Spn fic: Our Town (gen, pre-series)
Title: Our Town
Author: krisomniac
Rating/Warnings: pg-13 for language
Disclaimer: Sam and Dean Winchester belong to Kripke et al. "Our Town" is a play my Thornton Wilder about, perhaps, the most un-Winchester life that's possible--until the end, anyway.
Authors notes: Thanks to ignipes for the masterful beta
Summary:
"Dad and me did just fine without these stupid costumes. I feel like a high school drama dork.... What was that play you did--Our Town. Yeah, you were good. It was cute."
- episode 116, Shadow
Our Town
Dean rolled out from under the half-rusted '72 Mustang and sat up, rubbing the stiffness from his shoulder. It was still bruised from sparring with Sam the other night. He'd never let the kid know it, but he had a mean right hook and had landed Dean a solid blow before Dean pinned him on his back in the grass.
He stood and wiped his hands on a threadbare rag hanging from a nail in the wall, laid his tools in their box and closed it for the night, each wrench and ratchet clean and in its proper place. The engine he'd been working on was neatly arranged in piles on the floor. It would stay that way overnight; no one had any reason to disturb it. It wouldn't be too long before he had the thing up and running again, and he couldn't wait to see the look on his boss' face.
Dean hit the 'eject' button on the stereo and the music abruptly stopped: guitars cut off mid-tab, pounding bass lines halted mid-thump, and pianos ended mid-chord. A palpable silence fell over the dimly lit garage. Slipping the cassette into his pocket, he killed the lights, locked the door of Cal's Auto Works behind him, and stepped out into the cool evening air.
The last winter flies buzzed in the tall weeds and dusty moths circled the streetlamps at the edge of the road, but the night was pleasantly warm for December in Georgia. Dean trod the gravel path to the parking lot where his car was waiting, polished to a deep black shine and freshly detailed. He stood to admire it for a moment, and felt a swell in his chest as time he remembered Dad dropping the keys in his hands, reminding him that it was due for an oil change and charging him to take care of it or else. Dean smiled and patted the roof, soundlessly opened the driver's side door, and sank into the driver's seat, completely and utterly relaxed.
Cruising down the back roads towards central Glennville, Dean opened the windows and turned the volume up, losing himself in the sounds of Candlemass, the purr of the engine, and the wind passing by. He glanced at his watch. There was half an hour until Sammy's rehearsal ended--plenty of time to get back to the apartment and change out of his grease-stained coveralls--though he pressed a little harder on the gas and took the turns a little tighter, just in case.
The turn signal clicked in time with his music as he pulled into the driveway of the small apartment complex where they'd spent the past four months. Dad's truck was parked in front of their place, tailgate down, several boxes piled inside. The front door of the apartment was ajar, but his dad was nowhere to be seen.
Dean was immediately on alert, back tense. Dizziness swirled through his blood, a spinning sensation that gripped him as though the ground had just fallen away. He clenched his fingers tight on the wheel and reminded himself to breathe.
By the time he'd pulled up, turned off his engine and stepped out of the car, he was in control again. He slipped a handgun from the glove compartment into his pocket, just in case, and grabbed a flashlight from under the seat. The shadow of a nearby forsythia bush gave him cover and he waited, watching the apartment for any signs of movement.
Moments later, his father came to the door carrying several large and unwieldy bags over his shoulder. He stepped into the pool of porch light and looked out, scanning the night, eyes coming quickly to rest on Dean's hiding place.
"Dean," he called, squinting into the dark. "That you?"
"Yeah, Dad." Dean moved out of the shadows and jogged over to the door.
"You're working late. Where's your brother?"
Dean pocketed the flashlight and took one of the bags from his father's hands. "School," he said. The duffel was heavy and awkward, and as he shouldered it metal clanged on metal inside. "What's going on?" he asked with a sinking feeling in his gut.
He already knew the answer. Peering into the small apartment, he saw all he needed to. Dad wasn't just packing for a mid-week hunting trip. He was hitting the road.
With them.
Again.
~
"So call me," Berrit said, flipping her long, curly hair over one shoulder. "If you want to go over lines...or...or something." She smiled hopefully, lip gloss shining, then turned and walked off to the parking lot before Sam could say that he'd like to, very much. Instead, he watched her go, studying the curve of her calf below her skirt, the bounce of her hair over her backpack, the way one hand was tucked into its strap while the other swung casually by her side.
He paused before looking out to the road in front of school, relishing this last moment of freedom before Dean opened the door, whistled, and called for him to climb into the car like a good Sam. He almost wished, for half an instant, that one day he'd finish class and no black beast of a Chevy would be waiting for him. Almost.
But he smiled with relief to see it parked alone by the curb, Dean just visible through the open windows in the orange light of the streetlamps, tapping his fingers on the wheel and pretending not to watch Sam in the side mirror. He leaned across the front seat and opened the passenger door, whistling as though to a dog.
"Come on, Sammy!"
Sam ran down the steps before Dean could humiliate him in front of anyone he knew, and silently thanked whomever was listening that Berrit had already left for her car. He threw his backpack--perhaps a little too aggressively--into the back seat, sat down, and slammed the door shut.
"It's Sam," he said.
"Right, whatever. What's your little girlfriend's name?" Dean turned his music down, rested his right arm over the seat, and smirked.
"She's not my girlfriend. She's a friend. And she's in the play with me."
Dean's expression didn't change. He seemed to have no intention of starting the car anytime soon, and Sam considered waiting him out in silence.
He lasted about thirty seconds before nearly exploding with the news. "Her name is Berrit, and she's a sophomore." Dean nodded for him to go on. Sam smiled, recalling her pretty eyes and long, mascara-laden lashes. "She's my wife. In the play, I mean. We have a lot of scenes together, so she asked me to come over to practice."
Dean raised an eyebrow, and his smirk--if it was possible--grew even smirkier. "To practice?" he asked.
"Yes," Sam said firmly. "To go over our lines -- before the performance this weekend."
Dean faced forwards and turned the key in the ignition. "'Go over your lines'? Now there's a word for 'make-out session' I haven't heard before." The engine started with a loud, familiar purr, and Dean put the car in gear. "This weekend..." he said, more to himself than Sam, and pulled away down the street, suddenly quiet.
Sam frowned. Usually seeing Sam talk to a girl was worth at least fifteen minutes of teasing about his last few disastrous dates--like the one that ended with Sam waist-deep in a local creek--several attempts at browbeating more personal information about the girl, her bra-size and whether she had sisters, and at least three offers of advice about everything from condoms to French kisses to where to put his oversized paws in public.
Tonight, Dean stared stonily ahead, apparently having forgotten about Berrit altogether.
They drove down Hencart Street and past Church Circle. Sam knew every road, every inch of pavement in town. He'd learned them the week they'd arrived, reading every sign as Dean drove slowly down each in turn, mapping the area so they'd know where people lived, where to find churches, cemeteries, consecrated ground, the fastest way home from just about anywhere, and escape routes so nothing could trap them in dark alleys or on dead-end roads.
He knew that Dean usually cruised down the winding roads fast enough over the speed limit that Sam was glad there were no cops around, eager to get home to a microwave dinner and the evening phone call from Dad. Tonight he drove unhurriedly, lost in thought.
Just as Sam was going to ask what was going on, Dean turned to him. "Want to go to Joe's?" he asked. "I could use a milkshake."
Without waiting for an answer, Dean slowed and pulled a U-turn at the next intersection. In less than fifteen minutes, they were seated at a clean, chrome booth at Joe's All-American All-Night Diner, home of the biggest, juiciest burgers in the state of Georgia. Dean was laughing with the pretty blonde waitress who seated them. She had introduced them to her friend and congratulated Sam on a nearly-finished semester. Dean ordered a Hawaiian Burger whose very existence made Sam cringe, and they both got large chocolate milkshakes.
It was only after they'd finished their burgers, Dean had gotten the waitress' phone number, and they'd bemoaned the lack of Metallica albums on the diner jukebox that Sam noticed anything strange.
"How come you keep looking at the clock?" he asked.
"What?" Dean spun back to face him. "I don't," he said, swallowing a mouthful of milkshake.
"You do. You just did."
Dean rolled his eyes but didn't deny it again. Sam recognized the expression; it was the one Dean used when he didn't want to tell Dad that a rock from a passing truck had dinged the car, or when local bouncers refused to believe the I.D. that said a sixteen-year-old was twenty-three. It was guilt and panic well-hidden under a clenched jaw and evasive stare. It meant Sam was right.
"You're stalling."
"Am not."
"You've had your face buried in that milkshake for the last half hour, but it's not even partway done."
"I drink slow."
"What's wrong?"
Dean shrugged. "Nothin'." He looked at the clock, but not at the waitress and her friend who were tirelessly working to catch his eye. "I can't just take my little brother out for dinner?"
Sam fixed him with what he hoped was an Intimidating and Skeptical Stare. "You never just take me out to dinner. You pull over for a bite on the road. You order in when we're out of food. And you treat girls to a meal before telling them you're about to skip town--" Sam paused. "That's what this is, isn't it?"
Dean snorted and put down his milkshake. "It's not a fucking date if that's what you mean." He shrugged. "I don't know what you're--"
"Dad's leaving. We're leaving. He sent you to be his errand boy."
"--crazy."
"I am not crazy." Sam made a swipe for the keys sitting out on the table, and Dean's hand slapped down a moment too late. Sam stood and backed slowly away, the keys jingling in his hand.
"You're making a scene," Dean said under his breath, low and menacing, holding his hand out and advancing slowly. Their waitress was staring, and her friend had fallen silent. The lights in the diner suddenly seemed too harsh and glaring.
Sam blinked, trying to clear his head. They were leaving. Leaving Berrit, leaving a school he was finally settling in at, leaving the roads he knew, the apartment he knew, small and comfortable with all of their photos taped to the walls. "I don't care. He can't-- He can't just keep doing this. I'm going to find him. Now."
"Hang on," Dean put his hands up, wary now. "Let me just pay the bill, then we'll go." He stepped to the side, to the counter and smiled at the girls. They rang him out, still giggling. "Meet you outside." Dean paused. "And if you even think about driving my car, I'll kill you."
~
Dean pulled into the driveway. Dad's truck was long gone and the windows were all dark; Sam was tense and brooding beside him. It might have been any other night, except he knew that inside their few possessions were boxed and gone, the guns and knives halfway to Boston. The picture frames and photos and old, leather-bound books were stashed in the pickup, wrapped in torn jeans and flannel shirts to keep them safe. Only the furniture and linens that came with the apartment would be waiting for them, bare and shadowy in all their gaudy, flower-printed glory. The floors would be swept clean of dust, the windows and counters and television remote control wiped free of fingerprints. Dad had likely even scrubbed the microwave before leaving. Nothing would remain in the house to say, "The Winchesters Were Here."
Dean unlocked the door and stepped inside.
Sam followed close behind, staring around the empty rooms as though he hadn't really believed until now that they were leaving. He found the note on the kitchen table, written in their father's heavy, block print: "42.35-71.01, Sunday AM."
"Coordinates," Sam said, barely in control of the tremor in his voice. "He wants us there Sunday?"
"Looks like," Dean said warily.
"He wants us--where is this? Up north somewhere?--fucking Sunday." Sam shook the note, now clenched in his fist and crumpled, before Dean's face.
"Dude, that's what it says. I get it. It sucks." Dean brushed Sam's hand away. He wasn't entirely sure what to say, and he wasn't entirely comfortable with Sam getting in his face like that. Until this past summer, Dean had always been the taller one. "But he has a job to do."
"It sucks? It sucks? The goddamn hunt, that's all you can--you have no idea--" And Sam hit the wall, hard. He pulled away, rubbing his knuckles, face scrunched up in anger and frustration and fear.
Dean tried to reassure him. "Easy on the drywall there, tiger. We don't want to lose the security deposit on this place."
"So he's gone," Sam said, taking a deep breath. "Fine. But why do we have to follow him?"
Dean went over to the fridge and pulled out the last two Cokes. He offered one to Sam, who looked at him like he was crazy, and took a long sip of the other. Carbonated bubbles stung all the way down his throat, and the cold drink made his temples pound. He put the can down on the counter. "Because you’re his son. Because you're a minor. Because he asked. And," he said, taking another sip of his Coke, "because I'm driving you."
"You're not a minor anymore. You could stay here. It's paid up to the end of the month." Sam looked around almost desperately. "I could stay with you."
Dean forced a smile.
"We could. Did you even ask Dad? Did you even try?"
"Yeah, Sam," he said. "Of course I did."
Dean had come down the stairs not three hours before. His hair was still wet from the shower, clothes clinging to his damp but motor oil-free skin. Before he could grab his jacket from its hook by the door, though, Dad had called him over to the kitchen. If you leave here Friday morning, you shouldn't have any trouble making Boston by Sunday.
Sam won't be happy. Dean had replied. He's got that play on Saturday night.
You didn't complain when we left Twin Falls before your graduation, and I happen to know how many teachers you had to convince to give you that diploma.
Yeah, well, Dean had shrugged helplessly. I'm not Sam.
But it's just a play.
Dean didn't say that maybe it wasn't just a play, that Sam had been rehearsing late at school every night for weeks, that the cute girl he was crushing on was playing the female lead. Instead he said, He reserved seats for us. Apparently they're hard to come by.
Dean, this thing in Boston is a killer. If I stick around here, people there will die.
But Sam and I could meet you a day later-- He'd been thinking about the Mustang, lying in pieces on the floor of the garage, and about Cal, the easygoing owner who'd offered him a job, paid him under the table, never asked questions when he missed a day or came into work bruised and bloodied; Cal, waiting to see if Dean could get the car to run.
It's not safe--Dean, you leave here Friday. That's an order.
Dean had swallowed and nodded. Alright. You should be gone when we get back. I'll break the news to him.
Dad had agreed and Dean thought he heard him mutter thank you as the door shut behind him.
"He must have had his reasons," Dean said. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it by the door.
Sam was still bristling in the center of the room, spoiling for a fight. "But he wouldn't share any of those reasons with us."
"Look. It's late. Go to bed. Cool off. We'll talk about it in the morning."
Sam rolled his eyes and stormed down the hall. Dean heard the bedroom door slam, a few heavy footfalls, then silence. He shut off the lights and started to get ready for bed.
~
It was after three when Sam sat up slowly. The breeze blowing through his window was fresh and cold, and goose pimples stood out on his arms. He pulled a wool sweater from the bag that lay packed at the foot of his bed. It was soft and worn with patched elbows and frayed edges, but it kept out the winter air. He left the shoes in the bag, shouldered it, and tip-toed out of the room in wool socks.
The hallway was dark and empty; pale moonlight shone through the window at the end. Nothing was left of the pictures on the walls except stray bits of glue from the sticky side of the tape that used to hold them up. He passed Dad's tiny room; the bookshelves and closet were empty. In the bathroom there was nothing but two toothbrushes, toothpaste, a bar of soap, and a couple of disposable razors on the counter by the sink.
The door to Dean's room was partway open, and Sam saw him fast asleep on the bed, his discarded coveralls hanging over the chair, blankets pulled over his head.
Sam readjusted the bag on his shoulder, took a deep breath, and padded down hall. The living room was silent, and he held his breath as he reached for the door. No crickets chirped in the winter stillness, and the door opened without a squeak or squeal.
He exhaled slowly--
And something barreled into his chest.
Sam fell backwards into the house, the wind knocked out of him. He tried to call for Dean, but his voice was stuck in somewhere in his throat and all that came out was a breathy croak.
Then instinct kicked in, and he began to fight back.
He swung at the intruder's face, but the stranger dodged easily and reeled away. Sam scrambled to his feet and whirled around, waiting, fists raised. When the intruder attacked again, he was ready.
He aimed a right hook at the attacker's face, dodging the return punch and tripping over one of the kitchen chairs. Straightening up quickly, he jabbed another punch into the guy's gut. The intruder stumbled back against the wall, and a familiar grunt stopped Sam mid-charge.
"Dean?" he gasped.
In the moment he paused, Dean was at his side, grabbing his arm and spinning him around, pinning him to the ground with a knee in the small of his back.
They stayed that way for several seconds, both breathing hard.
"Still not quite fast enough, Sammy-boy," Dean said between breaths.
Sam didn't bother to argue. "What--what were you doing outside?" he asked instead.
"Waiting for you, of course." Dean smiled and Sam noticed, with some satisfaction, that his nose was bleeding freely.
"What the hell were you waiting for?" he asked. "Who the hell's in your bed?"
Dean grinned but answered seriously. "Some old pillows. I had a feeling you were going to make a break for it."
The floor was uncomfortable beneath Sam's ribs and cheek. "So, what, you're going to watch me for the next three days? Every minute? Tie me up to get me in that car?"
Dean frowned. "If I have to," he replied.
"What the hell." Sam struggled under the weight that held him and wished he were more than just an inch or two taller than his brother. Then he'd be able to push him away, fight him off, get the hell out of here, have a normal life. It was no good. As he struggled, Dean pulled his arm tighter behind him. "Don't you know how insane this is?" Sam asked. "I've been -- we've been rehearsing for months. There's no one else who can take this part. I can't find a substitute at such short notice.
"Hey, man..."
"Do you even realize how selfish you are, you and Dad? It's like nothing even matters to you--"
Dean raised an eyebrow.
"--but the hunting." Sam turned the side of his face that wasn't ground into the carpet, towards Dean and tried to meet his eyes, hoping that if he concentrated hard enough and wished hard enough, his big jock-strap of a brother would understand how important this was.
The knee let up off the small of his back, and Dean released his arm. Sam tried to catch his breath, rolling over.
"Fine," Dean said, standing up. "Let me think." His jaw was clenched, eyes roaming back and forth across the room, reading an atlas Sam couldn't see.
"Fine what? What're you doing?"
"Thinking," Dean replied shortly.
"Looks painful."
"Do you want to make your play or not? 'Cause you'd better shut up."
Sam shut up and watched Dean silently counting the miles, minutes, and tanks of gas between Glenville and wherever they were going. "If we leave right after your play, and don't stop, we'll only be a few hours late to Boston."
Boston? Sam wondered how many hours Dean was willing to drive in a row. He hardly dared hope. "A few? Like how many?"
"Seven or eight."
"How're you going to explain that to Dad?"
"Dude, I don't know. I'll figure it out.
"But--"
"It'll be fine. Go to bed." Dean tossed the backpack back to Sam, who caught it neatly on his chest.
Sam stopped at the door to his room. "Dean?"
"Yeah."
"Thanks."
"Whatever. Go to bed. And do me a favor, don't run away again. I need my fucking beauty sleep."
"Night," Sam said and went inside. He closed the door quietly behind him.
~
The Central Glennville High School looked and smelled and felt like every other high school Dean had ever set foot in. The aroma of old fried food permeated the hallways, there was gum under every available surface, hearts inscribed with initials scratched into the fronts of the lockers, scuff marks on the linoleum floors. If anything, the only difference was that high school was smaller than he remembered.
He followed the movement of the crowd towards the auditorium, found his name and seat number on a list, and went inside. The curtain was still and blue, and the audience was filing in on every side. He was about halfway back, ten seats into the row with a chatty, gray-haired woman to his left and an empty seat to his right.
The lights dimmed. Dean stretched his legs and sunk down into the stiff chair, crossing his arms over his chest planning to sleep through the show. He had a marathon drive coming up as soon as it was over and needed all the rest he could get.
The curtain rose on a nearly empty set. A pimply-faced boy walked out and introduced himself, the town of Grover's Corners and the main characters. One of them was Sam, and the other was that curly-haired girl he'd been talking to outside the school.
Dean decided to watch for little before passing out.
"This is the way we were: in our growing up and in our marrying and in our living and in our dying." The pizza-faced stage manager waved a hand around the scene. Sam was frozen still, admiring his girl. There was a mother and a milkman, and a town drunk to boot. Maybe the play wasn't so bad after all.
Someone began to push his way into Dean's row, causing a ripple of shifting bodies and drawn-up legs. The seat beside him was the only empty one in the theater, as far as he could tell. He bemoaned the loss of leg room but budged over so the newcomer could take his seat.
"Hey, Dean."
Dean looked up, startled, his heart lodged somewhere in his throat. "Dad?" He quickly sat up straight, ran a hand through his hair, and began to consider a series of excuses and reasons and apologies for being here, in Georgia, for disobeying orders. "Uh--" he said, gripping the arm of the chair to steady his hand. "I… we--were going to--"
"Yeah." Dad smiled, apologies and forgiveness in the single glance, and he didn't mention the fact that Dean was supposed to be at a motel outside D.C right now. "I figured. How's Sam?"
"He's good. Real good." Dean began to relax and leaned over to ask, ignoring the glare of the woman beside him, "How come you're not in Boston?"
"Bad tip," he whispered. "So I decided to come see how you boys were doin'."
Dean exhaled and turned back toward the front of the auditorium.
On the stage, Sam began to speak. He was standing on top of a ladder, talking to the girl. Even half a theater away, his excitement was palpable, his voice ringing out over the audience. The girl took his hand, and Sam blushed bright red for everyone to see.
Dean glanced over at his father--whose attention was focused entirely on the stage--and smiled. They watched the rest of the play in silence.
Author: krisomniac
Rating/Warnings: pg-13 for language
Disclaimer: Sam and Dean Winchester belong to Kripke et al. "Our Town" is a play my Thornton Wilder about, perhaps, the most un-Winchester life that's possible--until the end, anyway.
Authors notes: Thanks to ignipes for the masterful beta
Summary:
"Dad and me did just fine without these stupid costumes. I feel like a high school drama dork.... What was that play you did--Our Town. Yeah, you were good. It was cute."
- episode 116, Shadow
Our Town
Dean rolled out from under the half-rusted '72 Mustang and sat up, rubbing the stiffness from his shoulder. It was still bruised from sparring with Sam the other night. He'd never let the kid know it, but he had a mean right hook and had landed Dean a solid blow before Dean pinned him on his back in the grass.
He stood and wiped his hands on a threadbare rag hanging from a nail in the wall, laid his tools in their box and closed it for the night, each wrench and ratchet clean and in its proper place. The engine he'd been working on was neatly arranged in piles on the floor. It would stay that way overnight; no one had any reason to disturb it. It wouldn't be too long before he had the thing up and running again, and he couldn't wait to see the look on his boss' face.
Dean hit the 'eject' button on the stereo and the music abruptly stopped: guitars cut off mid-tab, pounding bass lines halted mid-thump, and pianos ended mid-chord. A palpable silence fell over the dimly lit garage. Slipping the cassette into his pocket, he killed the lights, locked the door of Cal's Auto Works behind him, and stepped out into the cool evening air.
The last winter flies buzzed in the tall weeds and dusty moths circled the streetlamps at the edge of the road, but the night was pleasantly warm for December in Georgia. Dean trod the gravel path to the parking lot where his car was waiting, polished to a deep black shine and freshly detailed. He stood to admire it for a moment, and felt a swell in his chest as time he remembered Dad dropping the keys in his hands, reminding him that it was due for an oil change and charging him to take care of it or else. Dean smiled and patted the roof, soundlessly opened the driver's side door, and sank into the driver's seat, completely and utterly relaxed.
Cruising down the back roads towards central Glennville, Dean opened the windows and turned the volume up, losing himself in the sounds of Candlemass, the purr of the engine, and the wind passing by. He glanced at his watch. There was half an hour until Sammy's rehearsal ended--plenty of time to get back to the apartment and change out of his grease-stained coveralls--though he pressed a little harder on the gas and took the turns a little tighter, just in case.
The turn signal clicked in time with his music as he pulled into the driveway of the small apartment complex where they'd spent the past four months. Dad's truck was parked in front of their place, tailgate down, several boxes piled inside. The front door of the apartment was ajar, but his dad was nowhere to be seen.
Dean was immediately on alert, back tense. Dizziness swirled through his blood, a spinning sensation that gripped him as though the ground had just fallen away. He clenched his fingers tight on the wheel and reminded himself to breathe.
By the time he'd pulled up, turned off his engine and stepped out of the car, he was in control again. He slipped a handgun from the glove compartment into his pocket, just in case, and grabbed a flashlight from under the seat. The shadow of a nearby forsythia bush gave him cover and he waited, watching the apartment for any signs of movement.
Moments later, his father came to the door carrying several large and unwieldy bags over his shoulder. He stepped into the pool of porch light and looked out, scanning the night, eyes coming quickly to rest on Dean's hiding place.
"Dean," he called, squinting into the dark. "That you?"
"Yeah, Dad." Dean moved out of the shadows and jogged over to the door.
"You're working late. Where's your brother?"
Dean pocketed the flashlight and took one of the bags from his father's hands. "School," he said. The duffel was heavy and awkward, and as he shouldered it metal clanged on metal inside. "What's going on?" he asked with a sinking feeling in his gut.
He already knew the answer. Peering into the small apartment, he saw all he needed to. Dad wasn't just packing for a mid-week hunting trip. He was hitting the road.
With them.
Again.
~
"So call me," Berrit said, flipping her long, curly hair over one shoulder. "If you want to go over lines...or...or something." She smiled hopefully, lip gloss shining, then turned and walked off to the parking lot before Sam could say that he'd like to, very much. Instead, he watched her go, studying the curve of her calf below her skirt, the bounce of her hair over her backpack, the way one hand was tucked into its strap while the other swung casually by her side.
He paused before looking out to the road in front of school, relishing this last moment of freedom before Dean opened the door, whistled, and called for him to climb into the car like a good Sam. He almost wished, for half an instant, that one day he'd finish class and no black beast of a Chevy would be waiting for him. Almost.
But he smiled with relief to see it parked alone by the curb, Dean just visible through the open windows in the orange light of the streetlamps, tapping his fingers on the wheel and pretending not to watch Sam in the side mirror. He leaned across the front seat and opened the passenger door, whistling as though to a dog.
"Come on, Sammy!"
Sam ran down the steps before Dean could humiliate him in front of anyone he knew, and silently thanked whomever was listening that Berrit had already left for her car. He threw his backpack--perhaps a little too aggressively--into the back seat, sat down, and slammed the door shut.
"It's Sam," he said.
"Right, whatever. What's your little girlfriend's name?" Dean turned his music down, rested his right arm over the seat, and smirked.
"She's not my girlfriend. She's a friend. And she's in the play with me."
Dean's expression didn't change. He seemed to have no intention of starting the car anytime soon, and Sam considered waiting him out in silence.
He lasted about thirty seconds before nearly exploding with the news. "Her name is Berrit, and she's a sophomore." Dean nodded for him to go on. Sam smiled, recalling her pretty eyes and long, mascara-laden lashes. "She's my wife. In the play, I mean. We have a lot of scenes together, so she asked me to come over to practice."
Dean raised an eyebrow, and his smirk--if it was possible--grew even smirkier. "To practice?" he asked.
"Yes," Sam said firmly. "To go over our lines -- before the performance this weekend."
Dean faced forwards and turned the key in the ignition. "'Go over your lines'? Now there's a word for 'make-out session' I haven't heard before." The engine started with a loud, familiar purr, and Dean put the car in gear. "This weekend..." he said, more to himself than Sam, and pulled away down the street, suddenly quiet.
Sam frowned. Usually seeing Sam talk to a girl was worth at least fifteen minutes of teasing about his last few disastrous dates--like the one that ended with Sam waist-deep in a local creek--several attempts at browbeating more personal information about the girl, her bra-size and whether she had sisters, and at least three offers of advice about everything from condoms to French kisses to where to put his oversized paws in public.
Tonight, Dean stared stonily ahead, apparently having forgotten about Berrit altogether.
They drove down Hencart Street and past Church Circle. Sam knew every road, every inch of pavement in town. He'd learned them the week they'd arrived, reading every sign as Dean drove slowly down each in turn, mapping the area so they'd know where people lived, where to find churches, cemeteries, consecrated ground, the fastest way home from just about anywhere, and escape routes so nothing could trap them in dark alleys or on dead-end roads.
He knew that Dean usually cruised down the winding roads fast enough over the speed limit that Sam was glad there were no cops around, eager to get home to a microwave dinner and the evening phone call from Dad. Tonight he drove unhurriedly, lost in thought.
Just as Sam was going to ask what was going on, Dean turned to him. "Want to go to Joe's?" he asked. "I could use a milkshake."
Without waiting for an answer, Dean slowed and pulled a U-turn at the next intersection. In less than fifteen minutes, they were seated at a clean, chrome booth at Joe's All-American All-Night Diner, home of the biggest, juiciest burgers in the state of Georgia. Dean was laughing with the pretty blonde waitress who seated them. She had introduced them to her friend and congratulated Sam on a nearly-finished semester. Dean ordered a Hawaiian Burger whose very existence made Sam cringe, and they both got large chocolate milkshakes.
It was only after they'd finished their burgers, Dean had gotten the waitress' phone number, and they'd bemoaned the lack of Metallica albums on the diner jukebox that Sam noticed anything strange.
"How come you keep looking at the clock?" he asked.
"What?" Dean spun back to face him. "I don't," he said, swallowing a mouthful of milkshake.
"You do. You just did."
Dean rolled his eyes but didn't deny it again. Sam recognized the expression; it was the one Dean used when he didn't want to tell Dad that a rock from a passing truck had dinged the car, or when local bouncers refused to believe the I.D. that said a sixteen-year-old was twenty-three. It was guilt and panic well-hidden under a clenched jaw and evasive stare. It meant Sam was right.
"You're stalling."
"Am not."
"You've had your face buried in that milkshake for the last half hour, but it's not even partway done."
"I drink slow."
"What's wrong?"
Dean shrugged. "Nothin'." He looked at the clock, but not at the waitress and her friend who were tirelessly working to catch his eye. "I can't just take my little brother out for dinner?"
Sam fixed him with what he hoped was an Intimidating and Skeptical Stare. "You never just take me out to dinner. You pull over for a bite on the road. You order in when we're out of food. And you treat girls to a meal before telling them you're about to skip town--" Sam paused. "That's what this is, isn't it?"
Dean snorted and put down his milkshake. "It's not a fucking date if that's what you mean." He shrugged. "I don't know what you're--"
"Dad's leaving. We're leaving. He sent you to be his errand boy."
"--crazy."
"I am not crazy." Sam made a swipe for the keys sitting out on the table, and Dean's hand slapped down a moment too late. Sam stood and backed slowly away, the keys jingling in his hand.
"You're making a scene," Dean said under his breath, low and menacing, holding his hand out and advancing slowly. Their waitress was staring, and her friend had fallen silent. The lights in the diner suddenly seemed too harsh and glaring.
Sam blinked, trying to clear his head. They were leaving. Leaving Berrit, leaving a school he was finally settling in at, leaving the roads he knew, the apartment he knew, small and comfortable with all of their photos taped to the walls. "I don't care. He can't-- He can't just keep doing this. I'm going to find him. Now."
"Hang on," Dean put his hands up, wary now. "Let me just pay the bill, then we'll go." He stepped to the side, to the counter and smiled at the girls. They rang him out, still giggling. "Meet you outside." Dean paused. "And if you even think about driving my car, I'll kill you."
~
Dean pulled into the driveway. Dad's truck was long gone and the windows were all dark; Sam was tense and brooding beside him. It might have been any other night, except he knew that inside their few possessions were boxed and gone, the guns and knives halfway to Boston. The picture frames and photos and old, leather-bound books were stashed in the pickup, wrapped in torn jeans and flannel shirts to keep them safe. Only the furniture and linens that came with the apartment would be waiting for them, bare and shadowy in all their gaudy, flower-printed glory. The floors would be swept clean of dust, the windows and counters and television remote control wiped free of fingerprints. Dad had likely even scrubbed the microwave before leaving. Nothing would remain in the house to say, "The Winchesters Were Here."
Dean unlocked the door and stepped inside.
Sam followed close behind, staring around the empty rooms as though he hadn't really believed until now that they were leaving. He found the note on the kitchen table, written in their father's heavy, block print: "42.35-71.01, Sunday AM."
"Coordinates," Sam said, barely in control of the tremor in his voice. "He wants us there Sunday?"
"Looks like," Dean said warily.
"He wants us--where is this? Up north somewhere?--fucking Sunday." Sam shook the note, now clenched in his fist and crumpled, before Dean's face.
"Dude, that's what it says. I get it. It sucks." Dean brushed Sam's hand away. He wasn't entirely sure what to say, and he wasn't entirely comfortable with Sam getting in his face like that. Until this past summer, Dean had always been the taller one. "But he has a job to do."
"It sucks? It sucks? The goddamn hunt, that's all you can--you have no idea--" And Sam hit the wall, hard. He pulled away, rubbing his knuckles, face scrunched up in anger and frustration and fear.
Dean tried to reassure him. "Easy on the drywall there, tiger. We don't want to lose the security deposit on this place."
"So he's gone," Sam said, taking a deep breath. "Fine. But why do we have to follow him?"
Dean went over to the fridge and pulled out the last two Cokes. He offered one to Sam, who looked at him like he was crazy, and took a long sip of the other. Carbonated bubbles stung all the way down his throat, and the cold drink made his temples pound. He put the can down on the counter. "Because you’re his son. Because you're a minor. Because he asked. And," he said, taking another sip of his Coke, "because I'm driving you."
"You're not a minor anymore. You could stay here. It's paid up to the end of the month." Sam looked around almost desperately. "I could stay with you."
Dean forced a smile.
"We could. Did you even ask Dad? Did you even try?"
"Yeah, Sam," he said. "Of course I did."
Dean had come down the stairs not three hours before. His hair was still wet from the shower, clothes clinging to his damp but motor oil-free skin. Before he could grab his jacket from its hook by the door, though, Dad had called him over to the kitchen. If you leave here Friday morning, you shouldn't have any trouble making Boston by Sunday.
Sam won't be happy. Dean had replied. He's got that play on Saturday night.
You didn't complain when we left Twin Falls before your graduation, and I happen to know how many teachers you had to convince to give you that diploma.
Yeah, well, Dean had shrugged helplessly. I'm not Sam.
But it's just a play.
Dean didn't say that maybe it wasn't just a play, that Sam had been rehearsing late at school every night for weeks, that the cute girl he was crushing on was playing the female lead. Instead he said, He reserved seats for us. Apparently they're hard to come by.
Dean, this thing in Boston is a killer. If I stick around here, people there will die.
But Sam and I could meet you a day later-- He'd been thinking about the Mustang, lying in pieces on the floor of the garage, and about Cal, the easygoing owner who'd offered him a job, paid him under the table, never asked questions when he missed a day or came into work bruised and bloodied; Cal, waiting to see if Dean could get the car to run.
It's not safe--Dean, you leave here Friday. That's an order.
Dean had swallowed and nodded. Alright. You should be gone when we get back. I'll break the news to him.
Dad had agreed and Dean thought he heard him mutter thank you as the door shut behind him.
"He must have had his reasons," Dean said. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it by the door.
Sam was still bristling in the center of the room, spoiling for a fight. "But he wouldn't share any of those reasons with us."
"Look. It's late. Go to bed. Cool off. We'll talk about it in the morning."
Sam rolled his eyes and stormed down the hall. Dean heard the bedroom door slam, a few heavy footfalls, then silence. He shut off the lights and started to get ready for bed.
~
It was after three when Sam sat up slowly. The breeze blowing through his window was fresh and cold, and goose pimples stood out on his arms. He pulled a wool sweater from the bag that lay packed at the foot of his bed. It was soft and worn with patched elbows and frayed edges, but it kept out the winter air. He left the shoes in the bag, shouldered it, and tip-toed out of the room in wool socks.
The hallway was dark and empty; pale moonlight shone through the window at the end. Nothing was left of the pictures on the walls except stray bits of glue from the sticky side of the tape that used to hold them up. He passed Dad's tiny room; the bookshelves and closet were empty. In the bathroom there was nothing but two toothbrushes, toothpaste, a bar of soap, and a couple of disposable razors on the counter by the sink.
The door to Dean's room was partway open, and Sam saw him fast asleep on the bed, his discarded coveralls hanging over the chair, blankets pulled over his head.
Sam readjusted the bag on his shoulder, took a deep breath, and padded down hall. The living room was silent, and he held his breath as he reached for the door. No crickets chirped in the winter stillness, and the door opened without a squeak or squeal.
He exhaled slowly--
And something barreled into his chest.
Sam fell backwards into the house, the wind knocked out of him. He tried to call for Dean, but his voice was stuck in somewhere in his throat and all that came out was a breathy croak.
Then instinct kicked in, and he began to fight back.
He swung at the intruder's face, but the stranger dodged easily and reeled away. Sam scrambled to his feet and whirled around, waiting, fists raised. When the intruder attacked again, he was ready.
He aimed a right hook at the attacker's face, dodging the return punch and tripping over one of the kitchen chairs. Straightening up quickly, he jabbed another punch into the guy's gut. The intruder stumbled back against the wall, and a familiar grunt stopped Sam mid-charge.
"Dean?" he gasped.
In the moment he paused, Dean was at his side, grabbing his arm and spinning him around, pinning him to the ground with a knee in the small of his back.
They stayed that way for several seconds, both breathing hard.
"Still not quite fast enough, Sammy-boy," Dean said between breaths.
Sam didn't bother to argue. "What--what were you doing outside?" he asked instead.
"Waiting for you, of course." Dean smiled and Sam noticed, with some satisfaction, that his nose was bleeding freely.
"What the hell were you waiting for?" he asked. "Who the hell's in your bed?"
Dean grinned but answered seriously. "Some old pillows. I had a feeling you were going to make a break for it."
The floor was uncomfortable beneath Sam's ribs and cheek. "So, what, you're going to watch me for the next three days? Every minute? Tie me up to get me in that car?"
Dean frowned. "If I have to," he replied.
"What the hell." Sam struggled under the weight that held him and wished he were more than just an inch or two taller than his brother. Then he'd be able to push him away, fight him off, get the hell out of here, have a normal life. It was no good. As he struggled, Dean pulled his arm tighter behind him. "Don't you know how insane this is?" Sam asked. "I've been -- we've been rehearsing for months. There's no one else who can take this part. I can't find a substitute at such short notice.
"Hey, man..."
"Do you even realize how selfish you are, you and Dad? It's like nothing even matters to you--"
Dean raised an eyebrow.
"--but the hunting." Sam turned the side of his face that wasn't ground into the carpet, towards Dean and tried to meet his eyes, hoping that if he concentrated hard enough and wished hard enough, his big jock-strap of a brother would understand how important this was.
The knee let up off the small of his back, and Dean released his arm. Sam tried to catch his breath, rolling over.
"Fine," Dean said, standing up. "Let me think." His jaw was clenched, eyes roaming back and forth across the room, reading an atlas Sam couldn't see.
"Fine what? What're you doing?"
"Thinking," Dean replied shortly.
"Looks painful."
"Do you want to make your play or not? 'Cause you'd better shut up."
Sam shut up and watched Dean silently counting the miles, minutes, and tanks of gas between Glenville and wherever they were going. "If we leave right after your play, and don't stop, we'll only be a few hours late to Boston."
Boston? Sam wondered how many hours Dean was willing to drive in a row. He hardly dared hope. "A few? Like how many?"
"Seven or eight."
"How're you going to explain that to Dad?"
"Dude, I don't know. I'll figure it out.
"But--"
"It'll be fine. Go to bed." Dean tossed the backpack back to Sam, who caught it neatly on his chest.
Sam stopped at the door to his room. "Dean?"
"Yeah."
"Thanks."
"Whatever. Go to bed. And do me a favor, don't run away again. I need my fucking beauty sleep."
"Night," Sam said and went inside. He closed the door quietly behind him.
~
The Central Glennville High School looked and smelled and felt like every other high school Dean had ever set foot in. The aroma of old fried food permeated the hallways, there was gum under every available surface, hearts inscribed with initials scratched into the fronts of the lockers, scuff marks on the linoleum floors. If anything, the only difference was that high school was smaller than he remembered.
He followed the movement of the crowd towards the auditorium, found his name and seat number on a list, and went inside. The curtain was still and blue, and the audience was filing in on every side. He was about halfway back, ten seats into the row with a chatty, gray-haired woman to his left and an empty seat to his right.
The lights dimmed. Dean stretched his legs and sunk down into the stiff chair, crossing his arms over his chest planning to sleep through the show. He had a marathon drive coming up as soon as it was over and needed all the rest he could get.
The curtain rose on a nearly empty set. A pimply-faced boy walked out and introduced himself, the town of Grover's Corners and the main characters. One of them was Sam, and the other was that curly-haired girl he'd been talking to outside the school.
Dean decided to watch for little before passing out.
"This is the way we were: in our growing up and in our marrying and in our living and in our dying." The pizza-faced stage manager waved a hand around the scene. Sam was frozen still, admiring his girl. There was a mother and a milkman, and a town drunk to boot. Maybe the play wasn't so bad after all.
Someone began to push his way into Dean's row, causing a ripple of shifting bodies and drawn-up legs. The seat beside him was the only empty one in the theater, as far as he could tell. He bemoaned the loss of leg room but budged over so the newcomer could take his seat.
"Hey, Dean."
Dean looked up, startled, his heart lodged somewhere in his throat. "Dad?" He quickly sat up straight, ran a hand through his hair, and began to consider a series of excuses and reasons and apologies for being here, in Georgia, for disobeying orders. "Uh--" he said, gripping the arm of the chair to steady his hand. "I… we--were going to--"
"Yeah." Dad smiled, apologies and forgiveness in the single glance, and he didn't mention the fact that Dean was supposed to be at a motel outside D.C right now. "I figured. How's Sam?"
"He's good. Real good." Dean began to relax and leaned over to ask, ignoring the glare of the woman beside him, "How come you're not in Boston?"
"Bad tip," he whispered. "So I decided to come see how you boys were doin'."
Dean exhaled and turned back toward the front of the auditorium.
On the stage, Sam began to speak. He was standing on top of a ladder, talking to the girl. Even half a theater away, his excitement was palpable, his voice ringing out over the audience. The girl took his hand, and Sam blushed bright red for everyone to see.
Dean glanced over at his father--whose attention was focused entirely on the stage--and smiled. They watched the rest of the play in silence.