engraved slide. A beautiful weapon. Maybe a little flashy but it didn’t look like it had been used very often.
“You found the colt,” Bobby said, setting down two cups of coffee.
“That model came out the same year you were born. Mary loved it. Said she had two sons to take care of and wouldn’t be hunting again but she carried it cause it was a gift from John.”
Seth felt himself take about twenty mental steps backwards.
“She was a hunter too? My mom was a hunter?”
“Damn right she was a hunter. Samuel Campbell was a hunter, and his old man before him. That whole family’s been a family of hunters since the Mayflower landed.”
“But I thought John--“
Bobby snorted, interrupting him,
“John. John didn’t know shit. What, you think he was some knight in armor and she was the princess? Hell no. Mary was the one with steel in her spine.”
He leaned forward, touching the smaller of the shoulder holsters,
“John was never meant for that sort of life, wasn’t strong enough, kept fumbling along and fucking shit up. Yeah, he grew into a decent hunter, but if things were reversed, if it’d been him that died in the fire...
Well, no use thinkin about it. She’d want you to have it. John put this stuff aside for a reason. I don’t think this is what he had in mind but he always sucked at planning ahead.”
The gun felt comfortable in his hand.
“Is the smaller holster hers too?”
“Both. John usually stuck his guns wherever they would fit. I’m surprised he never shot himself in the balls. Dean’s picked up all his bad habits.”
“The jacket?”
“John’s.”
“I don’t want it.”
Bobby leaned back with his cup of coffee,
“He wasn’t a bad man, John. He did the best he could. Under the circumstances.”
“I don’t care.”
“Fair enough. Have some coffee.”
--
He kept the gun and the larger holster. The first things he owned as Sam Winchester, that he could now call his own. His mother’s gun, his mother’s holster and his mother’s picture tucked into his pocket. He was wearing Dean’s clothes, his boots, he had Dean’s knife tucked in Dean’s boot. He owned nothing else but a bunch of fake memories of a fake life.
“So a demon killed her,” he said.
“In your nursery, on the eve of your six month birthday.”
“And you think the demon was after me?”
“Didn’t know what to think. But John was sure.”
“The demon that attacked us, back at the cabin, she said she was there for me. She said daddy would be proud if he saw me. Do you think she was talking about the demon that killed my mother?”
Bobby shrugged,
“Mighta been. Mighta been lying too.”
Seth kept postponing the question because he really didn’t want to know the answer. But really, how much worse can this day get? What the fuck did it matter? Was he gonna disappoint parents who weren’t his parents? Was he gonna lose a lover who wasn’t his lover but brother, and who might not want anything to do with him anyway? He literally had nothing left to lose.
“What’s wrong with me? You said-- you said you had the police report from the cabin. You know that the demon didn’t blow a hole in it then go off skipping into the sunset. It was me. I tore the damn place apart, I scared the demon away. What am I?”
“Telekinetic? Some sort of human mutation? Your guess is as good as mine. I started some research as soon as I heard what happened but didn’t get far. You’re welcome to it, gotta pretty decent library here and you’ll know what you’re looking for better than me.”
“Why didn’t you tell him? When you called, back at the cabin, why didn’t you tell him who I was?”
“Because he never woulda let go of you if he knew. You were safe where you were. All these years. Chances are, if Dean didn’t snatch you up, the demon never woulda found you and none of this would be happening. You can see why I wanted him to take you back somewhere where you’d be safe.”
“You should have told him.”
Bobby suddenly became engrossed in the contents of his coffee cup,
“Should have but didn’t. What’s done is done.”
Seth’s stomach twisted. Did he know? Did he guess?
“What if-- what if he doesn’t come back?”
“He will,” Bobby stood up,
“give’im a day or so to cool off, he’ll be back. In the meantime we’ll try and figure out what the demon wants with you. Dean’s always been bad with research anyway, never had the patience for it.”
He drained the rest of his cup in one gulp, as if afraid Seth would say something he didn’t want to hear.
“I gotta make some phone calls. The library’s off the kitchen. There’s a bedroom upstairs, to the right of the bathroom. Dean used to sleep there when John left him with me. You’re welcome to it.”
“My-- mom. Lillian. Did you--?”
“I called her as soon as I knew you were safe.”
Seth rubbed his face. A part of him wanted to call her, reassure her. A part of him was afraid he would just end up making her cry and hating himself.
“Thank you.”
--
--
He pounded on the back door with his fist, kicked it with his boot, would’ve screamed at the top of his lungs if he could just draw enough air. He was still shaking, still felt on the verge of throwing up, all that time driving hadn’t done a damn thing except helping him rehash every goddamned detail. If someone didn’t open the door soon he was gonna fucking kick it in and start breaking things.
“What do you want?” a voice snapped behind him.
He turned around and faced the double barrel of Ellen’s shotgun. A few paces behind her stood Jo, both of her handguns pointing at his chest.
“Dean?” Ellen said, lowering the weapon,
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“I need to talk to you,” he ground out.
“What happened to your arm? Are you in trouble? Jo, get back inside. Dean, if you brought a nest down on me, I’m gonna rip your--“
“It’s about Sam.”
She froze, emotions flickering across her face faster than he could read them.
“Jo, go back inside. Finish the floors. I’ll be in my office. Tell Ash if he comes bothering me I’m gonna break his legs.”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing you need to know about. Go.”
She stalked away, grumbling, and for once Dean barely even noticed her.
“C’mon,” Ellen said,
“You look like shit.”
--
She poured them both a drink, nothing like that cheap scotch Bobby had on hand but something smooth and lovely, flame and smoke. Her office was cluttered as always, the windowless space crowded with crates and file cabinets. She took a pile of unopened mail from the only chair that wasn’t her own and Dean sat down, suddenly feeling small. Why was he here? What was he hoping to get out of this?
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said,
“How could you look me in the face and know my brother is alive and not say anything?”
“Now, listen--“
“Twenty fucking years Ellen. I thought he was dead.”
“I made a promise.”
“Fuck your promise! He’s my brother!”
“You watch you mouth with me Dean. I’m not Bobby. He was safe. He was happy. He had a better goddamned life than any of us. If I could’ve given that kind of life to Jo, the money, the opportunities, a free ride to college of her choice, I would’ve torn my own heart out and handed it over on a fucking platter. He was protected.”
“We could’ve protected him! Me and dad could’ve--“
“Could’ve what? John is dead! I can think of three times off the top of my head where you only survived by the skin of your teeth. And neither one of you had a demon on your tail. All the three of you could’ve done is die together. At least you’re alive. Sam’s alive. And he was safe and hidden until you went and fucked it all up. Snatched him up from the place he’d been safe for twenty fucking years.”
Dean’s throat tightened,
“I didn’t know. I didn’t know it was Sam. I thought he was just some kid and I was hurt and I needed someone to patch me up, and then... it turned out I had pneumonia.”
He laughed and it sounded awful so he stopped.
“It turned out I had pneumonia so the kid went and robbed a pharmacy for antibiotics. Drove me somewhere safe. Patched me up. Then the demon came along, broke my arm, broke a couple of other things. Seth-- Sam fought it off. Patched me up again. Took care of me. I didn’t know,” he was staring to sound desperate, like he was trying to convince her, convince himself that he’d never had even a whisper of doubt, not even an inkling, because all he’d done in the last hour was doubt himself, wonder if he’d somehow maybe known deep down inside. And what the fuck would that have made him? How was he supposed to live with that?
“I didn’t know until we got to Bobby’s. He didn’t know until he heard his mother’s voice on the answering machine. Neither one of us knew.”
Ellen was studying him like she’d never seen him before, her hands clasped together on the desk, the glass untouched,
“What are you saying here Dean? Because it sounds like--“
“We didn’t know.”
He was done here. It was time to go. If he stayed a moment longer he would say something he’d regret.
“Dean, wait a minute--“
But he was already moving, rushing out, and why did he even come here? What was he expecting to get out of this? Some understanding?
No one could fucking understand this.
--
Seth read until his eyes burned. All of Bobby’s notes on the demon. All the notes that John left behind. He wished more than once that he could get his hands on John’s journal again. When Dean had showed it to him, he didn’t know what to look for. Now he did. Or at least, he was getting a pretty good idea. But that got him thinking about Dean again, the fucking expression on his face when he’d realized that they were brothers, and Seth just couldn’t deal with that yet. Couldn’t think about it, couldn’t worry about it. There would be time to deal with all that crap once Dean came back. In the meantime, there was so much Seth didn’t know, so much he needed to learn quickly. He never thought he’d envy the way Dean was raised, but there were things that Dean, Bobby, and probably every other hunter in the world considered common knowledge. Things that Seth knew nothing about. It felt like being back in the first grade again, starting from the very beginning.
Bobby had made some grilled cheese sandwiches at some point and Seth ate one without tasting it. Downed three more cups of coffee. Learned about demons and how to kill them, how to trap them, how to exorcise them. Silently thanked the curiosity which had prompted him to take Latin in college. Of course, he took it with the intention of having a better understanding of medical terms, not so he could one day exorcise a demon, but it helped all the same. He made notes on the greasy, grilled cheese napkin until Bobby dropped a leather bound book in front of him.
“It’s an extra. Been draggin around here for years. Might as well use it.”
It was old. Once white pages mostly yellowed at the corners from years of smoke and dust. But blank, unused.
“Thank you.”
Bobby just grunted in his direction and went about his business.
Seth decided that he might like the man.
A little bit.
The day slipped away quickly, unnoticed. There were classes and classes of demons. Different abilities, different strengths. Some texts implied that the first demons were human. The others claimed the first demons were angels fallen out of God’s favor. It was all speculation, mystery, nothing was certain or set in stone. He tried to stick to actual facts, reliable accounts of hunters who had faced these things in the past. But the number of those that survived an encounter with a demon was depressingly small. A few every hundred years or so, stretching back throughout history. When he stumbled across stacks of paper written entirely in Coptic, he put the demon lore aside. His head was starting to pound.
Researching his own abilities, this thing he had that he couldn’t even put a name to, turned out to be more frustrating than all the demon lore put together. He wished he had his laptop, then remembered that he didn’t own a laptop any more. Seth Brooks had owned a laptop and a desktop, a car, an apartment, and a trust worth close to a quarter million dollars. Sam Winchester owned nothing. Nothing but a gun, a holster, and an old photo.
Library. There had to be a decent library in a city this size. Except that he had no car to take him there. And a glance at the wall clock showed him that the library was probably closed. He’d spent close to nine hours buried in Bobby’s books. He stood up, stretched his legs, used the bathroom. Peered outside, almost expecting to see the impala parked in the driveway. Poured himself another cup of coffee that was bordering on sludge. Went back to the books.
Four hours later his eyeballs pulsed, his stomach rebelled against any more coffee and his legs were starting to cramp. He was no smarter than he was when he started. Maybe he was telekinetic. Maybe it was nothing more complicated than a demon having found someone with special abilities and wanting to use them for his own gain.
He wished it could be that simple.
He made piles of books he wanted to go through in the morning. Dumped the rest of the coffee out and washed out the coffee pot. Passed Bobby in the living room, asleep in a recliner, a half empty glass of scotch resting in front of him.
The upstairs was cool and dark.
He didn’t bother turning the lights on. The junkyard was lit up like a christmas tree, the glow leaving patterns across the walls and floors. The room Bobby told him about was small but the bed was decent sized; Seth imagined Dean must have been at least five foot ten by the time he turned sixteen. He had a fleeting urge to explore, to find out if teenage Dean had left anything behind. Instead, he crawled into the musty bed and was asleep in moments.
--
One bottle. Then another. A dark, smelly bar until the last call, then on to the next.
Five in the morning found him in some hotel off the thruway. Hotel because he couldn’t do it in the car. He didn’t even want her in the car, sitting where Sam sat. He’d shoved cash for a cab ride into her hands while he was still conscious enough to do so. Then they fucked on the suspicious bedspread, her lipstick smearing over his shoulder.
She was everything he usually looked for. Legs miles long. Mouth perfectly shaped, a low raspy laugh that should make his spine tingle. Even drunk, she hit all the bases, rode him like it was their last day on earth. She should have been more than enough. But every time he closed his eyes he saw Sam. And even after three bottles and every thrust soaked in nauseating numbness, it still felt like a betrayal.
After she’d stumbled out, he found himself in the tub, fully dressed, booted feet propped up on either side of the faucet. Gun in hand, loaded and ready. Because that was the most obvious way to make it stop. He’d never be able to forget it. It would always be there in the corner of his mind, festering, screaming for attention. A handful of Sam’s hair in his grip, his mouth, the taste of his skin. Sammy. His little brother. Neither one of them knew, they couldn’t have known, and in his drunken daze, that was all right. That part he could let go of. A mistake made in ignorance he could live with.
He couldn’t live with this. Knowing it would never stop. Knowing he was sick, fucked up. That he couldn’t stop wanting his little brother. That he would never be able to look at him without the urge to touch him, that every girl or guy he fucked would be wearing Sam’s face.
He considered leaving some kind of a note behind. Except that there was really nothing to say. Sam would know why. Sam is the only one that mattered and Sam would need no explanation. Maybe an apology, but no explanation.
The gun was cool against his temple. He knew the right way to do this. Even left handed, he could do this one thing right. Make it all go away.
And leave Sam all alone.
All alone, with no family, no friends, no one to protect him, no one to watch out for him. All alone with a demon on his tail.
He groaned, pressing the sweaty handle of the gun against his cheek.
--
This was different.
It was different because he wasn’t walking, he was standing still, the dust resting undisturbed all around him. He itched to move. The road stretched in front of him, the cloudy sky overhead, everything the way it should be except that he wasn’t moving. Why wasn’t he moving?
“You figured it out.”
Brown eyes, shaggy hair. Familiar face but somehow different. Younger. Dark green jacket instead of... what? Sweater? Sweatshirt? He tried to pick details out of memory and found nothing but fog. He wanted to growl in frustration.
“Why can’t I remember your name?”
“Andy. You’re not supposed to remember. He doesn’t want you to remember.”
“Who doesn’t want me to remember? Why am I standing here? I have to go, it’s waiting for me.”
Andy grinned up at him,
“You figured it out, man. You don’t have to go. It doesn’t matter what’s waiting for you, you don’t have to go anywhere. You can even go back if you want.”
“That’s crazy, why would I wanna go back?”
“Because now you have something to go back to. Here, look.”
A tug on his sleeve and he was turning in place, away from the thing that was calling to him.
In the distance, the clouds had broken up. Green and lush, the blinding monochrome of a marsh after rain. A line of blue to the right, nearly matching the sky. Rolling fields of yellow flowers to the left, folding in the wind. Faint sunlight streamed down, glinting off chrome. It was so far away, yet Sam would recognize that car anywhere. The car and the figure leaning against it.
His chest twisted, expanded. He wanted to laugh and cry.
“See?” Andy said softly,
“He’s waiting for you. He’ll always wait for you.”
He found Andy's shoulder under the rough material and latched on to it tightly, afraid to look away, afraid to blink and find it all gone.
“So-- I can-- I can just--?”
Andy chuckled,
“Yup. You can just go Sam. It’s your choice.”
He took a deep breath. Then another. Stepped forward cautiously. Dust rose around his feet but the car was still there, in the distance, Dean still leaning against it. Waiting.
He broke into a run.
--
He woke up panting, the sunlight burning his eyelids, sweat coating him from head to toe. What the fuck was that?
Fields, car, Dean. Already fading, moving out of his grasp. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets until colors exploded across his vision. It was important. This one was important cause he’d never dreamt of Dean before. He had to remember, he couldn’t just let it slide.
It was like trying to trap water in between his fingertips. Slipping away no matter how hard he tried to grab it. Growling with frustration, he kicked the blankets off and sat up. Peeled the sweaty tee shirt off and dropped it on the floor. Shivered in the cool air.
That was his only shirt. And it wasn’t even his.
He looked around, feeling out of place. Judging by the sun it was late morning. He’d slept close to ten hours. The room was almost completely bare except for one dresser, a table and a chair. Surprisingly clean aside from a thin layer of dust that coated everything, even the bed he’d slept on.
He got up and dug through the dresser drawers, finding some old tee shirts and jeans so worn that they were almost transparent in places. But they fit. The tee shirts were a little tight and just as worn, soft and faded. Once he tucked the gun in the back of the pants though, the shirt he put on was still long enough to cover the handle. He made a mental note to steal some clothes as soon as possible. Clothes that fucking fit. Maybe a few jackets and a decent pair of boots. If he was going to lead a life of crime, he might as well be comfortable.
He was shuffling down the stairs, wondering if he should start with demon lore or try and do more research on this fucking telekinetic thing, when he heard the low rumble of Dean’s voice.
He stopped, heart climbing into his throat.
Dean was back.
Was he ok? Was he back for good? What were they talking about? Was he telling Bobby what had happened between them? Seth wasn’t ready for this. Wasn’t ready to face him. What if he wanted nothing to do with Seth any more?
Out of all the options Seth had considered, that hadn’t been one of them. Hadn’t even been on the radar. And how fucking stupid was that? To not have an alternate plan, to not have any sort of an idea of what to do or where to go if Dean didn’t want him around any more. How arrogant to assume that Dean would just come back and get over it. What fucking possessed him to think that way? This wasn’t just some minor disagreement, this was serious shit. They were brothers. Brothers. Seth had had his tongue up his brothers ass, jesus, that was all sorts of fucked up. And even though he really, really wanted to do it again, why did he assume that Dean would be all right with it? That Dean would ever be all right with it. What was he even supposed to say to him?
He made himself move, palms already slippery with sweat. Why did this feel worse than the time he was going to face a demon? It made no sense.
They were both in the living room, a pile of books spread out over the table, talking softly.
“Morning,” Seth announced himself, voice still raspy from sleep, fighting the urge the urge to clear his throat.
Dean looked up, his eyes shuttered, and nodded in greeting. Looked away.
Seth felt his stomach drop and told himself he was being stupid. What was he really expecting? What other reaction could there have been?
“There’s fresh coffee,” Bobby said, sounding uncomfortable.
Seth escaped into the kitchen.
Poured himself coffee with shaky hands and made himself sip slowly. He should go back to the living room. Dean might have news about the demon, they might be discussing things he needed to know. Except that no one had bothered to wake him up. Dean definitely hadn’t bothered letting him know that he was back. So he found himself slipping out the back door and into the yard. Settling on the hood of an old Volkswagen Beetle, its body coated with rust and half sunk into the ground. Closing his eyes and letting the sun warm his eyelids.
It wasn’t the end of the world. Even if Dean-- even if Dean decided that this was it for them, that it was too weird, too wrong. It wasn’t the end of the world.
Why did it feel like it was?
--
He wasn’t sure how long he sat out there before he heard the back door creak.
Dean cleared his throat,
“Bobby said you were doing some research. On your-- powers.”
Seth twisted slightly so he could see him standing in the shade, hands tucked in his pockets. Trying to look anywhere but at Seth. He seemed... nervous. Dean Winchester. Nervous. Suddenly Seth felt bad for him. Dean would probably end up shattering him into a million pieces sooner or later, but Seth still felt bad for him. Dean had spent his entire life thinking that his little brother’s death was his fault. And now, instead of letting go, it looked like he’d just replaced one kind of guilt with another.
“I was. Didn’t find anything. Yet.”
Dean nodded, as if he’d expected the answer. Studied the side of the house. The rusty cars. Everything but Seth.
“Any news on the demon?” Seth prompted.
“Ah, no. Not really. Bobby seems to think that the one from-- the one that attacked us was just a regular, run of the mill demon. Not like the demon that killed--“
What was he gonna say? My mom? Our mom? Seth wasn’t sure which one of those would be weirder.
“No omens,” Dean rushed on,
“electrical storms, droughts, any of that. If we come across her again, we can just exorcise her.”
“Good.”
“Yeah. For the other-- Bobby has a friend in Colorado who has a weapon, a gun, that can kill anything. Daniel’s been holding on to it all these years, protecting it, but now-- Bobby called him this morning. We think, the demon will probably come after you sooner or later and we should be ready. I’m gonna go pick up the gun. You should be safe here until I get back.”
“Safe? What makes me more safe here than anywhere else?”
“Bobby has a panic room. In the basement. It’s warded against everything.”
“I’m not exactly helpless,” Seth ground out, hating that Dean still wouldn’t fucking look at him.
What the fuck was even the point of this? Were they gonna just go on like this forever, till the end of time? With Dean not even willing to meet his eyes?
“No,” Dean said,
“you’re not. But that-- thing, it hurt you. You were bleeding.”
“So?”
That did it. Dean finally looked at him, gaze startled and bordering on angry.
“What do you mean ‘so’? We don’t know anything about it. It could be killing you.”
Seth slid off the hood, leaving the cup to balance against the lonely stub of windshield glass. He was angry now. Maybe he had no right to be, but Dean was leaving. Again. After days of them traveling together, after Seth had proved over and over again that he could not only take care of himself, but that he could take care of them both, Dean was leaving him behind.
Maybe he wanted too much, too soon. He vaguely remembered thinking that he’d give Dean time to adjust to this, to think about it, the get used to the idea of two of them still being able to go on as they had before. But it fucking hurt, that Dean could just shut it off. That he could look at Seth like nothing had ever happened between them. Seth couldn’t shut it off with the same ease; even if he could, he wouldn't, he would never pretend that Dean meant any less to him. And maybe Seth was fucked up and naive and stupid about this whole thing. Maybe he’d trusted entirely too much in all the ways Dean had touched him and looked at him, maybe he’d misread everything from the very first time they’d kissed. But if this thing between them was going to end, then he’d rather end it here and now.
“You know I’m capable of taking care of myself. So why don’t you cut the whole ‘you’ll be safe here’ bullshit and say what you really mean. You don’t want me to come with you. You don’t want me anywhere near you. You can’t even fucking look at me.”
“That’s not true,” Dean said, voice tight.
“Fine. Then take me with you.”
“No. No. I can’t just--“ he rubbed a hand over his mouth,
“I don’t know what I’m doing here, ok? I don’t know how to deal with this right now. What do you want from me?”
“What do I want from you?” Seth said incredulously,
“Are you fucking kidding me? Every day, every hour I spent with you I burned another fucking bridge until there was nothing left. Until I had nothing. I don’t even know who I’m supposed to be any more and you have the balls to ask what I want from you? I want the reason I threw my life away. I want the one thing that was holding me together for this past week. I want you.”
“And you have me,” Dean said, voice frantic and pitched low,
“I’m here. I’m here right now. But I can’t-- I can’t just-- all these years I thought you were dead and then I find out-- I get how you feel, I know you’ve lost everything but I can be your family, I can be you brother, I can be whatever you need me to be.”
“What if I don’t want a brother? What if I want things to go back to the way they were?”
Dean flinched as if Seth had slapped him. Color creeped up his neck. He trembled, his fists tightened, and Seth knew the answer before Dean gave it.
“No,” the word was shaky but final, “No.”
“Then we don’t have anything else to talk about.”
He barely felt his legs. Somehow he managed to climb back on the hood and pick up his coffee cup. His hands shook so hard he sloshed half of it out.
The back door slammed shut. Moments later, the roar of the impala echoed across the junkyard. Grew fainter and fainter until it disappeared completely.
Seth hoped Bobby would let him be for a while. Because he’d really hate for the man to see him cry.
--
The house was silent.
Seth had no watch but he estimated that it was close to two in the morning, give or take a quarter hour. The shoulder holster fit like it was made for him. He’d probably outgrow it in a year or two but for now it was perfect. He strapped the gun in. He’d cleaned it earlier in the day, still swollen from crying and feeling like an idiot. Thankfully, Bobby asked no questions. He felt bad for stealing the man’s cash. The worn leather bag and the food he snuck out of the fridge probably weren’t something he’d miss, but he’s bound to notice a couple of hundred dollars missing from his wallet.
Seth would repay it. He wasn’t sure how yet, but he’d repay it and then some.
The photo went back into his pocket. Dean’s knife in his boot. Finally, he slipped on John’s leather jacket. He’d wanted to leave it for Dean but he had nothing else even remotely warm and Seth was pretty sure he’d be sleeping outside for a while. At least until he settled down somewhere.
Snaking past Bobby was almost comically easy. The man snored loudly enough to rattle the windows. Seth could still hear him as he slipped out the back door.
The moon was full and bright; he didn’t need a flashlight. He had no plans, no destination. Once he got to the main road, he headed South because Dean had gone North. The rest he’d figure out along the way.
He had no doubts that the demon would find him eventually; after all, he had no intention of hiding. And that was fine. It was entirely possible that he'd die and that was okay too, as long as he took the damn thing down with him. Yesterday he was a spoiled rich kid. Today he's Sam Winchester, son of Mary and John Winchester, brother to one of the most dangerous and beautiful men he'd ever met. He had nothing and he had nothing to lose. And if he had to die, he'd much rather die as a hunter should, fighting to the end.
Chapter 16 →