fic: it's tuesday. again.
title: it's tuesday. again.
fandom: supernatural
pairing: dean, sam
rating: pg-13, gen. listed as gen, but could be wincest. it's up to you.
word count: ~3,300
warnings: s9. goes au after e10, road trip. major character death. i cried while writing this. you may need kleenex.
disclaimer: i own nothing except for a large collection of shoes. i borrowed these boys from eric kripke, the cw, and others.
summary: Dean was driving and thinking. Nothing of consequence ever happened on Tuesdays. At least, that’s what Dean thought at first.
author notes: at a con within the last year, a fan asked the boys how they would like to see the series eventually end. this is inspired by jensen's answer. completely un-beta'd. all mistakes are mine.
It's Tuesday. Again.
It’s Tuesday.
Dean was driving and thinking.
Nothing of consequence ever happened on Tuesdays. At least, that’s what Dean thought at first. I mean, you finally recover from the Super Bowl party on Tuesday. The really good ones, anyway, he thought.
Then he started to think about more specific things…
He rolled his eyes when the first bad Tuesday he could think of came to mind. Of course, September 11, 2001 was a bad Tuesday. That’s when the terrorist attacks happened to the country. But that was the whole nation that suffered through that, not just him. Bastards probably planned for a Tuesday. Because nothing ever happens on a Tuesday.
Then he started thinking of much more personal things...
Tuesday, November 1, 1983 was the last time his family was all together and happy. Because the floor dropped out from underneath everyone on the 2nd and his family, his life was never the same.
Sam decided he didn’t want to be part of their family anymore on a Tuesday. That was in the summer of 2002 when he told Dean and Dad that he was accepted to Stanford on a full scholarship and he was leaving. After what Dean referred to as The Winchester Apocalypse, because, yes, the fight was that big, Sam quietly picked up his bags and walked out the door.
Sam’s Jess died on a Tuesday. 22 years from the date of their mom’s death, Sam watched his girlfriend die, pinned to the ceiling of his bedroom in Palo Alto, not long after Monday had become Tuesday. Dean remembered the look of terror on Sam’s face when he pulled Sam from the room. That and the horrible smell. The smell of another life been disintegrated by flames and the ashes of sorrow that followed. It was a smell Dean hoped to never experience again, but the air in California hung heavy with it the whole time him and Sam were investigating. He could only breathe when they got out of that damn town.
It was a Tuesday that Dean died about a million times. And Sam slowly went insane. Over and over again. How could he forget that one? That was a bad Tuesday. But he never remembered any of it. He remembered waking up, getting dressed, annoying Sam with some Asia, breakfast, a short run-in with the Trickster (well, Gabriel), and then… it was Wednesday. Because he didn’t want to let Dean out of his sight, Sam made him shower and even pee with the bathroom doors open in all the motel rooms they stayed in for the next month. When they were at Bobby’s, Sam followed him to the kitchen, stood outside the bathroom, or planted himself right next to the car Dean was fixing in the yard. He was never alone. It was only a nasty case of Montezuma’s Revenge from spicy Mexican food that made Sam relax that rule.
The worst Tuesday was the day he showed up at Lisa’s after Sam jumped into the cage. The showdown at Stull’s Cemetery was on Thursday. He headed out of town immediately after that and went to Bobby’s. After a few days in the bottom of a bottle, he headed to Indiana to keep the promise he made to Sam. He showed up on her doorstep a mere shell of himself, half out of his mind with grief, his whiskey buzz having lessened on his drive, and he didn’t recover until a year later when Sam showed up.
It was definitely a Tuesday when they admitted Sam to the mental ward after being hit by a car. Dean clearly remembered bursting into the doctor’s office demanding to see his brother. He remembered promising to get help of any kind to relieve his Satanvision.
There were other memories that weren’t marred by abject horror.
Like he thought that maybe it was a Tuesday when Sam married Becky. But he wasn’t sure. And even though not entirely horrible of a memory, he kept that little nugget locked in the back of his mind, in a corner he didn’t access very often that he considered off limits. That’s where he kept his bout of ghost sickness that turned him into a girl, the waitress from Tampa with the bizarre rash (eww), and various other little indiscretions he didn’t think were worth his time to think about. Like the psycho/overly kinky/married women he sometimes found himself hooking up with against his better judgment. He shuddered. Everyone goes through those experiences, right? That doesn’t mean they were worth thinking about. Yeah, he wasn’t going into that mental corner anymore.
And then there were horrors that he couldn’t stop thinking about.
It was a Tuesday when Sam lay in the hospital dying after nearly completing the trials from the demon tablet. A Tuesday that he prayed in the hospital chapel, sending out his request for help to any angel who had their ears on. That same Tuesday, Ezekiel - sorry, that liar Gadreel - showed up and made the deal to heal Sam.
Dean huffed with derision at that memory.
Everything seemed to be working. Zeke - Gad - reported to Dean regularly with updates on Sam’s health. He issued warnings to Dean about who to have contact with and who to stay away from (which turned out to be only for his own selfish reasons, the bastard), but he seemed to have Sam’s recovery as his number one focus.
Then he took over, made a pact with Metatron, and killed Kevin. Not a Tuesday.
He trusted Crowley enough - can the King of Hell ever be truly trusted, though? - to let him into Sam’s mind to talk him into expelling the angel.
That’s when things took a turn for the worst.
Castiel did everything he could to help finish curing Sam. He extracted Gadreel’s remaining grace from Sam’s body, but with it, Sam’s strength was sapped. He swiftly spiraled downward. One minute he seemed fine, the next he was stumbling around like he had while going through the trials.
Dean sent Cas on a few errands. The first was to somehow breach the realm where Oz was and bring Charlie back. With her came Dorothy and together they worked out of the library. They researched angels by poring over Kevin’s notes and the Men of Letters archives. They passed their angel research on to Cas. They also dug up whatever they thought might help them when they returned to their rebellion in Oz. And when Dean needed to sleep, they sat with Sam, taking turns reading to him.
The second errand Dean sent Cas on was to go kick some angelic ass. Since Dean and Sam couldn’t fight, he asked Cas to fight as their proxy. And to kick the ever-loving shit out of Gadreel when he found him. As part of his family, part of Dean wanted Cas there with him and Sam, but the hunter part of Dean wanted Cas out there doing what their family was supposed to do: saving people, hunting things, the family business.
All the while, Dean took care of Sam.
Sam couldn’t eat, so his skin turned sunken and sallow. When Dean fed him water, the glass came back to him with the water tinged reddish from the blood in Sam’s mouth. He was constantly covered in a film of sweat due to his currently near-boiling body temperature and sometimes the sweat ran in rivulets down the sides of his face. Sam shook with tremors until he couldn’t get out of bed because he seemed to have absolutely no control of his body. Which sometimes included his bodily functions. So Dean bathed him, softly and tenderly he gave Sam sponge baths and redressed him. Unfortunately, his wardrobe now included adult diapers, but it didn’t matter. There was nothing Dean wouldn’t do for Sam.
For three months Sam stayed in that state. Occasionally Sam would wake, his eyes searching out Dean and gently pleading with his puppy dog eyes for Dean to tell him everything that was going on in the world that Sam couldn’t be part of. Before he collapsed into more fever dreams, Sam would listen to Dean, responding appropriately with a furrowed brow or a small smile depending on the story was Dean was telling. Dean could tell he had questions he wanted to ask, but he didn’t. Dean wasn’t sure if he couldn’t speak or if he was just conserving the energy that talking usually drained out of him. So Dean asked the questions for him and then answered them. Knowing Sam so well, Dean usually got the questions right.
It was one night during the fourth month that things went bad. Very, very bad. Dean startled out of sleep in the recliner he had moved into Sam’s room so he could be close to him. Sam was gasping for breath with a hand clutching at his heart. A prominent vein on Sam’s forehead that only showed up under extreme stress seemed to be beating rapidly and erratically. Dean said a quick prayer to Castiel as he launched himself out of the chair to Sam’s bedside.
Dean reached out for Sam’s hand that wasn’t clawing at his chest. Sam’s eyes found Dean’s and he rasped out something that Dean couldn’t understand, so he bent his ear closer to Sam’s lips.
“Good life, Dean… did a lot of good… I think. Glad it was with you.”
Dean was terrified. He whipped his head back around to look Sam in the eyes. “Still can be, Sammy. Still can be a good life. Just hold on.”
A flutter behind Dean announced the arrival of Cas, but he refused to turn his focus away from Sam.
Sam’s lips moved again silently and Dean leaned in.
“Love you. Always love you, Dean.” He pressed a dry, slightly chilled kiss to Dean’s cheek.
Dean pulled back to look at Sam’s face again.
Then, with a quiet exhale, the light left Sam’s eyes for the last time.
Silent tears spilled from Dean’s eyes as he bent down and kissed Sam’s forehead. “I love you too, Sammy. Always have. Always will.”
When he straightened up, Dean felt Castiel’s hand land heavy on his shoulder. He squeezed briefly. “Dean…” he started.
“Not now, Cas. Please. Not now,” he begged in a whisper.
Cas left the room. There was nothing he could do or say. Nothing that would bring Sam back. And certainly nothing that would make Dean whole again.
That night Dean slept on the bed with Sam, resting his head on his brother’s cold, unmoving shoulder. He told Sam all his favorite funny stories of the cases they had worked through the years from when they started hunting as kids up to and including Dean’s mind meld with Colonel the German Shepard.
The next day Dean emerged from Sam’s room with a purpose. He went into the library and spoke with Cas, Charlie, and Dorothy at length about what he wanted to have happen. He wanted Charlie to run the Men of Letters bunker and run a hunter’s hub from within it. He wanted Dorothy to stay and help, but only if she was comfortable being away from Oz. And he wanted Cas to help. With anything they needed. But first, he wanted Cas to find out where Sam was.
“That’s what I was trying to tell you, Dean. The girls here found what I needed. There are still angels on earth who need to work their way back to heaven, but I found a way to release the souls trapped in the veil. When they were freed, they became able to finish their journey to heaven. That’s where Sam is now.” Cas smiled apologetically at his friend.
Dean nodded sadly, his eyes misted over, and he reached out, clapping Cas on the shoulder. “That’s great, man, thanks.” He nodded again and swallowed past the lump in his throat. “You did good, Cas.”
Then he went and bathed Sam. He carefully stripped Sam down and lovingly cleaned the body of the most important person in the world to him. Then he dressed Sam in his Sam uniform: loose jeans, t-shirt, flannel, and road-worn work boots. He slept beside Sam again.
The next day Dean allowed Cas, Charlie, and Dorothy to help carefully wrap him in a shroud. They built a pyre in a clearing in the woods not too far from the bunker. When twilight approached, the four of them made their way to the clearing, reverently carrying Sam among them. After placing Sam and liberally coating everything with salt and lighter fluid, Dean silently lit the kindling and the pyre caught immediately. They all watched until the last embers burned.
It was Wednesday.
After Sam’s hunter’s funeral, Dean turned the key of the castle over to Charlie and jumped into the Impala. He still smelled of the pyre. But he didn’t want to wash Sam off. Not yet.
He drove quickly away from the bunker, but then took his time like a Sunday driver. He meandered back and forth through the states with no specific endpoint in mind. He wandered aimlessly. He just kept driving. Finally, looking around at the signs he was passing, he noticed he was in Florida and there was a weeklong car show coming up. He glanced at the date on his watch and noticed he was just in time. He glanced at the day.
It was Tuesday. Again.
He followed the signs directing him to the car show. It was on the main street of a medium-sized town. The main drag had been shut down and turned into a parking lot for all the drivers to show off their vehicles. When he pulled up, a guy at the barricade assumed he was part of the show in his cherry ’67, so he had some other volunteers move the impediment and directed him to a parking space in line with the others on display.
Dean parked, got out, and looked around. There were cars from all eras and bikes. Lots and lots of bikes.
While Dean was surveying the displays, a man dressed head-to-toe in Harley gear came up to him and let out a low whistle. “Man, is that thing a beauty.” He ran a hand lovingly along the lines of the Impala’s hood. “You know my dad had one of these when I was a kid.” His eyes glowed with appreciation at Dean’s Baby. “I always told myself I was gonna get one just like it. But then…” he smiled and shrugged in a you-know-how-it-goes way.
Dean looked at him and noticed his attire. “Became a hardcore Harley rider instead.” He shrugged. “That happens.”
The guy chuckled. “Yeah, it does. Though my wife’s carrying our third baby and it’s getting harder to get time away from the firm to go riding, so I’m thinking about getting rid of her. That’s why I’m here.”
“The firm?” Dean asked, his voice heavily laced with skepticism.
“Law firm.”
“Let me guess. Dewey Screwem and Howe, right?”
He guy laughed politely. “Not necessarily original, but probably true.” He finally stuck out a hand. “I’m Sam. Samuel Novak. Novak, Novak, and Partners. Family firm. I started it with my brother.”
Dean took his hand. The handshake was firm and warm. “Dean. Dean Winchester.” He looked into Samuel’s eyes and found warmth there, too. “I didn’t know lawyers rode.”
Samuel smiled again. “Well, if you look at the buying trends and at a lot of the current riding clubs, a lot of them are filled with professional, white collar types. It’s a trend that’s been going on for quite a while, actually.”
“But you’re looking to stop?”
Samuel shrugged. “There’s too much in life tying me down right now to hit the open road.” He smiled brightly. “But you know what? I’m OK with that.”
Dean nodded in understanding. He was always on the road throughout his life. It was the only thing that made sense. And now, with Sam gone and his passenger seat glaringly vacant, there was nothing to keep him from the road.
“So what did you bring with you?” Dean asked.
“My beautiful baby is right over there,” Samuel said, pointing proudly. He started walking toward his bike.
Dean followed. They stopped at a beautiful, shiny piece of American history in chrome and black and white metal. He nodded appreciatively.
“It’s a 1958 Panhead. A little over 17,000 miles on her,” Samuel informed him.
Dean’s eyes raked over the bike, liking it a bit more with each curve his gaze took in. He looked back at his Baby.
“You’re looking to get rid of her, right, Samuel?”
Samuel sighed heavily. “Unfortunately, yeah. I thought I’d bring her here first and see what I could see.”
It only took Dean a minute to make his decision.
“What about a swap?” he offered. “My baby for yours. Pinks right now.”
Samuel let his lawyer mask slip for a moment and his eyes glowed. Dean could see the man’s love of the Impala in the way they sparkled and he knew he’d made a good decision by making the offer.
Samuel walked over to his Harley and dug through a saddlebag on the side. “I’m gonna miss you, girl,” he murmured as he patted her seat after pulling out the pink slip. He held it up for Dean to see. Dean smiled and led him back over to the Impala.
Dean pulled his pink slip from the glove compartment. Him and Samuel sat in the front seat and signed then traded the documents. They shook hands. Dean caressed the dashboard with great reverence.
Samuel caught the look on his face and asked quietly, “Do you need a minute?”
Dean smiled. “No. She’s been good to me; given me everything. My time with her is done.” They slid out of the car. “Enjoy her, Samuel. Treat her well.” Dean handed the keys over.
Samuel held the keys for the bike out to Dean. “Judging by the way you treated this girl,” he nodded to the Impala, “I know you’ll be good to that one.”
Before leaving the bunker, Dean had cleaned out most of the weapons from the trunk. He kept a couple of knives and handguns and a flask of holy water just in case, but they were all tucked into one of his two duffels. He grabbed the duffels out of the backseat and now was strapping them onto the bike. Samuel stood to the side and then handed him a helmet. They shook hands again.
Dean straddled the bike then turned back to Samuel. “You said you and your brother ran your family firm, right?” he questioned. Samuel nodded. “I’m just curious. What’s your brother’s name?”
Samuel smiled. “Daniel. Funny enough, my mom was a big James Dean fan and wanted to name him Dean. But my family was kind of religious and stuck with bible names.” He laughed loudly. “This is probably going to sound ridiculous, but after hearing your name, I think that’s actually one of the reasons I feel good about making this trade with you.”
Dean smiled back. “And I think it felt right to make a deal with a lawyer named Sam.” He put on the helmet, turned the key, and revved the bike. He saluted Samuel, who waved back and then gave him thumbs up.
Dean drove off the main drag, past the barricade, and into the oblivion of the future, happily leaving his Baby in the hands of a lawyer named Sam.
The sun shone brightly.
~end
a/n 2: this is the beautiful harley that dean traded with samuel for: http://www.cycletrader.com/listing/1958-Harley-Davidson-Panhead-111857275
fandom: supernatural
pairing: dean, sam
rating: pg-13, gen. listed as gen, but could be wincest. it's up to you.
word count: ~3,300
warnings: s9. goes au after e10, road trip. major character death. i cried while writing this. you may need kleenex.
disclaimer: i own nothing except for a large collection of shoes. i borrowed these boys from eric kripke, the cw, and others.
summary: Dean was driving and thinking. Nothing of consequence ever happened on Tuesdays. At least, that’s what Dean thought at first.
author notes: at a con within the last year, a fan asked the boys how they would like to see the series eventually end. this is inspired by jensen's answer. completely un-beta'd. all mistakes are mine.
It's Tuesday. Again.
It’s Tuesday.
Dean was driving and thinking.
Nothing of consequence ever happened on Tuesdays. At least, that’s what Dean thought at first. I mean, you finally recover from the Super Bowl party on Tuesday. The really good ones, anyway, he thought.
Then he started to think about more specific things…
He rolled his eyes when the first bad Tuesday he could think of came to mind. Of course, September 11, 2001 was a bad Tuesday. That’s when the terrorist attacks happened to the country. But that was the whole nation that suffered through that, not just him. Bastards probably planned for a Tuesday. Because nothing ever happens on a Tuesday.
Then he started thinking of much more personal things...
Tuesday, November 1, 1983 was the last time his family was all together and happy. Because the floor dropped out from underneath everyone on the 2nd and his family, his life was never the same.
Sam decided he didn’t want to be part of their family anymore on a Tuesday. That was in the summer of 2002 when he told Dean and Dad that he was accepted to Stanford on a full scholarship and he was leaving. After what Dean referred to as The Winchester Apocalypse, because, yes, the fight was that big, Sam quietly picked up his bags and walked out the door.
Sam’s Jess died on a Tuesday. 22 years from the date of their mom’s death, Sam watched his girlfriend die, pinned to the ceiling of his bedroom in Palo Alto, not long after Monday had become Tuesday. Dean remembered the look of terror on Sam’s face when he pulled Sam from the room. That and the horrible smell. The smell of another life been disintegrated by flames and the ashes of sorrow that followed. It was a smell Dean hoped to never experience again, but the air in California hung heavy with it the whole time him and Sam were investigating. He could only breathe when they got out of that damn town.
It was a Tuesday that Dean died about a million times. And Sam slowly went insane. Over and over again. How could he forget that one? That was a bad Tuesday. But he never remembered any of it. He remembered waking up, getting dressed, annoying Sam with some Asia, breakfast, a short run-in with the Trickster (well, Gabriel), and then… it was Wednesday. Because he didn’t want to let Dean out of his sight, Sam made him shower and even pee with the bathroom doors open in all the motel rooms they stayed in for the next month. When they were at Bobby’s, Sam followed him to the kitchen, stood outside the bathroom, or planted himself right next to the car Dean was fixing in the yard. He was never alone. It was only a nasty case of Montezuma’s Revenge from spicy Mexican food that made Sam relax that rule.
The worst Tuesday was the day he showed up at Lisa’s after Sam jumped into the cage. The showdown at Stull’s Cemetery was on Thursday. He headed out of town immediately after that and went to Bobby’s. After a few days in the bottom of a bottle, he headed to Indiana to keep the promise he made to Sam. He showed up on her doorstep a mere shell of himself, half out of his mind with grief, his whiskey buzz having lessened on his drive, and he didn’t recover until a year later when Sam showed up.
It was definitely a Tuesday when they admitted Sam to the mental ward after being hit by a car. Dean clearly remembered bursting into the doctor’s office demanding to see his brother. He remembered promising to get help of any kind to relieve his Satanvision.
There were other memories that weren’t marred by abject horror.
Like he thought that maybe it was a Tuesday when Sam married Becky. But he wasn’t sure. And even though not entirely horrible of a memory, he kept that little nugget locked in the back of his mind, in a corner he didn’t access very often that he considered off limits. That’s where he kept his bout of ghost sickness that turned him into a girl, the waitress from Tampa with the bizarre rash (eww), and various other little indiscretions he didn’t think were worth his time to think about. Like the psycho/overly kinky/married women he sometimes found himself hooking up with against his better judgment. He shuddered. Everyone goes through those experiences, right? That doesn’t mean they were worth thinking about. Yeah, he wasn’t going into that mental corner anymore.
And then there were horrors that he couldn’t stop thinking about.
It was a Tuesday when Sam lay in the hospital dying after nearly completing the trials from the demon tablet. A Tuesday that he prayed in the hospital chapel, sending out his request for help to any angel who had their ears on. That same Tuesday, Ezekiel - sorry, that liar Gadreel - showed up and made the deal to heal Sam.
Dean huffed with derision at that memory.
Everything seemed to be working. Zeke - Gad - reported to Dean regularly with updates on Sam’s health. He issued warnings to Dean about who to have contact with and who to stay away from (which turned out to be only for his own selfish reasons, the bastard), but he seemed to have Sam’s recovery as his number one focus.
Then he took over, made a pact with Metatron, and killed Kevin. Not a Tuesday.
He trusted Crowley enough - can the King of Hell ever be truly trusted, though? - to let him into Sam’s mind to talk him into expelling the angel.
That’s when things took a turn for the worst.
Castiel did everything he could to help finish curing Sam. He extracted Gadreel’s remaining grace from Sam’s body, but with it, Sam’s strength was sapped. He swiftly spiraled downward. One minute he seemed fine, the next he was stumbling around like he had while going through the trials.
Dean sent Cas on a few errands. The first was to somehow breach the realm where Oz was and bring Charlie back. With her came Dorothy and together they worked out of the library. They researched angels by poring over Kevin’s notes and the Men of Letters archives. They passed their angel research on to Cas. They also dug up whatever they thought might help them when they returned to their rebellion in Oz. And when Dean needed to sleep, they sat with Sam, taking turns reading to him.
The second errand Dean sent Cas on was to go kick some angelic ass. Since Dean and Sam couldn’t fight, he asked Cas to fight as their proxy. And to kick the ever-loving shit out of Gadreel when he found him. As part of his family, part of Dean wanted Cas there with him and Sam, but the hunter part of Dean wanted Cas out there doing what their family was supposed to do: saving people, hunting things, the family business.
All the while, Dean took care of Sam.
Sam couldn’t eat, so his skin turned sunken and sallow. When Dean fed him water, the glass came back to him with the water tinged reddish from the blood in Sam’s mouth. He was constantly covered in a film of sweat due to his currently near-boiling body temperature and sometimes the sweat ran in rivulets down the sides of his face. Sam shook with tremors until he couldn’t get out of bed because he seemed to have absolutely no control of his body. Which sometimes included his bodily functions. So Dean bathed him, softly and tenderly he gave Sam sponge baths and redressed him. Unfortunately, his wardrobe now included adult diapers, but it didn’t matter. There was nothing Dean wouldn’t do for Sam.
For three months Sam stayed in that state. Occasionally Sam would wake, his eyes searching out Dean and gently pleading with his puppy dog eyes for Dean to tell him everything that was going on in the world that Sam couldn’t be part of. Before he collapsed into more fever dreams, Sam would listen to Dean, responding appropriately with a furrowed brow or a small smile depending on the story was Dean was telling. Dean could tell he had questions he wanted to ask, but he didn’t. Dean wasn’t sure if he couldn’t speak or if he was just conserving the energy that talking usually drained out of him. So Dean asked the questions for him and then answered them. Knowing Sam so well, Dean usually got the questions right.
It was one night during the fourth month that things went bad. Very, very bad. Dean startled out of sleep in the recliner he had moved into Sam’s room so he could be close to him. Sam was gasping for breath with a hand clutching at his heart. A prominent vein on Sam’s forehead that only showed up under extreme stress seemed to be beating rapidly and erratically. Dean said a quick prayer to Castiel as he launched himself out of the chair to Sam’s bedside.
Dean reached out for Sam’s hand that wasn’t clawing at his chest. Sam’s eyes found Dean’s and he rasped out something that Dean couldn’t understand, so he bent his ear closer to Sam’s lips.
“Good life, Dean… did a lot of good… I think. Glad it was with you.”
Dean was terrified. He whipped his head back around to look Sam in the eyes. “Still can be, Sammy. Still can be a good life. Just hold on.”
A flutter behind Dean announced the arrival of Cas, but he refused to turn his focus away from Sam.
Sam’s lips moved again silently and Dean leaned in.
“Love you. Always love you, Dean.” He pressed a dry, slightly chilled kiss to Dean’s cheek.
Dean pulled back to look at Sam’s face again.
Then, with a quiet exhale, the light left Sam’s eyes for the last time.
Silent tears spilled from Dean’s eyes as he bent down and kissed Sam’s forehead. “I love you too, Sammy. Always have. Always will.”
When he straightened up, Dean felt Castiel’s hand land heavy on his shoulder. He squeezed briefly. “Dean…” he started.
“Not now, Cas. Please. Not now,” he begged in a whisper.
Cas left the room. There was nothing he could do or say. Nothing that would bring Sam back. And certainly nothing that would make Dean whole again.
That night Dean slept on the bed with Sam, resting his head on his brother’s cold, unmoving shoulder. He told Sam all his favorite funny stories of the cases they had worked through the years from when they started hunting as kids up to and including Dean’s mind meld with Colonel the German Shepard.
The next day Dean emerged from Sam’s room with a purpose. He went into the library and spoke with Cas, Charlie, and Dorothy at length about what he wanted to have happen. He wanted Charlie to run the Men of Letters bunker and run a hunter’s hub from within it. He wanted Dorothy to stay and help, but only if she was comfortable being away from Oz. And he wanted Cas to help. With anything they needed. But first, he wanted Cas to find out where Sam was.
“That’s what I was trying to tell you, Dean. The girls here found what I needed. There are still angels on earth who need to work their way back to heaven, but I found a way to release the souls trapped in the veil. When they were freed, they became able to finish their journey to heaven. That’s where Sam is now.” Cas smiled apologetically at his friend.
Dean nodded sadly, his eyes misted over, and he reached out, clapping Cas on the shoulder. “That’s great, man, thanks.” He nodded again and swallowed past the lump in his throat. “You did good, Cas.”
Then he went and bathed Sam. He carefully stripped Sam down and lovingly cleaned the body of the most important person in the world to him. Then he dressed Sam in his Sam uniform: loose jeans, t-shirt, flannel, and road-worn work boots. He slept beside Sam again.
The next day Dean allowed Cas, Charlie, and Dorothy to help carefully wrap him in a shroud. They built a pyre in a clearing in the woods not too far from the bunker. When twilight approached, the four of them made their way to the clearing, reverently carrying Sam among them. After placing Sam and liberally coating everything with salt and lighter fluid, Dean silently lit the kindling and the pyre caught immediately. They all watched until the last embers burned.
It was Wednesday.
After Sam’s hunter’s funeral, Dean turned the key of the castle over to Charlie and jumped into the Impala. He still smelled of the pyre. But he didn’t want to wash Sam off. Not yet.
He drove quickly away from the bunker, but then took his time like a Sunday driver. He meandered back and forth through the states with no specific endpoint in mind. He wandered aimlessly. He just kept driving. Finally, looking around at the signs he was passing, he noticed he was in Florida and there was a weeklong car show coming up. He glanced at the date on his watch and noticed he was just in time. He glanced at the day.
It was Tuesday. Again.
He followed the signs directing him to the car show. It was on the main street of a medium-sized town. The main drag had been shut down and turned into a parking lot for all the drivers to show off their vehicles. When he pulled up, a guy at the barricade assumed he was part of the show in his cherry ’67, so he had some other volunteers move the impediment and directed him to a parking space in line with the others on display.
Dean parked, got out, and looked around. There were cars from all eras and bikes. Lots and lots of bikes.
While Dean was surveying the displays, a man dressed head-to-toe in Harley gear came up to him and let out a low whistle. “Man, is that thing a beauty.” He ran a hand lovingly along the lines of the Impala’s hood. “You know my dad had one of these when I was a kid.” His eyes glowed with appreciation at Dean’s Baby. “I always told myself I was gonna get one just like it. But then…” he smiled and shrugged in a you-know-how-it-goes way.
Dean looked at him and noticed his attire. “Became a hardcore Harley rider instead.” He shrugged. “That happens.”
The guy chuckled. “Yeah, it does. Though my wife’s carrying our third baby and it’s getting harder to get time away from the firm to go riding, so I’m thinking about getting rid of her. That’s why I’m here.”
“The firm?” Dean asked, his voice heavily laced with skepticism.
“Law firm.”
“Let me guess. Dewey Screwem and Howe, right?”
He guy laughed politely. “Not necessarily original, but probably true.” He finally stuck out a hand. “I’m Sam. Samuel Novak. Novak, Novak, and Partners. Family firm. I started it with my brother.”
Dean took his hand. The handshake was firm and warm. “Dean. Dean Winchester.” He looked into Samuel’s eyes and found warmth there, too. “I didn’t know lawyers rode.”
Samuel smiled again. “Well, if you look at the buying trends and at a lot of the current riding clubs, a lot of them are filled with professional, white collar types. It’s a trend that’s been going on for quite a while, actually.”
“But you’re looking to stop?”
Samuel shrugged. “There’s too much in life tying me down right now to hit the open road.” He smiled brightly. “But you know what? I’m OK with that.”
Dean nodded in understanding. He was always on the road throughout his life. It was the only thing that made sense. And now, with Sam gone and his passenger seat glaringly vacant, there was nothing to keep him from the road.
“So what did you bring with you?” Dean asked.
“My beautiful baby is right over there,” Samuel said, pointing proudly. He started walking toward his bike.
Dean followed. They stopped at a beautiful, shiny piece of American history in chrome and black and white metal. He nodded appreciatively.
“It’s a 1958 Panhead. A little over 17,000 miles on her,” Samuel informed him.
Dean’s eyes raked over the bike, liking it a bit more with each curve his gaze took in. He looked back at his Baby.
“You’re looking to get rid of her, right, Samuel?”
Samuel sighed heavily. “Unfortunately, yeah. I thought I’d bring her here first and see what I could see.”
It only took Dean a minute to make his decision.
“What about a swap?” he offered. “My baby for yours. Pinks right now.”
Samuel let his lawyer mask slip for a moment and his eyes glowed. Dean could see the man’s love of the Impala in the way they sparkled and he knew he’d made a good decision by making the offer.
Samuel walked over to his Harley and dug through a saddlebag on the side. “I’m gonna miss you, girl,” he murmured as he patted her seat after pulling out the pink slip. He held it up for Dean to see. Dean smiled and led him back over to the Impala.
Dean pulled his pink slip from the glove compartment. Him and Samuel sat in the front seat and signed then traded the documents. They shook hands. Dean caressed the dashboard with great reverence.
Samuel caught the look on his face and asked quietly, “Do you need a minute?”
Dean smiled. “No. She’s been good to me; given me everything. My time with her is done.” They slid out of the car. “Enjoy her, Samuel. Treat her well.” Dean handed the keys over.
Samuel held the keys for the bike out to Dean. “Judging by the way you treated this girl,” he nodded to the Impala, “I know you’ll be good to that one.”
Before leaving the bunker, Dean had cleaned out most of the weapons from the trunk. He kept a couple of knives and handguns and a flask of holy water just in case, but they were all tucked into one of his two duffels. He grabbed the duffels out of the backseat and now was strapping them onto the bike. Samuel stood to the side and then handed him a helmet. They shook hands again.
Dean straddled the bike then turned back to Samuel. “You said you and your brother ran your family firm, right?” he questioned. Samuel nodded. “I’m just curious. What’s your brother’s name?”
Samuel smiled. “Daniel. Funny enough, my mom was a big James Dean fan and wanted to name him Dean. But my family was kind of religious and stuck with bible names.” He laughed loudly. “This is probably going to sound ridiculous, but after hearing your name, I think that’s actually one of the reasons I feel good about making this trade with you.”
Dean smiled back. “And I think it felt right to make a deal with a lawyer named Sam.” He put on the helmet, turned the key, and revved the bike. He saluted Samuel, who waved back and then gave him thumbs up.
Dean drove off the main drag, past the barricade, and into the oblivion of the future, happily leaving his Baby in the hands of a lawyer named Sam.
The sun shone brightly.
~end
a/n 2: this is the beautiful harley that dean traded with samuel for: http://www.cycletrader.com/listing/1958-Harley-Davidson-Panhead-111857275