SPN Fanfic--On My Knees Chapter 2 (Dean/Sam)
SPN Fanfic--On My Knees (Dean/Sam) NC-17
By Kaynara
He woke at dawn, hardly a surprise since they went to bed before dinner. Sam was still unconscious so Dean tugged on sweatpants and one of his hoodies, worn soft and threadbare, and went for a run. Outside, the sun was just beginning to tint the sky from black to dark-blue. Dean’s breath left cottony puffs in the air as his feet beat a reassuring pattern into the dirt.
He ran until he was winded, then ran until he caught a second one, not slowing until his blood was pumping and his muscles singing in that good way that meant he was still alive. When he got back to the house, Sam was sitting on the porch in his pajama pants and a brown sweater that Dean knew was torn in the underarm, drinking coffee from a chipped yellow mug.
“Hey,” Sam said easily.
Dean felt awesome, pulse thrumming under his skin.
“Have you showered yet?” Dean replied, pausing a moment to stretch out his calves on the porch step.
“Not yet.” Sam raised a brow, took a sip of coffee.
“Good.”
Dean curled his fingers in the fabric of Sam’s sweater and yanked, snorting as Sam tried to set down his coffee without spilling.
Dean dragged Sam around the side of the house and shoved him up against the wall.
Sam huffed out a sound, halfway between laughter and annoyance.
“Jesus, what’s your-?”
Hurry? Problem? Childhood trauma that makes you understand the word fraternize in entirely new ways? Dean never got to hear the end, because the words dried up on Sam’s lips as Dean leaned close to his face and waited for Sam to meet him halfway. This thing between them-incest, Dean, you should be able to say it-only worked if they were partners. Equals. Sam had to want it too, or else-
Sam’s lips were rough, a little bit chapped and still warm from the coffee when they crashed down on his. It was more attacking than kissing-all teeth and tongue.
“You bit me,” Dean said, poking out his tongue to taste the drop of blood.
Sam grinned and sucked Dean’s tongue into his mouth, drawing it into a tight little funnel that had Dean humping Sam’s thigh like he was a frustrated teenager again.
“Who the hell taught you to kiss like that?” Dean demanded, pulling away from Sam’s mouth and dropping his lips to Sam’s throat.
“Georgia Paulson,” Sam said, arms going around Dean’s waist to tug him closer.
Sam freaking loved having his neck sucked. Almost as much as other things.
“Who’s that? Girl from the Cape?”
“Nuh,” Sam said, or else something equally articulate.
His hands managed to gain purchase in Dean’s sweatshirt and he swung him around, reversing their positions. He jutted a knee between Dean’s legs, bending his neck to slurp Dean’s earlobe into the wet heat of his mouth.
“I’m gonna look her up,” Dean said, shivering violently as Sam blew hot air into his ear canal. “Gonna send her flowers or something.”
“You do that.”
Sam’s hands were scrabbling under his sweatshirt, sliding warm and firm around his belly, and Dean reluctantly thrust an arm between them. He gave Sam a gentle shove mitigated by a smile of apology.
“We can’t, dude. Bobby . . . ”
Sam looked for a second like he might protest. Then he sighed and took a step back, thrusting a hand through his mop of hair.
“Yeah. You’re right. It’s just . . . dude.”
“Yeah, I know.”
In the entryway, Sam hip-checked Dean and scrambled past him, claiming first shower as he jogged toward the bathroom on his giant’s legs.
“Bitch,” Dean called without much heat and headed for the kitchen.
Bobby was at the kitchen counter squinting at the coffee maker.
“That almost ready?” Dean asked, pulling out a chair at the table.
Bobby shot him a look.
“I mean, thanks,” Dean coughed. “For having us.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Bobby said. He eyed the steady drip drip drip of the percolator. “I found a spell last night. You’re not gonna like it though.”
“What else is new?” Dean said.
---
“First thing’s first,” Bobby said, peering into the kitchen where Layla was seated at the kitchen table, eating a piece of toast. “We gotta determine she ain’t possessed before all manner of hell starts breaking loose.”
He crossed to one of the piles of books and printouts covering the floor and started to rummage through the contents.
“We already did that,” Sam said from the sofa. “Dean doused her with holy water back at the hotel.”
Bobby paused long enough to raise his head and arch a meaningful brow at Sam.
“Remember how well that worked when Yellow Eyes got a hold of your dad?”
Dean did, and one glance at Sam confirmed that he wasn’t forgetting any time soon either.
“Okay,” Dean said, and Sam nodded. “What do we have to do?”
---
It went about as well as Dean expected, which meant really frigging badly. They didn’t do anything to hurt her, at least not physically. But they might as well have. After what she’d been through the past year-and Dean could only guess-tying her to a chair and painting symbols on her face and forehead while Bobby recited Latin must have seemed like the cruelest sort of betrayal, worse still because they’d acted like she could trust them.
“She’s not gonna understand,” Dean had protested before they began. “Can’t we drug her or something? Knock her out?”
“We need her awake,” Bobby had said, shrugging, and that was as close to an apology as Dean was going to get.
It wasn’t Bobby’s fault. He was just trying to help; they all were, which didn’t make Dean feel like any less of a bastard.
After, he helped Bobby clean up, mopping paint and holy water off the floor, while Sam tried to coax Layla out of the bathroom. She’d shut herself in there, locking the door behind her, almost as soon as Sam finished untying her. Dean could hear her talking to herself, voice stripped raw from screaming, soft and high and childish. He’d preferred the screaming, actually. It was worse when she gave up and started to cry, those big brown eyes so full of hurt.
All that, and they didn’t know a damn thing more than they had when they started.
“Fuck,” Dean said, kicking at a stack of books and earning a glare from Bobby. “Sorry.”
Bobby nodded.
“I’m gonna make a few calls,” he said. On his way upstairs, he gave Sam’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll be upstairs if you boys need anything.”
When he was gone, Sam crossed the room and slumped into a ratty armchair with a high sloping back.
“Well, that was about as much fun as calculus,” he said.
Dean held the mop over the bucket, squeezing out the excess water.
“You loved calculus,” Dean reminded him.
He left the mop standing in the corner, crossed to Bobby’s desk and pulled out the chair, straddling it backwards.
“No I didn’t,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. “You always thought I liked every subject just because I liked school in general.”
“Well, yeah. You were a nerd.”
Sam screwed up his face like he was going to argue. Then he stopped, smiled a little.
“Were?” he asked.
Dean shrugged. He jerked a thumb at the bathroom door, his smile fading.
“No luck?” he asked.
“Is she out of the bathroom?” Sam shot back.
Dean arched a brow and tilted back in his chair.
“No need to get snippy, Sammy. I was just asking.”
“Feel free to try for yourself,” Sam said.
“Okay,” Dean said. “What’s up with you dude?”
“What? Nothing’s up with me.” And then because Sam could never leave well enough alone-couldn’t resist dropping well enough in a bowl and poking it-added, “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’ve gone all silent partner on me lately. You haven’t been this quiet since you were nine and had your tonsils out.” Dean smirked, staring off. “Huh, you had the hottest nurse, man. Her name was Anna or maybe Hannah. I dunno. But she had these dark blond curls, and the way she looked in scrubs . . .”
Dean had been thirteen and sliding into puberty like oil through an engine-all slow, easy heat. Sam was the opposite, waking up one morning with a tent in his boxers and chin acne.
“Are you asking for my opinion on something, Dean?” Sam crossed his ankles and grinned.
“Not exactly-”
“Because that would be a first.”
“--just used to you volunteering it,” Dean amended. “And that’s bullshit, dude. We’re partners now. Have been for a while. Haven’t we?”
Sam sighed.
“It’s no big deal, Dean. I just figure, of the two of us, you’re the one with experience raising a kid.”
That was enough to have Dean losing his balance, chair crashing down on all four legs. Dean winced and stood up before he broke all of Bobby’s furniture.
“Whoa, whoa. Hold up there, Sammy. Dad raised us.”
“Yeah,” Sam said slumping down even farther if possible. “Sure.”
Jesus, he could be a sarcastic little shit when he wanted.
“Maybe he wasn’t around all the time,” Dean acknowledged.
“All the time? Try any of the time. He was away more than he was home-”
Dean folded his arms over his chest.
“That’s an exaggeration, Sam-”
“And when he was home, he wasn’t exactly what you’d call an active parent.”
“Active parent?” Dean scoffed. “You learn that one at Stanford, Sam? In Psychology for Whiny Bitches Who Think The World Is Just a Cold, Cruel Place? The man’s dead, for God’s sake. Show some respect.”
“Hey,” Sam said, getting to his feet now. He held up a hand in a gesture of peace. “I’m not trying to dump on Dad. I know he loved us, that he did what he thought was best.”
“Damn right he did.”
“But he was also a hard, obsessive bastard with a stubborn streak a mile wide.”
Yeah, Dean thought. Good thing he didn’t pass that on to either of his sons.
“And in case you didn’t notice,” Sam said, on a roll now, “he wasn’t the one there when I got home from school. He wasn’t the one to cook dinner every night or make sure I had money for lunch or yell at me to go to bed at a decent hour.”
“Sam,” Dean started and then stopped, unsure how to continue. His throat felt tight, like he’d dry-swallowed a handful of pills, and he wanted out of this conversation five minutes ago.
“He wasn’t they one who sat with me when I had bad dreams. And, in high school, it sure as hell wasn’t Dad I talked to about girls or kissing or sex-”
“No sense in talking about it when you ain’t doing it, right, Sammy?”
Dean grinned, quick and deliberate, and Sam rolled his eyes.
“You know what I mean, Dean.”
“Hey, something I’ve been wondering,” Dean said, picking at a speck of paint under his thumbnail. “Was Jessica the first?”
He didn’t need to look up to know Sam’s ears would be bright red.
“That’s none of your business,” Sam shot back.
“Was she gentle?”
“You’re an asshole, Dean.”
---
Sam took the Impala into town and came back with rotisserie chicken and mac and cheese, along with a salad to satisfy his own abnormal urges. He spread the food out on the table and announced that dinner was ready.
“You’re gonna make some woman a fine wife one day,” Dean said, slapping Sam once on the chest.
Bobby ate a drumstick and shook his head at the both of them.
After dinner, Dean took his beer out to the porch, sort of relieved when Sam grabbed a book and made for the couch. He really wasn’t eager to follow up that afternoon’s conversation with a heartfelt moment. One angst-fest per day was about all he could handle.
Anyway, Sam was overreacting, as usual. Dean was the big brother: the one charged with looking out for Sammy. He hadn’t done anything above and beyond, nothing outside his realm of responsibility, and, okay, even he wasn’t buying that. It might have been more salable if he didn’t know the taste of the soft skin behind Sam’s ear. Or the way Sam’s eyes flickered and darkened when Dean-
Stopping that line of thinking seemed smart. It was twilight, stars starting to pop along the horizon as the temperature dropped. Dean shivered and flipped up the collar on his button-down.
It was some kind of irony, he figured, that most people didn’t think about Hell until they’d committed some sin grievous enough to gain them entrance. Dean had been keeping a tally for years. Like that sitcom where Jason Lee finds all the people he screwed and tries to make it right. Except this wasn’t a sitcom, and Dean knew in the final count he’d always come up short.
He had thought for a while that Sam might be safe-that he and John could somehow save Sam from a one-way trip down south. Those fantasies died at a crossroads in South Dakota, Dean lying on the ground and burning in fires he couldn’t yet see, blinking blood from his eyes as he watched his brother’s brown ones go black.
Somehow, screwing each other seemed less damning after that.
“You plannin’ on sleeping out here?’ a gruff voice asked.
Bobby.
“Just enjoying the evening,” Dean said, shaking guilty images from his head as Bobby stepped onto the porch. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Just wondering if you and Sam had given any thought to what you’re gonna do now.” He lowered himself to the porch rail. “Where you’re gonna go.”
“You want us to take off?” Dean said, really hoping that didn’t sound as pathetic as it had in his head.
“I’m not kicking you out. Christ. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.” Bobby hesitated, hand hovering in the air a few seconds before it clamped warm and solid on Dean’s shoulder. “Dumbass.”
Dean snorted and stared out into the dark again.
“I’ve got a friend working down at the police station,” Bobby said. “She’s a nice lady, and she wouldn’t ask too many questions. She’d make sure the girl ended up someplace safe.”
“No.” Off Bobby’s look, he cleared his throat. “Not until we know for sure she’s not a threat. We can’t risk her hurting anybody, Bobby.” It was almost true, even.
“Don’t know how you’re gonna make sure of that. No way of knowing what the demon wanted with her, or what they may have done. Not unless you resurrect the bitch and ask her anyway.”
“What about her family?” Sam said, and Dean looked up in time to see his long form stepping out onto the porch. “Is there anybody looking for her, Bobby? Someone who might be willing to take her in if-when we’re sure it’s safe.”
“Rick and Maddy were hunters, Sam. Why d’ya think people become hunters in the first place?”
“The kick-ass dental plan?” Dean said. “Okay, so no family.”
“Just what’s resting in a cemetery outside Boston.”
“You knew them,” Sam said suddenly, cocking his hip to lean against the porch rail. “The Omeras.”
Bobby shrugged.
“About as well as I knew any hunters, except your dad.”
“What were they like?” Sam asked, carefully ignoring that. “The Omeras.”
“Smart,” Bobby said. “Her especially. Young and determined as all-hell. Cold, hard hunters. And damned good at it.”
“Not good enough,” Dean said, and Bobby shrugged again.
“Things changed when Maddy had that kid. She said she wanted out and Rick, he went along with it. He was head over bootheels for that woman. Never seen a man so gaga over anyone except maybe . . . ” He coughed and thankfully didn’t finish that sentence. “Anyway, they went to the goddamn suburbs or something. Tried to live like real people, and even succeeded. For a while.”
“So they weren’t hunting anymore when the demon came after them?”
“Not since the kid was around three.” Bobby cleared his throat. “Ryan. That’s what they called her.”
---
It took them all of the next morning and half the afternoon to coax Layla out of the bathroom. They took turns sitting by the door and talking to her. Dean told stories about the stupid things Sam had done when they were kids. When he ran out of stories about Sam, he started telling her some of the dumb stuff he’d done, substituting Sam’s name for his. And when he couldn’t think of any more stories, he told her the plots from TV shows-I Love Lucy, Happy Days. When he got to Beverly Hills 90210, Sam said maybe he should choose alternate source material. Dean just shrugged, started to sing.
Motorhead. Metallica.
“My God,” Sam said, shaking his head. “You know, like, every single word.”
“Shut up.”
Wisely, Bobby stayed clear of their efforts, working most of the day up in his room. Dean was pretty sure Layla was never going to forgive Bobby.
It was almost dinnertime when Layla finally unlocked the door and opened it enough to poke her head through the crack. Sam was in the middle of a detailed description of somebody’s-not theirs definitely, maybe Jessica’s family’s-Christmas tradition which involved, Christ, board games. At Bobby’s desk, Dean looked up from the credit card forms he was dutifully filling out.
Layla stood in the doorway, clothes wrinkled, brown eyes huge. She had red paint in her hair which, from a distance, looked disturbingly like blood.
“Hi,” Sam said, staring at Layla like if the next words out of her mouth were ‘I want my own unicorn’ he would probably try to make it happen.
“Don’t,” Layla said, fingers still tight around the doorknob, “don’t do that again.”
Dean and Sam exchanged glances.
“We won’t,” Sam said. “I promise,” and Dean wondered when it was that Sam got to be the better liar.
Layla nodded, apparently satisfied.
Sam gave him a look-what now? Dean rolled his eyes and turned back to the kid.
“You like bubble baths?” he said, rising.
He crossed the room and held out his hand. When she slid hers inside, he felt like thanking some higher power.
While the tub filled and Sam reheated last night’s chicken, Dean lifted Layla onto the vanity and used his fingers to comb some of the dried paint from her hair.
“Ouch,” she said, and he winced and tried to be gentler.
“Sorry. Almost done.”
He ran his fingers through her hair, and it was soft and wispy like he remembered Sam’s being at that age. He recalled how she had looked the first time he saw her, crouching in a dark corner of a basement, her hair dirty and dank from the pipes dripping overhead, and had a sudden urge to protect her, keep her safe.
“Layla,” he said. “You remember when Sam and I found you? At the house in Georgia?”
Her eyes went even darker, the amber and gold specks receding till they were a solid brown, and she shrugged narrow shoulders.
“Can I have dinner soon?”
“Sam’s working on it. You were in the basement, remember? What were you doing down there? Did you run away from it? From the demon?” he added softly.
“No.” Her voice was scarcely a whisper and he had to strain to hear.
“What were you doing? You can tell me.”
“I was hiding.” She mumbled the words at her lap. “She told me to.”
“Layla.” He waited until she lifted her chin. “Who were you hiding from?”
“From you. You and Sam.” She bit her lip. “She told me you were coming and said to hide.”
He checked the bath temperature and made sure she had clean clothes to change into before closing the door and going to the kitchen to help Sam.
Twenty minutes later she wandered into the kitchen carrying a hairbrush.
“Do you know how to braid?” she asked the room at large.
Dean raised a brow.
“Sammy, if you can braid hair, I swear to God . . .”
“I think I can manage a ponytail,” Sam said, rolling his eyes.
He beckoned Layla closer and got to work brushing her hair. The end result wasn’t bad, if a little lopsided.
“Thanks,” Layla said after, beaming up at Sam.
“You’re welcome.”
Dean wondered if he should have asked one of the (not man-whore high but still totally respectable number of) women he’d slept with to teach him how to make a braid.
Layla was digging into her mac and cheese like she hadn’t eaten in days.
“Hey, Sam,” she asked. “Is it almost Christmas?”
---
He had a dream that night.
It was a year or so after the fire that killed his mother, and they were renting some shit-hole apartment, having long since moved out of the big house. (“Just think it’s time for a change, Dean-o,” was what Dad said, but Dean knew better, knew Dad thought the house was just too lonely without Mom.) Dean had refused to eat dinner because Dad made the scrambled eggs too runny, so Dad told Dean, if he didn’t like it, he could make himself a bowl of cereal. And Dean said all the cereal was gone, so Dad told him to go play in his room.
Dean had been playing with his action figures (not dolls) for what seemed like a really long time when the doorbell rang. He went into the living room to see who it was and found his dad talking to a woman. She was soft and grandmotherly with curling grayish hair and little glasses that sat on the end of her nose. She smelled like church and cats.
The woman smiled at Dean and asked how old he was and if he was looking forward to starting school-almost six and no. Then she said wasn’t Sammy adorable and gave them both a lollypop, grape Dum Dums taken from her gigantic shoulder bag, and said she’d like to talk to their dad alone if that was all right.
Though he was only almost-six Dean wasn’t stupid. He took Sammy into the bedroom and gave him his best GI Joe to play with while he listened at the door. When she was gone, Dean went into the kitchen and found his father sitting at the table, head in his hands.
“Please don’t leave us with that lady,” Dean said. “She smells like cats.”
John looked up, and Dean was surprised to see that his father’s face was wet.
“Dean,” John said, reaching out a hand to stroke blindly at Dean’s hair.
“I’ll be good, Dad. I’ll help with Sammy. I’ll keep my room really clean. I’ll go to school and I won’t bitch about it. I’ll be so, so good, I promise.”
John looked at him for a long time-it felt like hours but was probably just a couple minutes. Finally, he curled an arm around Dean’s waist and pulled him onto his lap, tucked his chin down into the curve of Dean’s neck and held on tight. In the other room, Sammy started to whine for someone to come get him. Neither of them moved.
“I won’t ever leave you, Dean. I swear.”
“You said not to swear,” Dean had murmured, a little embarrassed by the hugging, though not so much that he wanted his father to let go.
“It’s okay to swear when it’s a promise. I promise I’m not gonna leave you with anyone, Dean, especially not someone who smells like cats.”
“Sammy, either?”
“Sammy, either.”
Dean woke to find a fully-grown Sammy bending over him, one hand shaking his shoulder.
“Gah, what?” he demanded, throwing off Sam’s huge paw.
Sam backed off and sat down on his own bed. The sun was peeking in through the blinds, and Dean could see the sleep lines on Sam’s face, the scars painting a story in stark white over the brown of Sam’s chest.
“You were . . . nothing,” Sam said. “Forget it.”
Dean swiped at his face, surprised when his hand came away damp. He was sweating. It must be warmer in here than he thought. He peeled his t-shirt over his head and started poking in his duffel for a clean one.
“I’m gonna call Sarah,” Sam said. “Ask if she’d mind putting us up a couple weeks.”
“Auction House Sarah?” At Sam’s nod, Dean let out a low whistle, recalling dark hair and pale skin that was even whiter against Sam’s hands. “I didn’t know you two kept in touch.”
“Well,” Sam said, “We have,” and Dean whistled again.
“You think that’s a good idea, Sam? Taking Layla there? With all we don’t know?”
“Actually, I do. New York isn’t that far from Maine where the Omeras lived. We could drive up and check out the house. Maybe learn something about them, or the demon who killed them. And I think Sarah’d be great with Layla.”
“No argument there,” Dean said, standing to tug up his jeans. “I bet she’d be great with you, too.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just that, if you fuck her, it might relieve some of that tension you’ve been carrying around like a fifty-pound weight.”
He knew that would earn him a punch in the jaw, wasn’t surprised when Sam snagged a handful of his shirt, arm drawing back. He was a little surprised when Sam released him, his arm falling limply to his side.
“Grow up, Dean,” he sneered in that way he had of making Dean feel like the younger brother before pulling out his phone.
“Whatever, dude,” was Dean’s mature response before stalking away. He lingered in the hallway long enough to hear Sam’s greeting.
“Sarah? Hey. It’s Sam Win-” He could practically see Sam’s face break into a smile, all soft eyes and dimples. “Yeah, it’s good hearing your voice, too.”
---
“Where are we going?” Layla asked while Dean was loading the car.
Sam pointed out New York State on the map and showed Layla the route they’d followed to get to Bobby’s, and the one they would take heading east.
“Do you and Dean drive back and forth all the time?” she asked finally.
“Sort of,” Sam said, and he flashed Dean a sideways smile which Dean took to mean they were on speaking terms again, halle-fucking-lujah.
Bobby came out onto the porch while Dean was stowing the last of the bags. He hefted the one with the clothes they’d bought for her-jeans and t-shirts from Wal-Mart, a pink nylon windbreaker from the Goodwill. He was hoping Sarah would be willing to take her shopping for some other essentials. Items with which Sam and Dean lacked much expertise.
“You boys headin’ out,” Bobby said matter-of-factly. He had a steaming travel mug in either hand, Cheney whining at his heels.
“Thanks, Bobby,” Sam and Dean said in almost-unison, Sam stepping forward to accept the mugs while Dean extended a hand to shake.
He followed Bobby’s line of sight to Layla, who was already strapped into the backseat, maybe trying to ensure they didn’t leave her behind. She hadn’t quite forgiven Bobby for her first couple days here. Dean knew it was selfish, but he was just grateful that he and Sam had been given absolution. That she still trusted them.
He hoped they deserved it.
“What are you idjits gonna do now?” Bobby said, and Dean heard the unspoken “with her” in his voice, clear as day.
“I’ve got a friend who’s willing to put us up awhile,” Sam said. “We’ll take it from there.”
“Hum,” Bobby said. He squatted down to scratch Cheney behind the ears.
Sam shuffled his feet.
“Gonna be dark soon,” Dean said. “We should probably head out.”
“Your daddy,” Bobby said. “He did a good job with you boys. Best he knew how.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean agreed, and Sam gave a jerky sort of nod in acknowledgment.
“Even so, I sometimes wonder you two came out as good as you did. Which ain’t always too good.”
“We love you too, Bobby,” Sam snorted, but Bobby didn’t crack a smile.
“I’m not jokin’ around, Sam. Raising a kid is a hard job. Maybe the hardest. And your dad, he had four years of your mom teaching him how.”
Sam lowered his voice to a near-whisper.
“What are you saying, Bobby? That we should dump her at the nearest police station? Let them hand her over to Social Services, some foster home? What about when she has a nightmare or runs off in the middle of the night or goes apeshit over something? What are they gonna do then, huh?”
“Okay, Sam.” Dean laid a hand on his arm. “Enough.”
Did Sam worry about that when they were kids? Dad dropping them at some foster home and going off to hunt the demon on his own. Maybe Layla would be better off in foster care, part of some normal white-bread family. Until someone realized she wasn’t quite normal.
“No, Dean,” Sam said stubbornly. “I wanna know what he thinks we should do. I want him to tell us.”
Bobby raised a brow and shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket.
“I’m not telling you to do anything, Sam.”
---
In Chicago, Sam made them stop at a Barnes and Noble.
“She’s been out of school for more than a year,” Sam said stubbornly. “I want to get her some books.”
She hadn’t been in school, true, but that didn’t mean someone wasn’t teaching her things. But Dean just shrugged and handed over his credit card before going to wait in the café.
They returned a half hour later, Layla carrying a plastic bag the size of her torso. She was smiling, and Dean had to admit, that was about worth the price of admission.
“Have a good time?” Dean asked, nudging a chair out so she could sit.
Layla flopped down, and Dean totally didn’t reach out to tug on her pigtail.
“Sam’s gonna read me all the Harry Potter books. That’s like a million pages total.”
Dean reached for his coffee so he wouldn’t strangle Sam right there at the Barnes and Noble.
---
They passed most of the drive east with Sam reading Harry Potter aloud and Dean pretending not to get into it.
“Shouldn’t we try talking to her?” Dean protested outside Akron, while Layla was using the rest stop bathroom. “See if she’ll tell us something?”
“I don’t think she’s ready yet,” Sam said.
“Maybe she’ll let something slip if we get her going. Hey, we could play that picnic game?”
“Just give her some time, Dean. Are you sick of Harry? You wanna listen to music for awhile?”
“No,” Dean said quickly. “I mean, she likes it, so . . .”
“Okay.”
“Just.”
“Yeah?”
“ ‘S better when you do the voices.”
---
Dean was crossing the border into New York, feeling kind of sulky because Sam and Layla had both passed out and he could only listen to his tapes so many times before even he was sick of them.
He almost crossed the double yellows when Layla suddenly let out a shriek from the back. In the passenger seat, Sam woke up with a jerk and a muted groan as his knee thumped the glove compartment.
“No, I don’t want to,” she cried. “Please don’t make me!”
“Want me to pull over?” Dean asked, watching Layla thrash around in the rearview.
Sam shook his head and swiveled around enough to stretch an arm into the backseat.
She started awake when Sam touched her, glancing wildly around the car before her eyes locked on Sam’s. Dean figured it was mostly just the shock that made her cry, and pride that had her swiping at her face with her sleeve.
“You okay?” Sam asked in his best interrogate-the-victim’s-family tone.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” Sam said.
“Sam’s right,” Dean agreed. He looked at Sam, and Sam’s return stare was pointed. Don’t push, man.
Dean offered back, I can be subtle, dude, and thought, not for the first, that he and Sam had been together way too long if they could hold entire conversations with just their eyes.
Ignoring the pretty serious bitch face he was getting from Sam, Dean tilted his head to meet Layla’s gaze in the mirror.
“You wanna tell us what you were dreaming about before?” he asked with as soothing a tone as he could muster at quarter to asscrack in the morning after driving all night without rest.
“I can’t remember,” Layla murmured. She drew her knees into her chest, tucking her head into the hollow of her legs.
“Listen. Layla. Me and Sam, we just wanna help. And we can’t do that if you aren’t honest with us.”
Layla didn’t reply, just dug her forehead further into her kneecaps.
Dean took a chance, kept prodding.
“So let’s try this again. What was your dream about?”
“I don’t remember!”
Only she didn’t just say it. It was more of a scream, piercing enough that Dean wanted to slap his hands over his ears. Je-sus.
Sam made another face, which Dean read as, She’s seven years old. What did you expect? Dean thought their whole silent dialogue thing was getting borderline scary.
“Third in four nights,” Dean said under his breath, and Sam nodded and sighed, turned his face to mope at the landscape.
Dean sighed and fixed his eyes on the road. Layla was crying in earnest now, silent tears she tried to hide in her sleeve, and the hushed sniffling sound made Dean feel like a complete bastard instead of just a partial one. He fished a tape out from under the seat and popped it in the player, slid his sunglasses over his eyes and let Boston ease his pain.
---
They stopped for the night at some two-bit motor lodge off the interstate. Dean had noticed a 24-hour diner on their way in, and after dropping Sam and Layla in front of their room he drove back for cheeseburgers and mashed potatoes, as Sam had been bitching about all the fries they were eating.
After dinner-during which Sam was not nearly grateful enough for Dean’s fry sacrifice-Sam went into the bathroom to shower. Dean stretched out on the bed nearest the door and started flipping channels. One of the movie stations was showing Jurassic Park, and Dean spent a few minutes watching a poor billy goat meet its fate at the hands, or teeth, of a hungry T-Rex before slanting a glance across the room. At the small kitchen table, Layla was turning pages of a thick book that Dean really hoped was Harry Potter and not, like, a History of Succubi.
“Hey,” he said, and when she glanced up he patted the bedspread beside him. “C’mere.”
After a second’s hesitation, she slid down from the chair and crossed the room to stand by the bed. He had to thump on the mattress again to get her to climb up next to him. She arranged herself cross-legged, followed the hand he pointed to the television.
“See that guy with the hurt leg? He’s the only one who knew what a bad idea Dino-Disney was. All those other morons were like, hey, great big carnivores, awesome . . . ”
Layla conked out while the kids were hiding in the trees. When Sam came out of the bathroom, face pink and hair dripping, he took one look at the television and rolled his eyes.
“You have no concept of appropriate children’s programming, do you.”
“What are you talkin’ about? I used to show you tons of cool stuff.”
“The Shining? IT? I was the only second grader who was scared of clowns!”
“That’s just good sense, clowns are fucking terrifying. Don’t get your brastrap in a twist, Mister Rogers.”
“Fine. You can be the one to comfort her when she has a nightmare about raptors eating her alive.”
“Yeah, well. I think raptors would be an improvement on whatever she’s been dreaming about.”
And yeah, that kind of took the fun out of sniping at each other. Dean motioned for Sam to follow him into the kitchen area. He crossed to the mini-fridge and snagged two cold beers by the necks before joining Sam at the table.
“So?” Dean prompted after a few moments of drinking and companionable silence.
“We’re going to be late. Sarah’s expecting us tomorrow.”
“Call Sarah and explain we’re making a stop.” Dean shrugged. “We’ll tell Layla at breakfast. She’s not gonna like it, so the less time she has to think the better.”
“She’s just starting to trust us again after Bobby’s, Dean. Are you sure dragging her to the house where her parents died is our best move here, man?”
“I don’t see another option. We gotta know what the hell happened if we want a chance of helping her, right? And why are you arguing with me? I thought we agreed on this, Sam.”
“We do. It’s just.”
Dean sighed, setting his empty bottle down with a soft thud.
“Sam. What?”
“These decisions, Dean. There’s a lot riding on them now.”
“You’re kidding me, right? We’ve been making ‘these decisions’ for almost five years now, Sam.”
“It’s different. She’s just a kid, and we’re . . . not her parents.”
“Yeah, well, we’re all she’s got. So. Maine?”
Sam hesitated before jerking his head in the affirmative.
“All right, Maine.”
---
The house where Rick and Maddy Omera lived and died was made up of straight lines and chipping blue paint and set at the end of a rough dirt road with woods on both sides. Dean had prepared himself for developments and SUVs, a sprawling row of split-levels in varying shades of beige. In the end, it was a house he wouldn’t altogether hate living in . . . if, you know, he was going to start living anywhere.
Layla was asleep when they arrived so they left her in the car at the end of the gravel drive and took a walk around the perimeter. It was pretty clear the place had been abandoned since the murders, but they knocked at the door and peered in windows just in case.
While Dean got to work picking the lock, Sam went back to the car for Layla. Dean had the door open by the time they returned, Layla yawning into the sleeve of her coat and Sam watching her with a worried expression like he half-expected her to fall apart, or over. Actually, she’d taken the news that they were coming back here, to the house where a demon murdered her parents, better than Dean expected, better than he had responded when Sam made them go back to Lawrence. At any rate, she didn’t cry or try to hit anyone, both of which had topped Dean’s to-do list in that situation. When they told her that morning, over a breakfast of gas-station donuts and sodas on the road, Layla’s only comment was, “I thought we were going to Buffalo.”
“We are,” Sam said.
“Just taking a little detour,” Dean added.
“So we’re still going to have wings?”
Sam shot an amused expression at Dean before pivoting in his seat to promise Layla that they could get Buffalo wings, sure.
Layla grinned.
“Good, ‘cause Dean says your ears turn red when you eat them, and that sounds really funny.”
“You suck so much,” Sam told Dean, and Dean only grinned, turned the sound up higher on the stereo.
Now Layla lingered on the front porch, shivering a little inside her windbreaker. Maine in May was pretty brisk, and Dean wondered if they ought to get the kid some warmer clothes. Sam had a hand on her shoulder, and was speaking in the soft soothing voice he reserved for just these occasions.
“Take it nice and easy, okay? We can go as slow as you want.”
Layla tilted her head to peer past Sam, through the open doorway into the darkened hallway.
“Are we sure nobody lives here?” she asked them with a frown.
They kept their guns in grabbing range out of habit; they weren’t expecting to find anyone. Layla trailed after them, not making a sound expect to sneeze once or twice from the dust. Dean wondered if she had allergies, and asthma, like Sam had at that age. He used to get colds and stuff all the time before he hit puberty and, like magic, grew a foot and a half and developed the constitution of a bull.
There were only two bedrooms, a master on the first floor and a loft which, along with the attic, comprised the second floor. Most of the furniture had been removed, although the queen-sized bed in the master bedroom was still there, stripped down to the mattress. Along the right side, somebody had tried, and failed, to rid it of the stain, faded now to a significant pinkish-brown. Dean nudged Sam, who quickly nudged Layla into another room.
They spent a while in the loft, guessing or maybe just hoping that if anything here were going to spark a memory it would be in the room where she slept for six years. Dean lowered himself onto the bare twin bed, running his hand over a headboard hand-painted to look like the night sky. He trailed his fingers along the lower ridge, where a pair of protective sigils was carved into the wood. Apparently, they hadn’t quite done the job.
“Hey, Layla?” Sam said, and Dean glanced up to see her standing in the middle of the room.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” she murmured, looking down at her feet in Bela’s green sandals.
“You’re not supposed to do anything,” Sam said. “Just . . . is there anything you want to tell us? Anything at all?”
She hesitated, rubbing her foot along the hardwood. Dean tried to imagine the room full of books and toys and clothes, lived in. He couldn’t.
“I don’t know,” she said again. Dean couldn’t quite identify the tone in her voice. It wasn’t fear, exactly, or defiance.
“Let’s go downstairs,” he said.
This time they found the glassed-in space-sun porch was what Sam had called it-that ran the length of the house’s rear wall. Beyond the glass wall, the lawn ran wild; clearly it hadn’t been cared for much better when it’s owners were alive. Dean thought he wouldn’t mind cutting the grass back a little, not going all Better Homes and Gardens or anything, but trimming it enough that you could sit out in a lawn chair without having to check yourself for ticks. It wouldn’t altogether suck to sit out there with Sam, drinking beers and enjoying the un-noise of not another human for half a mile. If this thing between them kept happening-and Dean had lost too many things to make assumptions-Sam might like messing around out there, under the moonlight or some shit. Dean wasn’t exactly hating on the idea either.
“What are you thinking?” Sam asked, bumping Dean’s shoulder.
And really that was an obnoxious question, one he’d normally razz Sam a lot for asking, but the nature of his last few thoughts had him feeling guilty, and warm in places he’d rather not mention. He shrugged off Sam’s touch and cleared his throat before answering.
“I think we should get outta here. Find a motel.”
“Are you sure? Maybe we should take another walk around . . . ”
Over Sam’s shoulder, Dean watched Layla stand in the middle of what used to be the living room. Her back was to him, so he couldn’t see the expression on her face. He was kind of glad about that.
“Maybe this was a mistake, Sam. I don’t . . . ” He trailed off, scraping a hand over the top of his head. Maybe he had developed allergies in his old age; dust was clogging his sinuses, making his throat ache and his eyes tear.
“Dude, talk to me.”
“Sam, I know you don’t remember anything about the house in Lawrence. But I do, and trust me, it’s not a fun place to go back to.”
Sam took a hesitant step forward, concern all over his face.
“I know you remember the fire, man. And, hey, I’m sorry about that. I wish neither of us-”
“No, Sam, it’s not the fire. Yeah, I remember that night, but I also remember what it was like before. Dad making bunny-rabbit pancakes at the stove and Mom bathing you in the sink while you screamed your head off and . . . fuck. It’s not good, Sam. Okay?”
“Dean, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m the lucky one here. At least I remember Mo-before.”
It was true. Dean had pieces of the past at least, the good times before their family went to Hell, or maybe it was Hell that came to them. Dad getting home from work, opening the door, calling out, “Where’s my little slugger?” Which seemed ridiculous because, after the fire, Dean couldn’t remember one instance of Dad playing catch with either of them.
Sam didn’t remember anything. Once he told Dean he thought he remembered their mother holding him, one arm supporting his butt, a handful of her blond hair clutched in his fat baby fist. Sam was completely convinced of this memory until Dean showed him the photo of Mary doing just that, and explained that Sam had just seen the picture so many times that he thought he remembered the actual event. Sam had looked totally crestfallen, and Dad had told Dean to mind his own business.
What was the harm in letting Sam believe?’
Sam was quiet for a moment, watching Dean with eyes gone soft, and Christ, Dean wished he’d just kept his mouth shut about the whole thing. Sam’s hands fluttered before he shoved them down into his pockets.
“I don’t think that Layla’s remembering the good times here,” Sam said finally. “Don’t ask me how, I just don’t think that’s what’s going on. But look, it’s late. And maybe this isn’t the best place to talk to her. We’ll go get a motel, okay?”
Dean nodded, grateful that this conversation was over if for nothing else.
“Hey, Layla,” he called. “Tell Sam you want burritos for dinner so it’s two against one.”
She didn’t say anything so he went into the living room and found her sitting on the cushionless shell of the couch, and really if he had to see one more heartbreaking sight in the next hour he was going to lose it. He lowered himself down on the arm, reached out to nudge her shoulder.
“Wake up. You’re heavy, and I don’t wanna carry you to the car.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I’m teasing. You’re pretty light.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t remember anything,” she said softly.
He forced his lips into something like a smile.
“A lot of times, when bad things happen to people, adults too, they don’t remember. It’s like a game your mind plays so you don’t have to think about the bad stuff.”
“Dean,” Sam said, coming to stand behind him. “I don’t think that’s what she means. I don’t think she’s talking about the night her parents . . . ” He trailed off.
Dean arched a brow, and Sam went on.
“I don’t think she remembers living here.”
---
“What could happen to make her forget the last six years of her life?”
“I don’t know, Sam, and I don’t see us finding out anytime soon. We kind of exorcised the only witness.”
They were drinking coffees and listening to Layla splash in the bathtub in the other room. Dean had given her a couple empty Coke cans and a funnel he found under the backseat.
“Don’t give me that look,” he’d said when Sam raised a brow at the improvised bath toys. “I had to bribe you with Hershey kisses when you were a kid to get you in the bath. We thought you were, like, allergic to soap.”
Sam just laughed.
“You bribed me with kisses?”
“Shuddup.”
Now Sam drained the last of his coffee and arced the empty Styrofoam into the trashcan.
“The house in Maine was a bust. So we keep looking, right?”
“Mmm,” Dean grunted. He was mostly listening to Sam, but he kept an ear peeled toward the bathroom. He was pretty sure seven-year olds were capable of bathing themselves without drowning in the bathtub; but Layla had seemed off all afternoon.
“We hit a few . . . colleges . . . do some research and . . . talk to . . . ah . . . professor-”
Dean looked up to see Sam swaying.
“Sam?”
“Ah, God.”
Sam hunched over in the chair, hands wrapping around his skull. Dean was on his feet and rounding the table in two steps. He dropped to his knees, catching Sam by the shoulders in time to keep him from slumping forward onto the floor.
Dean propped Sam up with one hand, the other supporting his back while Sam groaned through the worst of it. Anything Dean could think to say sounded stupid or patronizing so he just kept a hand on Sam’s back, waited for him to come out of it.
After a while, Sam raised his head. His face was shiny-slick with sweat, and Dean resisted the urge to go get him a towel. His hand stayed a reassuring weight on Sam’s shoulder.
“I’m okay,” Sam said finally and gave a little shrug to let Dean know he could let go. The guy could cuddle with the best of them, collapsing atop Dean after sex like a giant man-shaped blanket. But he hated being coddled. Dean couldn’t exactly blame him for that.
Dean removed his hand and eased back on his haunches. Sam’s breath was coming harsh and shallow, and he had a hand cupped around the side of his head like he was afraid the contents would leak out his ear otherwise.
“You want some water?” Dean said, and Sam’s face twisted into a frown.
“I said I’m fine.”
Dean curbed the impulse to roll his eyes. Instead he shrugged and stood, crossed the room to sit on one of the beds. Sam sat there panting another couple minutes before rising and going to the sink. He filled a plastic cup with water and drank it down slowly. After, he rinsed out the cup and came to sit beside Dean on the bed, shoulder-to-shoulder like fellow soldiers.
Knowing by now it was a waste of time trying to push (or nudge) Sam where he didn’t want to go, Dean waited, and let Sam set the pace.
“I was back at the house. Rick and Maddy Omeras’.”
“Vision?” Dean asked as casually as he could manage.
He couldn’t see Sam’s face but knew from experience he was frowning. At least this time it wasn’t Dean he was frustrated with. So that was something.
“More like a memory,” Sam said.
“Layla’s,” Dean said, and it wasn’t even a question. He didn’t bother asking why his brother was getting random brain downloads from a kid whose parents were murdered by a demon they bagged a week ago. After all they had seen and experienced these last couple years, it just wasn’t that big of a stretch.
“It was early in the morning,” Sam was saying. “Still cold. Somebody must have been making breakfast because the house smelled like fresh coffee and bacon.”
“Can we get to the part of the story that isn’t gonna make me hungry?” Dean quipped, and Sam snorted humorlessly.
“Trust me,” Sam said. “The next part’s guaranteed to kill even your appetite. I went into the living room, and in the middle of the floor was a woman tied to a chair. She was . . . in a lot of pain. I couldn’t make out everything she was saying, but she kept repeating the words, ‘no, please’ and ‘I have a daughter.’”
Dean tried to picture Maddy Omera but all he could see was a grown-up version of Layla-blond hair and big, frightened eyes. He shuddered.
“That all you remember?” he said, tone a little huskier than he would have liked.
“I tried to get a better look, but . . . ” Sam sounded so guilty that Dean had the urge to pat his back again, say it was okay. “I was behind her. I’m pretty sure her hair was supposed to be blond.”
“Supposed to be?”
“There was a lot of blood.”
“Jesus.” Dean closed his eyes. It was enough that the kid was an orphan now. That she’d actually seen the demon kill her parents, at least her mother, seemed too cruel. Dean didn’t believe in much of anything, but if he did he would have prayed that Layla not remember this.
“And then it was like I blacked out for a few minutes. When I woke up, I knew she was dead.”
“Was it the demon bitch who did it? One we wasted in Georgia?”
“I guess. I couldn’t see her face, but . . . I mean, that makes sense. I wish we’d kept her alive for a while,” Sam said darkly. “I wish we hadn’t exorcised her so quickly.”
Dean hadn’t heard his brother’s voice take on that tone in about nine months. The one that vowed not just retribution but pain, and promised to take a lot of pleasure in the process.
“Yeah, well,” Dean said facing forward. “Can’t get much deader than dead.”
“Oh God. Dean. I could smell bacon frying.”
“Yeah, you mentioned the bacon.”
“Her parents must have been cooking breakfast when the demon . . . when it came. I brought bacon and egg sandwiches back to the room that day she ran off. Do you think that’s why . . .?”
“I don’t know. And there’s no way for you to either. Focusing on mistakes we made ain’t gonna help her now. Right?”
Sam sighed. He sounded like himself again, worn-weary and too old for twenty-six.
“I’m just . . . so tired.”
“What was that?” Dean asked even though he had heard Sam just fine.
“I don’t wanna let her go, Dean. Not her too, okay?”
“Okay,” Dean said.
Anything, Sam.
Chapter Three
By Kaynara
He woke at dawn, hardly a surprise since they went to bed before dinner. Sam was still unconscious so Dean tugged on sweatpants and one of his hoodies, worn soft and threadbare, and went for a run. Outside, the sun was just beginning to tint the sky from black to dark-blue. Dean’s breath left cottony puffs in the air as his feet beat a reassuring pattern into the dirt.
He ran until he was winded, then ran until he caught a second one, not slowing until his blood was pumping and his muscles singing in that good way that meant he was still alive. When he got back to the house, Sam was sitting on the porch in his pajama pants and a brown sweater that Dean knew was torn in the underarm, drinking coffee from a chipped yellow mug.
“Hey,” Sam said easily.
Dean felt awesome, pulse thrumming under his skin.
“Have you showered yet?” Dean replied, pausing a moment to stretch out his calves on the porch step.
“Not yet.” Sam raised a brow, took a sip of coffee.
“Good.”
Dean curled his fingers in the fabric of Sam’s sweater and yanked, snorting as Sam tried to set down his coffee without spilling.
Dean dragged Sam around the side of the house and shoved him up against the wall.
Sam huffed out a sound, halfway between laughter and annoyance.
“Jesus, what’s your-?”
Hurry? Problem? Childhood trauma that makes you understand the word fraternize in entirely new ways? Dean never got to hear the end, because the words dried up on Sam’s lips as Dean leaned close to his face and waited for Sam to meet him halfway. This thing between them-incest, Dean, you should be able to say it-only worked if they were partners. Equals. Sam had to want it too, or else-
Sam’s lips were rough, a little bit chapped and still warm from the coffee when they crashed down on his. It was more attacking than kissing-all teeth and tongue.
“You bit me,” Dean said, poking out his tongue to taste the drop of blood.
Sam grinned and sucked Dean’s tongue into his mouth, drawing it into a tight little funnel that had Dean humping Sam’s thigh like he was a frustrated teenager again.
“Who the hell taught you to kiss like that?” Dean demanded, pulling away from Sam’s mouth and dropping his lips to Sam’s throat.
“Georgia Paulson,” Sam said, arms going around Dean’s waist to tug him closer.
Sam freaking loved having his neck sucked. Almost as much as other things.
“Who’s that? Girl from the Cape?”
“Nuh,” Sam said, or else something equally articulate.
His hands managed to gain purchase in Dean’s sweatshirt and he swung him around, reversing their positions. He jutted a knee between Dean’s legs, bending his neck to slurp Dean’s earlobe into the wet heat of his mouth.
“I’m gonna look her up,” Dean said, shivering violently as Sam blew hot air into his ear canal. “Gonna send her flowers or something.”
“You do that.”
Sam’s hands were scrabbling under his sweatshirt, sliding warm and firm around his belly, and Dean reluctantly thrust an arm between them. He gave Sam a gentle shove mitigated by a smile of apology.
“We can’t, dude. Bobby . . . ”
Sam looked for a second like he might protest. Then he sighed and took a step back, thrusting a hand through his mop of hair.
“Yeah. You’re right. It’s just . . . dude.”
“Yeah, I know.”
In the entryway, Sam hip-checked Dean and scrambled past him, claiming first shower as he jogged toward the bathroom on his giant’s legs.
“Bitch,” Dean called without much heat and headed for the kitchen.
Bobby was at the kitchen counter squinting at the coffee maker.
“That almost ready?” Dean asked, pulling out a chair at the table.
Bobby shot him a look.
“I mean, thanks,” Dean coughed. “For having us.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Bobby said. He eyed the steady drip drip drip of the percolator. “I found a spell last night. You’re not gonna like it though.”
“What else is new?” Dean said.
---
“First thing’s first,” Bobby said, peering into the kitchen where Layla was seated at the kitchen table, eating a piece of toast. “We gotta determine she ain’t possessed before all manner of hell starts breaking loose.”
He crossed to one of the piles of books and printouts covering the floor and started to rummage through the contents.
“We already did that,” Sam said from the sofa. “Dean doused her with holy water back at the hotel.”
Bobby paused long enough to raise his head and arch a meaningful brow at Sam.
“Remember how well that worked when Yellow Eyes got a hold of your dad?”
Dean did, and one glance at Sam confirmed that he wasn’t forgetting any time soon either.
“Okay,” Dean said, and Sam nodded. “What do we have to do?”
---
It went about as well as Dean expected, which meant really frigging badly. They didn’t do anything to hurt her, at least not physically. But they might as well have. After what she’d been through the past year-and Dean could only guess-tying her to a chair and painting symbols on her face and forehead while Bobby recited Latin must have seemed like the cruelest sort of betrayal, worse still because they’d acted like she could trust them.
“She’s not gonna understand,” Dean had protested before they began. “Can’t we drug her or something? Knock her out?”
“We need her awake,” Bobby had said, shrugging, and that was as close to an apology as Dean was going to get.
It wasn’t Bobby’s fault. He was just trying to help; they all were, which didn’t make Dean feel like any less of a bastard.
After, he helped Bobby clean up, mopping paint and holy water off the floor, while Sam tried to coax Layla out of the bathroom. She’d shut herself in there, locking the door behind her, almost as soon as Sam finished untying her. Dean could hear her talking to herself, voice stripped raw from screaming, soft and high and childish. He’d preferred the screaming, actually. It was worse when she gave up and started to cry, those big brown eyes so full of hurt.
All that, and they didn’t know a damn thing more than they had when they started.
“Fuck,” Dean said, kicking at a stack of books and earning a glare from Bobby. “Sorry.”
Bobby nodded.
“I’m gonna make a few calls,” he said. On his way upstairs, he gave Sam’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’ll be upstairs if you boys need anything.”
When he was gone, Sam crossed the room and slumped into a ratty armchair with a high sloping back.
“Well, that was about as much fun as calculus,” he said.
Dean held the mop over the bucket, squeezing out the excess water.
“You loved calculus,” Dean reminded him.
He left the mop standing in the corner, crossed to Bobby’s desk and pulled out the chair, straddling it backwards.
“No I didn’t,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. “You always thought I liked every subject just because I liked school in general.”
“Well, yeah. You were a nerd.”
Sam screwed up his face like he was going to argue. Then he stopped, smiled a little.
“Were?” he asked.
Dean shrugged. He jerked a thumb at the bathroom door, his smile fading.
“No luck?” he asked.
“Is she out of the bathroom?” Sam shot back.
Dean arched a brow and tilted back in his chair.
“No need to get snippy, Sammy. I was just asking.”
“Feel free to try for yourself,” Sam said.
“Okay,” Dean said. “What’s up with you dude?”
“What? Nothing’s up with me.” And then because Sam could never leave well enough alone-couldn’t resist dropping well enough in a bowl and poking it-added, “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’ve gone all silent partner on me lately. You haven’t been this quiet since you were nine and had your tonsils out.” Dean smirked, staring off. “Huh, you had the hottest nurse, man. Her name was Anna or maybe Hannah. I dunno. But she had these dark blond curls, and the way she looked in scrubs . . .”
Dean had been thirteen and sliding into puberty like oil through an engine-all slow, easy heat. Sam was the opposite, waking up one morning with a tent in his boxers and chin acne.
“Are you asking for my opinion on something, Dean?” Sam crossed his ankles and grinned.
“Not exactly-”
“Because that would be a first.”
“--just used to you volunteering it,” Dean amended. “And that’s bullshit, dude. We’re partners now. Have been for a while. Haven’t we?”
Sam sighed.
“It’s no big deal, Dean. I just figure, of the two of us, you’re the one with experience raising a kid.”
That was enough to have Dean losing his balance, chair crashing down on all four legs. Dean winced and stood up before he broke all of Bobby’s furniture.
“Whoa, whoa. Hold up there, Sammy. Dad raised us.”
“Yeah,” Sam said slumping down even farther if possible. “Sure.”
Jesus, he could be a sarcastic little shit when he wanted.
“Maybe he wasn’t around all the time,” Dean acknowledged.
“All the time? Try any of the time. He was away more than he was home-”
Dean folded his arms over his chest.
“That’s an exaggeration, Sam-”
“And when he was home, he wasn’t exactly what you’d call an active parent.”
“Active parent?” Dean scoffed. “You learn that one at Stanford, Sam? In Psychology for Whiny Bitches Who Think The World Is Just a Cold, Cruel Place? The man’s dead, for God’s sake. Show some respect.”
“Hey,” Sam said, getting to his feet now. He held up a hand in a gesture of peace. “I’m not trying to dump on Dad. I know he loved us, that he did what he thought was best.”
“Damn right he did.”
“But he was also a hard, obsessive bastard with a stubborn streak a mile wide.”
Yeah, Dean thought. Good thing he didn’t pass that on to either of his sons.
“And in case you didn’t notice,” Sam said, on a roll now, “he wasn’t the one there when I got home from school. He wasn’t the one to cook dinner every night or make sure I had money for lunch or yell at me to go to bed at a decent hour.”
“Sam,” Dean started and then stopped, unsure how to continue. His throat felt tight, like he’d dry-swallowed a handful of pills, and he wanted out of this conversation five minutes ago.
“He wasn’t they one who sat with me when I had bad dreams. And, in high school, it sure as hell wasn’t Dad I talked to about girls or kissing or sex-”
“No sense in talking about it when you ain’t doing it, right, Sammy?”
Dean grinned, quick and deliberate, and Sam rolled his eyes.
“You know what I mean, Dean.”
“Hey, something I’ve been wondering,” Dean said, picking at a speck of paint under his thumbnail. “Was Jessica the first?”
He didn’t need to look up to know Sam’s ears would be bright red.
“That’s none of your business,” Sam shot back.
“Was she gentle?”
“You’re an asshole, Dean.”
---
Sam took the Impala into town and came back with rotisserie chicken and mac and cheese, along with a salad to satisfy his own abnormal urges. He spread the food out on the table and announced that dinner was ready.
“You’re gonna make some woman a fine wife one day,” Dean said, slapping Sam once on the chest.
Bobby ate a drumstick and shook his head at the both of them.
After dinner, Dean took his beer out to the porch, sort of relieved when Sam grabbed a book and made for the couch. He really wasn’t eager to follow up that afternoon’s conversation with a heartfelt moment. One angst-fest per day was about all he could handle.
Anyway, Sam was overreacting, as usual. Dean was the big brother: the one charged with looking out for Sammy. He hadn’t done anything above and beyond, nothing outside his realm of responsibility, and, okay, even he wasn’t buying that. It might have been more salable if he didn’t know the taste of the soft skin behind Sam’s ear. Or the way Sam’s eyes flickered and darkened when Dean-
Stopping that line of thinking seemed smart. It was twilight, stars starting to pop along the horizon as the temperature dropped. Dean shivered and flipped up the collar on his button-down.
It was some kind of irony, he figured, that most people didn’t think about Hell until they’d committed some sin grievous enough to gain them entrance. Dean had been keeping a tally for years. Like that sitcom where Jason Lee finds all the people he screwed and tries to make it right. Except this wasn’t a sitcom, and Dean knew in the final count he’d always come up short.
He had thought for a while that Sam might be safe-that he and John could somehow save Sam from a one-way trip down south. Those fantasies died at a crossroads in South Dakota, Dean lying on the ground and burning in fires he couldn’t yet see, blinking blood from his eyes as he watched his brother’s brown ones go black.
Somehow, screwing each other seemed less damning after that.
“You plannin’ on sleeping out here?’ a gruff voice asked.
Bobby.
“Just enjoying the evening,” Dean said, shaking guilty images from his head as Bobby stepped onto the porch. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Just wondering if you and Sam had given any thought to what you’re gonna do now.” He lowered himself to the porch rail. “Where you’re gonna go.”
“You want us to take off?” Dean said, really hoping that didn’t sound as pathetic as it had in his head.
“I’m not kicking you out. Christ. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.” Bobby hesitated, hand hovering in the air a few seconds before it clamped warm and solid on Dean’s shoulder. “Dumbass.”
Dean snorted and stared out into the dark again.
“I’ve got a friend working down at the police station,” Bobby said. “She’s a nice lady, and she wouldn’t ask too many questions. She’d make sure the girl ended up someplace safe.”
“No.” Off Bobby’s look, he cleared his throat. “Not until we know for sure she’s not a threat. We can’t risk her hurting anybody, Bobby.” It was almost true, even.
“Don’t know how you’re gonna make sure of that. No way of knowing what the demon wanted with her, or what they may have done. Not unless you resurrect the bitch and ask her anyway.”
“What about her family?” Sam said, and Dean looked up in time to see his long form stepping out onto the porch. “Is there anybody looking for her, Bobby? Someone who might be willing to take her in if-when we’re sure it’s safe.”
“Rick and Maddy were hunters, Sam. Why d’ya think people become hunters in the first place?”
“The kick-ass dental plan?” Dean said. “Okay, so no family.”
“Just what’s resting in a cemetery outside Boston.”
“You knew them,” Sam said suddenly, cocking his hip to lean against the porch rail. “The Omeras.”
Bobby shrugged.
“About as well as I knew any hunters, except your dad.”
“What were they like?” Sam asked, carefully ignoring that. “The Omeras.”
“Smart,” Bobby said. “Her especially. Young and determined as all-hell. Cold, hard hunters. And damned good at it.”
“Not good enough,” Dean said, and Bobby shrugged again.
“Things changed when Maddy had that kid. She said she wanted out and Rick, he went along with it. He was head over bootheels for that woman. Never seen a man so gaga over anyone except maybe . . . ” He coughed and thankfully didn’t finish that sentence. “Anyway, they went to the goddamn suburbs or something. Tried to live like real people, and even succeeded. For a while.”
“So they weren’t hunting anymore when the demon came after them?”
“Not since the kid was around three.” Bobby cleared his throat. “Ryan. That’s what they called her.”
---
It took them all of the next morning and half the afternoon to coax Layla out of the bathroom. They took turns sitting by the door and talking to her. Dean told stories about the stupid things Sam had done when they were kids. When he ran out of stories about Sam, he started telling her some of the dumb stuff he’d done, substituting Sam’s name for his. And when he couldn’t think of any more stories, he told her the plots from TV shows-I Love Lucy, Happy Days. When he got to Beverly Hills 90210, Sam said maybe he should choose alternate source material. Dean just shrugged, started to sing.
Motorhead. Metallica.
“My God,” Sam said, shaking his head. “You know, like, every single word.”
“Shut up.”
Wisely, Bobby stayed clear of their efforts, working most of the day up in his room. Dean was pretty sure Layla was never going to forgive Bobby.
It was almost dinnertime when Layla finally unlocked the door and opened it enough to poke her head through the crack. Sam was in the middle of a detailed description of somebody’s-not theirs definitely, maybe Jessica’s family’s-Christmas tradition which involved, Christ, board games. At Bobby’s desk, Dean looked up from the credit card forms he was dutifully filling out.
Layla stood in the doorway, clothes wrinkled, brown eyes huge. She had red paint in her hair which, from a distance, looked disturbingly like blood.
“Hi,” Sam said, staring at Layla like if the next words out of her mouth were ‘I want my own unicorn’ he would probably try to make it happen.
“Don’t,” Layla said, fingers still tight around the doorknob, “don’t do that again.”
Dean and Sam exchanged glances.
“We won’t,” Sam said. “I promise,” and Dean wondered when it was that Sam got to be the better liar.
Layla nodded, apparently satisfied.
Sam gave him a look-what now? Dean rolled his eyes and turned back to the kid.
“You like bubble baths?” he said, rising.
He crossed the room and held out his hand. When she slid hers inside, he felt like thanking some higher power.
While the tub filled and Sam reheated last night’s chicken, Dean lifted Layla onto the vanity and used his fingers to comb some of the dried paint from her hair.
“Ouch,” she said, and he winced and tried to be gentler.
“Sorry. Almost done.”
He ran his fingers through her hair, and it was soft and wispy like he remembered Sam’s being at that age. He recalled how she had looked the first time he saw her, crouching in a dark corner of a basement, her hair dirty and dank from the pipes dripping overhead, and had a sudden urge to protect her, keep her safe.
“Layla,” he said. “You remember when Sam and I found you? At the house in Georgia?”
Her eyes went even darker, the amber and gold specks receding till they were a solid brown, and she shrugged narrow shoulders.
“Can I have dinner soon?”
“Sam’s working on it. You were in the basement, remember? What were you doing down there? Did you run away from it? From the demon?” he added softly.
“No.” Her voice was scarcely a whisper and he had to strain to hear.
“What were you doing? You can tell me.”
“I was hiding.” She mumbled the words at her lap. “She told me to.”
“Layla.” He waited until she lifted her chin. “Who were you hiding from?”
“From you. You and Sam.” She bit her lip. “She told me you were coming and said to hide.”
He checked the bath temperature and made sure she had clean clothes to change into before closing the door and going to the kitchen to help Sam.
Twenty minutes later she wandered into the kitchen carrying a hairbrush.
“Do you know how to braid?” she asked the room at large.
Dean raised a brow.
“Sammy, if you can braid hair, I swear to God . . .”
“I think I can manage a ponytail,” Sam said, rolling his eyes.
He beckoned Layla closer and got to work brushing her hair. The end result wasn’t bad, if a little lopsided.
“Thanks,” Layla said after, beaming up at Sam.
“You’re welcome.”
Dean wondered if he should have asked one of the (not man-whore high but still totally respectable number of) women he’d slept with to teach him how to make a braid.
Layla was digging into her mac and cheese like she hadn’t eaten in days.
“Hey, Sam,” she asked. “Is it almost Christmas?”
---
He had a dream that night.
It was a year or so after the fire that killed his mother, and they were renting some shit-hole apartment, having long since moved out of the big house. (“Just think it’s time for a change, Dean-o,” was what Dad said, but Dean knew better, knew Dad thought the house was just too lonely without Mom.) Dean had refused to eat dinner because Dad made the scrambled eggs too runny, so Dad told Dean, if he didn’t like it, he could make himself a bowl of cereal. And Dean said all the cereal was gone, so Dad told him to go play in his room.
Dean had been playing with his action figures (not dolls) for what seemed like a really long time when the doorbell rang. He went into the living room to see who it was and found his dad talking to a woman. She was soft and grandmotherly with curling grayish hair and little glasses that sat on the end of her nose. She smelled like church and cats.
The woman smiled at Dean and asked how old he was and if he was looking forward to starting school-almost six and no. Then she said wasn’t Sammy adorable and gave them both a lollypop, grape Dum Dums taken from her gigantic shoulder bag, and said she’d like to talk to their dad alone if that was all right.
Though he was only almost-six Dean wasn’t stupid. He took Sammy into the bedroom and gave him his best GI Joe to play with while he listened at the door. When she was gone, Dean went into the kitchen and found his father sitting at the table, head in his hands.
“Please don’t leave us with that lady,” Dean said. “She smells like cats.”
John looked up, and Dean was surprised to see that his father’s face was wet.
“Dean,” John said, reaching out a hand to stroke blindly at Dean’s hair.
“I’ll be good, Dad. I’ll help with Sammy. I’ll keep my room really clean. I’ll go to school and I won’t bitch about it. I’ll be so, so good, I promise.”
John looked at him for a long time-it felt like hours but was probably just a couple minutes. Finally, he curled an arm around Dean’s waist and pulled him onto his lap, tucked his chin down into the curve of Dean’s neck and held on tight. In the other room, Sammy started to whine for someone to come get him. Neither of them moved.
“I won’t ever leave you, Dean. I swear.”
“You said not to swear,” Dean had murmured, a little embarrassed by the hugging, though not so much that he wanted his father to let go.
“It’s okay to swear when it’s a promise. I promise I’m not gonna leave you with anyone, Dean, especially not someone who smells like cats.”
“Sammy, either?”
“Sammy, either.”
Dean woke to find a fully-grown Sammy bending over him, one hand shaking his shoulder.
“Gah, what?” he demanded, throwing off Sam’s huge paw.
Sam backed off and sat down on his own bed. The sun was peeking in through the blinds, and Dean could see the sleep lines on Sam’s face, the scars painting a story in stark white over the brown of Sam’s chest.
“You were . . . nothing,” Sam said. “Forget it.”
Dean swiped at his face, surprised when his hand came away damp. He was sweating. It must be warmer in here than he thought. He peeled his t-shirt over his head and started poking in his duffel for a clean one.
“I’m gonna call Sarah,” Sam said. “Ask if she’d mind putting us up a couple weeks.”
“Auction House Sarah?” At Sam’s nod, Dean let out a low whistle, recalling dark hair and pale skin that was even whiter against Sam’s hands. “I didn’t know you two kept in touch.”
“Well,” Sam said, “We have,” and Dean whistled again.
“You think that’s a good idea, Sam? Taking Layla there? With all we don’t know?”
“Actually, I do. New York isn’t that far from Maine where the Omeras lived. We could drive up and check out the house. Maybe learn something about them, or the demon who killed them. And I think Sarah’d be great with Layla.”
“No argument there,” Dean said, standing to tug up his jeans. “I bet she’d be great with you, too.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just that, if you fuck her, it might relieve some of that tension you’ve been carrying around like a fifty-pound weight.”
He knew that would earn him a punch in the jaw, wasn’t surprised when Sam snagged a handful of his shirt, arm drawing back. He was a little surprised when Sam released him, his arm falling limply to his side.
“Grow up, Dean,” he sneered in that way he had of making Dean feel like the younger brother before pulling out his phone.
“Whatever, dude,” was Dean’s mature response before stalking away. He lingered in the hallway long enough to hear Sam’s greeting.
“Sarah? Hey. It’s Sam Win-” He could practically see Sam’s face break into a smile, all soft eyes and dimples. “Yeah, it’s good hearing your voice, too.”
---
“Where are we going?” Layla asked while Dean was loading the car.
Sam pointed out New York State on the map and showed Layla the route they’d followed to get to Bobby’s, and the one they would take heading east.
“Do you and Dean drive back and forth all the time?” she asked finally.
“Sort of,” Sam said, and he flashed Dean a sideways smile which Dean took to mean they were on speaking terms again, halle-fucking-lujah.
Bobby came out onto the porch while Dean was stowing the last of the bags. He hefted the one with the clothes they’d bought for her-jeans and t-shirts from Wal-Mart, a pink nylon windbreaker from the Goodwill. He was hoping Sarah would be willing to take her shopping for some other essentials. Items with which Sam and Dean lacked much expertise.
“You boys headin’ out,” Bobby said matter-of-factly. He had a steaming travel mug in either hand, Cheney whining at his heels.
“Thanks, Bobby,” Sam and Dean said in almost-unison, Sam stepping forward to accept the mugs while Dean extended a hand to shake.
He followed Bobby’s line of sight to Layla, who was already strapped into the backseat, maybe trying to ensure they didn’t leave her behind. She hadn’t quite forgiven Bobby for her first couple days here. Dean knew it was selfish, but he was just grateful that he and Sam had been given absolution. That she still trusted them.
He hoped they deserved it.
“What are you idjits gonna do now?” Bobby said, and Dean heard the unspoken “with her” in his voice, clear as day.
“I’ve got a friend who’s willing to put us up awhile,” Sam said. “We’ll take it from there.”
“Hum,” Bobby said. He squatted down to scratch Cheney behind the ears.
Sam shuffled his feet.
“Gonna be dark soon,” Dean said. “We should probably head out.”
“Your daddy,” Bobby said. “He did a good job with you boys. Best he knew how.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean agreed, and Sam gave a jerky sort of nod in acknowledgment.
“Even so, I sometimes wonder you two came out as good as you did. Which ain’t always too good.”
“We love you too, Bobby,” Sam snorted, but Bobby didn’t crack a smile.
“I’m not jokin’ around, Sam. Raising a kid is a hard job. Maybe the hardest. And your dad, he had four years of your mom teaching him how.”
Sam lowered his voice to a near-whisper.
“What are you saying, Bobby? That we should dump her at the nearest police station? Let them hand her over to Social Services, some foster home? What about when she has a nightmare or runs off in the middle of the night or goes apeshit over something? What are they gonna do then, huh?”
“Okay, Sam.” Dean laid a hand on his arm. “Enough.”
Did Sam worry about that when they were kids? Dad dropping them at some foster home and going off to hunt the demon on his own. Maybe Layla would be better off in foster care, part of some normal white-bread family. Until someone realized she wasn’t quite normal.
“No, Dean,” Sam said stubbornly. “I wanna know what he thinks we should do. I want him to tell us.”
Bobby raised a brow and shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket.
“I’m not telling you to do anything, Sam.”
---
In Chicago, Sam made them stop at a Barnes and Noble.
“She’s been out of school for more than a year,” Sam said stubbornly. “I want to get her some books.”
She hadn’t been in school, true, but that didn’t mean someone wasn’t teaching her things. But Dean just shrugged and handed over his credit card before going to wait in the café.
They returned a half hour later, Layla carrying a plastic bag the size of her torso. She was smiling, and Dean had to admit, that was about worth the price of admission.
“Have a good time?” Dean asked, nudging a chair out so she could sit.
Layla flopped down, and Dean totally didn’t reach out to tug on her pigtail.
“Sam’s gonna read me all the Harry Potter books. That’s like a million pages total.”
Dean reached for his coffee so he wouldn’t strangle Sam right there at the Barnes and Noble.
---
They passed most of the drive east with Sam reading Harry Potter aloud and Dean pretending not to get into it.
“Shouldn’t we try talking to her?” Dean protested outside Akron, while Layla was using the rest stop bathroom. “See if she’ll tell us something?”
“I don’t think she’s ready yet,” Sam said.
“Maybe she’ll let something slip if we get her going. Hey, we could play that picnic game?”
“Just give her some time, Dean. Are you sick of Harry? You wanna listen to music for awhile?”
“No,” Dean said quickly. “I mean, she likes it, so . . .”
“Okay.”
“Just.”
“Yeah?”
“ ‘S better when you do the voices.”
---
Dean was crossing the border into New York, feeling kind of sulky because Sam and Layla had both passed out and he could only listen to his tapes so many times before even he was sick of them.
He almost crossed the double yellows when Layla suddenly let out a shriek from the back. In the passenger seat, Sam woke up with a jerk and a muted groan as his knee thumped the glove compartment.
“No, I don’t want to,” she cried. “Please don’t make me!”
“Want me to pull over?” Dean asked, watching Layla thrash around in the rearview.
Sam shook his head and swiveled around enough to stretch an arm into the backseat.
She started awake when Sam touched her, glancing wildly around the car before her eyes locked on Sam’s. Dean figured it was mostly just the shock that made her cry, and pride that had her swiping at her face with her sleeve.
“You okay?” Sam asked in his best interrogate-the-victim’s-family tone.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” Sam said.
“Sam’s right,” Dean agreed. He looked at Sam, and Sam’s return stare was pointed. Don’t push, man.
Dean offered back, I can be subtle, dude, and thought, not for the first, that he and Sam had been together way too long if they could hold entire conversations with just their eyes.
Ignoring the pretty serious bitch face he was getting from Sam, Dean tilted his head to meet Layla’s gaze in the mirror.
“You wanna tell us what you were dreaming about before?” he asked with as soothing a tone as he could muster at quarter to asscrack in the morning after driving all night without rest.
“I can’t remember,” Layla murmured. She drew her knees into her chest, tucking her head into the hollow of her legs.
“Listen. Layla. Me and Sam, we just wanna help. And we can’t do that if you aren’t honest with us.”
Layla didn’t reply, just dug her forehead further into her kneecaps.
Dean took a chance, kept prodding.
“So let’s try this again. What was your dream about?”
“I don’t remember!”
Only she didn’t just say it. It was more of a scream, piercing enough that Dean wanted to slap his hands over his ears. Je-sus.
Sam made another face, which Dean read as, She’s seven years old. What did you expect? Dean thought their whole silent dialogue thing was getting borderline scary.
“Third in four nights,” Dean said under his breath, and Sam nodded and sighed, turned his face to mope at the landscape.
Dean sighed and fixed his eyes on the road. Layla was crying in earnest now, silent tears she tried to hide in her sleeve, and the hushed sniffling sound made Dean feel like a complete bastard instead of just a partial one. He fished a tape out from under the seat and popped it in the player, slid his sunglasses over his eyes and let Boston ease his pain.
---
They stopped for the night at some two-bit motor lodge off the interstate. Dean had noticed a 24-hour diner on their way in, and after dropping Sam and Layla in front of their room he drove back for cheeseburgers and mashed potatoes, as Sam had been bitching about all the fries they were eating.
After dinner-during which Sam was not nearly grateful enough for Dean’s fry sacrifice-Sam went into the bathroom to shower. Dean stretched out on the bed nearest the door and started flipping channels. One of the movie stations was showing Jurassic Park, and Dean spent a few minutes watching a poor billy goat meet its fate at the hands, or teeth, of a hungry T-Rex before slanting a glance across the room. At the small kitchen table, Layla was turning pages of a thick book that Dean really hoped was Harry Potter and not, like, a History of Succubi.
“Hey,” he said, and when she glanced up he patted the bedspread beside him. “C’mere.”
After a second’s hesitation, she slid down from the chair and crossed the room to stand by the bed. He had to thump on the mattress again to get her to climb up next to him. She arranged herself cross-legged, followed the hand he pointed to the television.
“See that guy with the hurt leg? He’s the only one who knew what a bad idea Dino-Disney was. All those other morons were like, hey, great big carnivores, awesome . . . ”
Layla conked out while the kids were hiding in the trees. When Sam came out of the bathroom, face pink and hair dripping, he took one look at the television and rolled his eyes.
“You have no concept of appropriate children’s programming, do you.”
“What are you talkin’ about? I used to show you tons of cool stuff.”
“The Shining? IT? I was the only second grader who was scared of clowns!”
“That’s just good sense, clowns are fucking terrifying. Don’t get your brastrap in a twist, Mister Rogers.”
“Fine. You can be the one to comfort her when she has a nightmare about raptors eating her alive.”
“Yeah, well. I think raptors would be an improvement on whatever she’s been dreaming about.”
And yeah, that kind of took the fun out of sniping at each other. Dean motioned for Sam to follow him into the kitchen area. He crossed to the mini-fridge and snagged two cold beers by the necks before joining Sam at the table.
“So?” Dean prompted after a few moments of drinking and companionable silence.
“We’re going to be late. Sarah’s expecting us tomorrow.”
“Call Sarah and explain we’re making a stop.” Dean shrugged. “We’ll tell Layla at breakfast. She’s not gonna like it, so the less time she has to think the better.”
“She’s just starting to trust us again after Bobby’s, Dean. Are you sure dragging her to the house where her parents died is our best move here, man?”
“I don’t see another option. We gotta know what the hell happened if we want a chance of helping her, right? And why are you arguing with me? I thought we agreed on this, Sam.”
“We do. It’s just.”
Dean sighed, setting his empty bottle down with a soft thud.
“Sam. What?”
“These decisions, Dean. There’s a lot riding on them now.”
“You’re kidding me, right? We’ve been making ‘these decisions’ for almost five years now, Sam.”
“It’s different. She’s just a kid, and we’re . . . not her parents.”
“Yeah, well, we’re all she’s got. So. Maine?”
Sam hesitated before jerking his head in the affirmative.
“All right, Maine.”
---
The house where Rick and Maddy Omera lived and died was made up of straight lines and chipping blue paint and set at the end of a rough dirt road with woods on both sides. Dean had prepared himself for developments and SUVs, a sprawling row of split-levels in varying shades of beige. In the end, it was a house he wouldn’t altogether hate living in . . . if, you know, he was going to start living anywhere.
Layla was asleep when they arrived so they left her in the car at the end of the gravel drive and took a walk around the perimeter. It was pretty clear the place had been abandoned since the murders, but they knocked at the door and peered in windows just in case.
While Dean got to work picking the lock, Sam went back to the car for Layla. Dean had the door open by the time they returned, Layla yawning into the sleeve of her coat and Sam watching her with a worried expression like he half-expected her to fall apart, or over. Actually, she’d taken the news that they were coming back here, to the house where a demon murdered her parents, better than Dean expected, better than he had responded when Sam made them go back to Lawrence. At any rate, she didn’t cry or try to hit anyone, both of which had topped Dean’s to-do list in that situation. When they told her that morning, over a breakfast of gas-station donuts and sodas on the road, Layla’s only comment was, “I thought we were going to Buffalo.”
“We are,” Sam said.
“Just taking a little detour,” Dean added.
“So we’re still going to have wings?”
Sam shot an amused expression at Dean before pivoting in his seat to promise Layla that they could get Buffalo wings, sure.
Layla grinned.
“Good, ‘cause Dean says your ears turn red when you eat them, and that sounds really funny.”
“You suck so much,” Sam told Dean, and Dean only grinned, turned the sound up higher on the stereo.
Now Layla lingered on the front porch, shivering a little inside her windbreaker. Maine in May was pretty brisk, and Dean wondered if they ought to get the kid some warmer clothes. Sam had a hand on her shoulder, and was speaking in the soft soothing voice he reserved for just these occasions.
“Take it nice and easy, okay? We can go as slow as you want.”
Layla tilted her head to peer past Sam, through the open doorway into the darkened hallway.
“Are we sure nobody lives here?” she asked them with a frown.
They kept their guns in grabbing range out of habit; they weren’t expecting to find anyone. Layla trailed after them, not making a sound expect to sneeze once or twice from the dust. Dean wondered if she had allergies, and asthma, like Sam had at that age. He used to get colds and stuff all the time before he hit puberty and, like magic, grew a foot and a half and developed the constitution of a bull.
There were only two bedrooms, a master on the first floor and a loft which, along with the attic, comprised the second floor. Most of the furniture had been removed, although the queen-sized bed in the master bedroom was still there, stripped down to the mattress. Along the right side, somebody had tried, and failed, to rid it of the stain, faded now to a significant pinkish-brown. Dean nudged Sam, who quickly nudged Layla into another room.
They spent a while in the loft, guessing or maybe just hoping that if anything here were going to spark a memory it would be in the room where she slept for six years. Dean lowered himself onto the bare twin bed, running his hand over a headboard hand-painted to look like the night sky. He trailed his fingers along the lower ridge, where a pair of protective sigils was carved into the wood. Apparently, they hadn’t quite done the job.
“Hey, Layla?” Sam said, and Dean glanced up to see her standing in the middle of the room.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” she murmured, looking down at her feet in Bela’s green sandals.
“You’re not supposed to do anything,” Sam said. “Just . . . is there anything you want to tell us? Anything at all?”
She hesitated, rubbing her foot along the hardwood. Dean tried to imagine the room full of books and toys and clothes, lived in. He couldn’t.
“I don’t know,” she said again. Dean couldn’t quite identify the tone in her voice. It wasn’t fear, exactly, or defiance.
“Let’s go downstairs,” he said.
This time they found the glassed-in space-sun porch was what Sam had called it-that ran the length of the house’s rear wall. Beyond the glass wall, the lawn ran wild; clearly it hadn’t been cared for much better when it’s owners were alive. Dean thought he wouldn’t mind cutting the grass back a little, not going all Better Homes and Gardens or anything, but trimming it enough that you could sit out in a lawn chair without having to check yourself for ticks. It wouldn’t altogether suck to sit out there with Sam, drinking beers and enjoying the un-noise of not another human for half a mile. If this thing between them kept happening-and Dean had lost too many things to make assumptions-Sam might like messing around out there, under the moonlight or some shit. Dean wasn’t exactly hating on the idea either.
“What are you thinking?” Sam asked, bumping Dean’s shoulder.
And really that was an obnoxious question, one he’d normally razz Sam a lot for asking, but the nature of his last few thoughts had him feeling guilty, and warm in places he’d rather not mention. He shrugged off Sam’s touch and cleared his throat before answering.
“I think we should get outta here. Find a motel.”
“Are you sure? Maybe we should take another walk around . . . ”
Over Sam’s shoulder, Dean watched Layla stand in the middle of what used to be the living room. Her back was to him, so he couldn’t see the expression on her face. He was kind of glad about that.
“Maybe this was a mistake, Sam. I don’t . . . ” He trailed off, scraping a hand over the top of his head. Maybe he had developed allergies in his old age; dust was clogging his sinuses, making his throat ache and his eyes tear.
“Dude, talk to me.”
“Sam, I know you don’t remember anything about the house in Lawrence. But I do, and trust me, it’s not a fun place to go back to.”
Sam took a hesitant step forward, concern all over his face.
“I know you remember the fire, man. And, hey, I’m sorry about that. I wish neither of us-”
“No, Sam, it’s not the fire. Yeah, I remember that night, but I also remember what it was like before. Dad making bunny-rabbit pancakes at the stove and Mom bathing you in the sink while you screamed your head off and . . . fuck. It’s not good, Sam. Okay?”
“Dean, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m the lucky one here. At least I remember Mo-before.”
It was true. Dean had pieces of the past at least, the good times before their family went to Hell, or maybe it was Hell that came to them. Dad getting home from work, opening the door, calling out, “Where’s my little slugger?” Which seemed ridiculous because, after the fire, Dean couldn’t remember one instance of Dad playing catch with either of them.
Sam didn’t remember anything. Once he told Dean he thought he remembered their mother holding him, one arm supporting his butt, a handful of her blond hair clutched in his fat baby fist. Sam was completely convinced of this memory until Dean showed him the photo of Mary doing just that, and explained that Sam had just seen the picture so many times that he thought he remembered the actual event. Sam had looked totally crestfallen, and Dad had told Dean to mind his own business.
What was the harm in letting Sam believe?’
Sam was quiet for a moment, watching Dean with eyes gone soft, and Christ, Dean wished he’d just kept his mouth shut about the whole thing. Sam’s hands fluttered before he shoved them down into his pockets.
“I don’t think that Layla’s remembering the good times here,” Sam said finally. “Don’t ask me how, I just don’t think that’s what’s going on. But look, it’s late. And maybe this isn’t the best place to talk to her. We’ll go get a motel, okay?”
Dean nodded, grateful that this conversation was over if for nothing else.
“Hey, Layla,” he called. “Tell Sam you want burritos for dinner so it’s two against one.”
She didn’t say anything so he went into the living room and found her sitting on the cushionless shell of the couch, and really if he had to see one more heartbreaking sight in the next hour he was going to lose it. He lowered himself down on the arm, reached out to nudge her shoulder.
“Wake up. You’re heavy, and I don’t wanna carry you to the car.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I’m teasing. You’re pretty light.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t remember anything,” she said softly.
He forced his lips into something like a smile.
“A lot of times, when bad things happen to people, adults too, they don’t remember. It’s like a game your mind plays so you don’t have to think about the bad stuff.”
“Dean,” Sam said, coming to stand behind him. “I don’t think that’s what she means. I don’t think she’s talking about the night her parents . . . ” He trailed off.
Dean arched a brow, and Sam went on.
“I don’t think she remembers living here.”
---
“What could happen to make her forget the last six years of her life?”
“I don’t know, Sam, and I don’t see us finding out anytime soon. We kind of exorcised the only witness.”
They were drinking coffees and listening to Layla splash in the bathtub in the other room. Dean had given her a couple empty Coke cans and a funnel he found under the backseat.
“Don’t give me that look,” he’d said when Sam raised a brow at the improvised bath toys. “I had to bribe you with Hershey kisses when you were a kid to get you in the bath. We thought you were, like, allergic to soap.”
Sam just laughed.
“You bribed me with kisses?”
“Shuddup.”
Now Sam drained the last of his coffee and arced the empty Styrofoam into the trashcan.
“The house in Maine was a bust. So we keep looking, right?”
“Mmm,” Dean grunted. He was mostly listening to Sam, but he kept an ear peeled toward the bathroom. He was pretty sure seven-year olds were capable of bathing themselves without drowning in the bathtub; but Layla had seemed off all afternoon.
“We hit a few . . . colleges . . . do some research and . . . talk to . . . ah . . . professor-”
Dean looked up to see Sam swaying.
“Sam?”
“Ah, God.”
Sam hunched over in the chair, hands wrapping around his skull. Dean was on his feet and rounding the table in two steps. He dropped to his knees, catching Sam by the shoulders in time to keep him from slumping forward onto the floor.
Dean propped Sam up with one hand, the other supporting his back while Sam groaned through the worst of it. Anything Dean could think to say sounded stupid or patronizing so he just kept a hand on Sam’s back, waited for him to come out of it.
After a while, Sam raised his head. His face was shiny-slick with sweat, and Dean resisted the urge to go get him a towel. His hand stayed a reassuring weight on Sam’s shoulder.
“I’m okay,” Sam said finally and gave a little shrug to let Dean know he could let go. The guy could cuddle with the best of them, collapsing atop Dean after sex like a giant man-shaped blanket. But he hated being coddled. Dean couldn’t exactly blame him for that.
Dean removed his hand and eased back on his haunches. Sam’s breath was coming harsh and shallow, and he had a hand cupped around the side of his head like he was afraid the contents would leak out his ear otherwise.
“You want some water?” Dean said, and Sam’s face twisted into a frown.
“I said I’m fine.”
Dean curbed the impulse to roll his eyes. Instead he shrugged and stood, crossed the room to sit on one of the beds. Sam sat there panting another couple minutes before rising and going to the sink. He filled a plastic cup with water and drank it down slowly. After, he rinsed out the cup and came to sit beside Dean on the bed, shoulder-to-shoulder like fellow soldiers.
Knowing by now it was a waste of time trying to push (or nudge) Sam where he didn’t want to go, Dean waited, and let Sam set the pace.
“I was back at the house. Rick and Maddy Omeras’.”
“Vision?” Dean asked as casually as he could manage.
He couldn’t see Sam’s face but knew from experience he was frowning. At least this time it wasn’t Dean he was frustrated with. So that was something.
“More like a memory,” Sam said.
“Layla’s,” Dean said, and it wasn’t even a question. He didn’t bother asking why his brother was getting random brain downloads from a kid whose parents were murdered by a demon they bagged a week ago. After all they had seen and experienced these last couple years, it just wasn’t that big of a stretch.
“It was early in the morning,” Sam was saying. “Still cold. Somebody must have been making breakfast because the house smelled like fresh coffee and bacon.”
“Can we get to the part of the story that isn’t gonna make me hungry?” Dean quipped, and Sam snorted humorlessly.
“Trust me,” Sam said. “The next part’s guaranteed to kill even your appetite. I went into the living room, and in the middle of the floor was a woman tied to a chair. She was . . . in a lot of pain. I couldn’t make out everything she was saying, but she kept repeating the words, ‘no, please’ and ‘I have a daughter.’”
Dean tried to picture Maddy Omera but all he could see was a grown-up version of Layla-blond hair and big, frightened eyes. He shuddered.
“That all you remember?” he said, tone a little huskier than he would have liked.
“I tried to get a better look, but . . . ” Sam sounded so guilty that Dean had the urge to pat his back again, say it was okay. “I was behind her. I’m pretty sure her hair was supposed to be blond.”
“Supposed to be?”
“There was a lot of blood.”
“Jesus.” Dean closed his eyes. It was enough that the kid was an orphan now. That she’d actually seen the demon kill her parents, at least her mother, seemed too cruel. Dean didn’t believe in much of anything, but if he did he would have prayed that Layla not remember this.
“And then it was like I blacked out for a few minutes. When I woke up, I knew she was dead.”
“Was it the demon bitch who did it? One we wasted in Georgia?”
“I guess. I couldn’t see her face, but . . . I mean, that makes sense. I wish we’d kept her alive for a while,” Sam said darkly. “I wish we hadn’t exorcised her so quickly.”
Dean hadn’t heard his brother’s voice take on that tone in about nine months. The one that vowed not just retribution but pain, and promised to take a lot of pleasure in the process.
“Yeah, well,” Dean said facing forward. “Can’t get much deader than dead.”
“Oh God. Dean. I could smell bacon frying.”
“Yeah, you mentioned the bacon.”
“Her parents must have been cooking breakfast when the demon . . . when it came. I brought bacon and egg sandwiches back to the room that day she ran off. Do you think that’s why . . .?”
“I don’t know. And there’s no way for you to either. Focusing on mistakes we made ain’t gonna help her now. Right?”
Sam sighed. He sounded like himself again, worn-weary and too old for twenty-six.
“I’m just . . . so tired.”
“What was that?” Dean asked even though he had heard Sam just fine.
“I don’t wanna let her go, Dean. Not her too, okay?”
“Okay,” Dean said.
Anything, Sam.
Chapter Three