Fic - The Good Life
Title: The Good Life
Summary: Sam lives a quiet life in an old cabin by a lake that's surrounded by mountains. It should be exactly what he wants; it should be the peace and quiet that he's been dreaming of for as long as he can remember. But there's something missing. There's someone missing.
Art: by blindswandive and her masterpost is here.
Genre/Spoilers: Gencest. None.
Warnings: Character deaths. Kinda.
Word Count: 4800+
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural that privilege belongs to CW, Kripke and Co, I'm simply borrowing them for a while. I'm not making a profit, this is just for fun and all the standard disclaimers apply.
A/N: This was written for the first ever round of gencestbang challenge. I was absolutely blessed to work with the lovely blindswandive who has produced the most wonderful artwork. The art is embedded in the fic, but please do send her all the love and praise that she deserves here.
A/N 2: A huge thank you to my awesome beta harrigan for all her ideas and input. I've tinkered so all mistakes are mine. Thank you also to the mods for running this wonderful challenge - long may it continue!
The Good Life
The boat's bobbing up and down on the choppy lake-water, the wind whipping up small waves that are spilling over the sides of the boat and soaking through Sam's clothes. He's cold and damp, and he really should be four shades of miserable, but despite everything, Sam loves it out here; he feels out of the way, and yet somehow still in the centre of everything.
Tall trees are packed tightly around the lake, huddled in secret conversations that Sam's only just learning to speak. Huge mountains loom overhead, the tops shrouded in constant thick grey clouds, like they don't ever want to be seen. Sam knows that feeling.
He needed to get out here today; give himself some space to breathe, and to get in the right headspace for what's going to happen later today.
He rows towards the smaller of the two hidden stony beaches that are both only accessible by boat. The smaller one is his favourite, stirring up a childhood memory of skimming stones across a lake with his brother. Sam spends the majority of his time on that beach; scribbling down notes and ideas for his manuscript, Dean never feeling far away.
With the repetition of pulling the oars through the water soothing his nerves, Sam looks up at the dark clouds that are almost upon him now. He saw a distant hint of them earlier this morning over his black coffee and oatmeal, but they were far enough away for Sam to still head out onto the lake. Ever since he got out onto the water, though, it feels like the clouds have been moving in faster, growing darker and moodier by the second.
A storm's coming, and there's no denying it now.
Pushing his disappointment deep down, Sam turns the boat around and rows back towards the small pier; his pace steady and strong. It takes longer than it should to reach the shore, but he's rowing into a mean headwind, his muscles tensing and seizing as he battles through it.
He ties up the boat tighter than he normally would, hoping that it can survive the storm. Sam had found it in the shed, but it needed repairs and since all he had was time on his hands, he'd invested it on the boat, and it was time well spent. He's fond of her, but she always makes him ache for another girl he used to know.
“Here, boy,” Sam calls and then whistles short and sharp, making his way back up the steep bank and the little path that leads towards the cabin. A moment later a yellow dog emerges from the woods to his left, tongue out, running excited circles around Sam as they pass the vegetable garden. Sam laughs gently as the dog runs ahead of him like it's a race to the door. Sometimes he joins in, but not today.
Sam hauls himself up the steps, stands on the decking that circles the small cabin, and takes a breath. It's dark now, the mountains barely visible at all, and the air is heavy with static.
“Think it's going to be a big one?” Sam asks, looking down at the dog, who shoves his wet nose into the palm of Sam's hand. Then the dog whines, and then starts to scratch at the door, barking once and then twice for Sam's attention. “That bad, huh?”
Sam shakes his head. He lets the dog in, feeds and waters him, and then starts locking the doors and closing the small wooden shutters on the windows. There was a bad storm here when Sam first arrived, but it's been pretty quiet since then.
The rain starts as Sam finishes closing the last window shutter. It starts strong, the raindrops cutting into his skin like needles, and it doesn't let up, hammering on the roof like it just might break through the shingles. He should stay indoors with the dog, who's still whining, but even as the first bolt of lightning strikes, he knows he's not staying.
He's got a long drive ahead of him; storm, or no storm. There's no calendar in the cabin, no way for Sam to mark the passing of time, but he's never needed one. Only one day is different, matters more than all the rest, and he always feels the pull of that day deep in the marrow of his bones.
Sam kneels down by the dog now hiding in his bed by the fire, and kisses him on the top of his head and scratches behind his ears; his yellow coat golden and soft between Sam's fingers. “I'll be back soon. I promise.”
He adds wood to the fire and then locks the door, trying not to hear the dog cry, or the sound of his claws clicking on the wooden floorboards as he heads to the door and barks. It's safer for him here, Sam tell himself.
The truck is locked up in the shed and despite the jacket and boots he's wearing, Sam's drenched by the time he gets in. His hair is dripping down his neck, soaking the collar of his blue-plaid shirt and running in streams down his back and making him shiver.
The truck starts with the first turn of the key, and it hasn't ever done that before. Sam's logical brain knows that it's not a sign, but it still feels like it one, and he can't help but smile.
The drive feels long, but in reality it's only a couple of hours. It's been a long time since being on the road with his brother was his life; when tarmac and gas were the blood in his veins. He doesn't stop for the thunder, or for the lightning that lights up the black sky like a lighthouse beam cutting through a storm. He doesn't even stop for the floods that threaten to wash out the road.
Sam pulls the battered old phone out of the glove box as he gets near, and turns it on. He flicks his gaze down, looking for the moment when it lights up and beeps for the only signal found around here. His heart races the moment it does, and he feels dizzy with the rush of emotions.
This call still feels like the best and worst part of his life.
He eases the truck off the road, and dials the only number that's saved into the address book.
“You're late.”
Just the sound of Dean's voice makes Sam grin; a bittersweet feeling rushing through his veins. They agreed to one phone call every year, and it's become Sam's only real measure of time here.
Hearing his brother's voice makes him feel like a little kid all over again, hanging on his brother's every word. Dean sounds good; he sounds great, just like he always does, and always will. Not that Sam will ever tell him that. “There's a storm and it took me longer to get here. Sorry.”
Dean breathes heavily down the phone, and in Sam's mind's eye he can see his brother scrubbing a hand at the back of his head, and pacing the room like a caged animal. Something's wrong.
“Dean, what's going on? Is everything OK?”
“I, er, a change of plan. Well, sort of.”
The line is full of static and Sam can barely hear his brother, but he's pretty sure he heard that right.
“What do you mean a change of plan? This is all figured out and agreed.”
The line crackles, and Dean is speaking, but Sam can't make out what he's saying.
“Dean? I can't hear you.”
“... cabin...”
“Dean?”
“... cabin... now Sam!”
The line goes dead, and Sam tries calling back, but gets nothing. He drives up and down the road and keeps trying, but Dean's gone, and Sam feels sick with it. He punches the steering wheel, once, twice, three times, feeling the raw heat of bruises form on his knuckles almost immediately. He takes a deep breath, and pushes down the rising panic. He hates orders on the best of days, but this one feels like it's burning him from the inside out.
He has no choice but to follow it, heading back to the cabin with a sense of dread that he thought he left behind years ago.
The windshield wipers can't clear the rain fast enough, and Sam squints so hard trying to see that it feels like something is drilling into his grey matter. The full beams of the headlights are barely lighting the way, and Sam's pretty much driving blind.
There's a few close calls, and he has to slam on his breaks for a fallen tree branch that he has to get out and physically move in order to get past, and some stretches of the road are flooded with fast-flowing torrents but he makes it through, eventually.
When he parks up inside the shed, he feels exhausted; his bones heavy, his head pounding, and he can't stop thinking about Dean, and worrying about what could have gone wrong. He thought being here would mean no more living on the edge, and in constant fear that everything will fall apart, that the world will end and more people will die, and he'll lose more of his family.
But in reality it's just the same here. Maybe the views are prettier, and maybe it's quieter, but those fears have never left; they've just become more concentrated on Dean than they ever were before.
With the groan of a man older than Sam's years, he drags himself out of the truck and walks back into the cabin. He can hear the dog barking over the pounding rain, and when he opens the door, the dog all but throws himself at Sam.
Despite everything, it's good to be home.
Sam dreams about the water. He's stranded in the middle of the lake, and the boat's nowhere in sight, and it feels like something is pulling at his feet, trying to drag him under. He's so tired and he knows that he can't fight much longer, and then he's screaming for Dean, over and over again, but no one comes. Sam's all alone.
He jackknifes awake, choking on phantom water, his sheets tangled around his legs and pinning him in place. He hauls away the covers and runs to the bathroom, puking up nothing but bile, his heart still racing. All he can taste is lake water.
He washes up in the sink, purposely not looking at his reflection. He cleans his teeth and combs his fingers through his hair. He picks out some sweats and an old hoodie from the wardrobe and heads into the living room. The dog is waiting patiently by his bowl, his tail wagging excitedly from side to side.
The rain is still hammering on the roof, and with each rumble of thunder and lightning strike the foundations of the cabin seem to shake. Sam doesn't have to look outside to know that the storm is right on top of them, and it's not showing any signs of leaving soon.
He scratches absently at the stubble on his cheeks, and carries out his morning routine almost without a thought. Breakfast eaten, and the washing up done, he's sitting in front of the fire on a high-back chair with a book, when suddenly the dog leaps up from its bed and starts barking at the door.
“There's no one there,” Sam tells the him, because there never is, but then there's a knock, and Sam's on his feet, the book falling to floor with a thud. He pulls out the desk drawer, and his fingers find the cold metal of the loaded .45 that he keeps there. Some habits you just can't break, like the salt lines, sigils, and devil's traps that he's hidden throughout the cabin and its boundaries.
The dog's still barking, and the knocking starts up again. Sam raises the gun and stalks towards the door, arm and weapon outstretched and aimed at whatever's behind that door. He unlocks it, and then steps back, ordering the dog to heel. “It's open.”
The door knob turns in slow motion, like in the terrible horror movies that he and Dean used to watch when they kids; Dean laughing his ass off and shoving popcorn down his throat, and Sam copying his brother's every move.
Heart racing, Sam squares his jaw and perfects his aim, his finger squeezing the trigger just a little as the door creaks open.
“I know it's been a while, Sammy, but you really should recognise your own brother; handsome as he is.”
He wants to lower the weapon, his body is telling him too, but he doesn't let it, because this has to be some sort of trap; his brother can't be here, no one should be here, that was the deal.
“Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?”
He wishes he could say that the dog was snarling, or looking menacing, but maybe Sam's a soft touch when it comes to training, because his dog is nothing but a traitor who goes immediately to the stranger and begs for attention.
“Well at least I get a warm reception from someone, huh, boy?!” Dean, or whoever he really is, bends his knees and pats the dog, who starts to lick his face like he's known him all his life. It's only then that Sam lowers the weapon. Just a little.
“Dean?”
“Well yeah, who did you expect?” Dean stands, his fingertips still grazing the top of dogs head. “I mean I made it through all your secrets traps and sigils, didn't I? And dude, this place is like a maze. I got lost the moment I got here and I had the directions!”
Sam huffs out a laugh and a relieved breath that he didn't know he was holding, and then he's tucking his weapon in the waistband of his jeans, stepping forward, and pulling his brother into his body. He holds tight, and he's grinning so wide that Dean would rip the shit out of him if he could see it.
They hold onto each other for a long time; long enough for Sam's neck to get damp from Dean's breath on his skin, and long enough for the dog to start barking because he's feeling left out.
“It's good to see you, Sammy.” And it feels like Sam's been waiting a lifetime to hear that name.
Dean pulls away gently, but grabs at Sam's biceps and just stares like he needs to catch up on everything he missed.
“You too, man. You too.” It takes Sam a moment to realise that he's doing the same damn thing. There are flecks of silver in Dean's hair that didn't used to be there, and the crows feet around his eyes are set deeper. His skin is paler and his freckles stand out more than they ever used to, and Dean's squinting like he needs glasses but refuses to wear them. He's also soaking wet; a puddle of water is starting to form under his feet.
Sam ushers him further inside and without words, he's taking Dean's coat and getting him a fresh towel from the linen closet.
He watches Dean take his boots off and towel at his hair; things he's seen him do a million times before, but it all feels brand new. Sam knows he's still grinning like a spoilt kid at Christmas; that his eyes are misty and filled with tears of joy. He sees all of that and more reflected in his brother's face.
It's been too long. Too damn long.
“Wait, what are you doing here? What's going on?” That all too familiar feeling of cold dread is settling back into Sam's bones.
“Everything is OK. Everyone is OK. The world isn't ending. So cool your jets and take a breath.”
Sam tries too, he really does, but honestly, it's not really working. They worked hard to make this plan; to hammer out the details, to get everyone's agreement, and now what? Has it gone to absolute shit? Sam's sense of time hasn't been great since he got here, but it hasn't been long enough, has it?
“I promise, I'll answer every possible question you could have, and then all the little ones that you pretend you're not thinking, but actually are.” Dean looks around the small open-plan room, taking it all in. “But can I please just sit down, and put my feet up first. Maybe have a drink and shoot some normal shit with my brother, before we get into all the craziness that is our life.”
“Be my guest.” Sam ushers Dean in front of the fire and down into the chair, the dog already at Dean's feet, his chin resting on Dean's thigh. Sam stokes the fire, and adds more wood before heading into the kitchen and rooting out the special bottle of bourbon that he keeps hidden in the back of the cupboard. He pours a shot into the only glass tumbler he has, which looks pretty much like the ones back in the bunker, and another into his Stanford mug.
Sam drags a chair in front of the fire, right up next to Dean; close enough that the knuckles of their hands graze every now and then.
“So you're doing OK? Settled in and all that jazz?” Dean sits back in the chair, his gaze still flicking around the room, the dog stretched out on the floor over both of their feet.
“Yeah, it's pretty perfect actually. I'll show you around the cabin later, and when the storm's over I'll give you a proper tour of the grounds.”
“And how's that going?” Dean asks, gesturing at the small desk and the old-school typewriter tucked into the corner. There's a stack of white paper held down by a rounded and smooth stone from Sam's beach. “You're really writing it?”
“Yeah,” Sam clear his throat awkwardly, suddenly protective over a book that he once told Dean he'd like to write when he got here. “It's slow going, and I've restarted it more times than I can count. Actually, it's more of a memoir now, I guess.”
Dean nods, his gaze still on the typewriter as he takes a sip of his bourbon. “I'd like to read it someday. Y'know, if that's OK?”
“Sure. Someday.” The conversation flows for a while but it's all about Sam; what he grows in his garden, what he likes to cook, and what he does with all his time. And it feels familiar, but also uncomfortable, like they still need to find their old rhythm in between all the unknowns.
“Was it Billie?” Sam finally has to ask. She was always the weakest link and the one most likely to smash their plan to smithereens.
Dean's staring at the flames in the fire, and there's an expression on his face that Sam doesn't recognise at all; his eyes are sad, but there's a soft smile on his face. Yet another thing to add to the list of all the things Sam doesn't know about his brother.
“Billie kept her part of the bargain. Everyone did.” Dean huffs through his nose and tilts his head to side. “For once, one of our plans actually worked.”
Sam has a thousand questions resting on the tip of his tongue, but then Dean turns his head and looks at Sam right in the eye; a perfect bull's-eye. The firelight makes his skin glow, and for a second he looks just like that kid who broke into Sam's apartment in Stanford all those years ago and set them both on the path that lead them right here.
“I'm kinda beat. Tomorrow? I promise.”
The cabin has two bedrooms. Sam had long ago settled into the smaller one; now he leads Dean into the master. It's not massive, and it doesn't have its own bathroom or anything, but if the shutters weren't closed you could see right onto the lake. There's an old record player on top of the dresser, and a cardboard box full of classic rock records on the floor. There's a photograph in frame by the lamp on the nightstand; a Winchester family portrait only possible because Dean made a wish to a magical pearl years ago.
Dean settles onto the memory foam mattress, and Sam shakes out a blanket and drapes it over his brother, whose eyes are already closed.
Sam wants to whisper something; to spill his heart out about how perfect it is here, a peacefulness that calms his soul.... and yet there was always the quiet ache of something vital missing. Until now, that is. But the words just don't come, and he hovers restlessly by Dean's bed instead.
With his eyes still closed, Dean blindly reaches for Sam's hand, but gets his arm instead, fingers squeezing hard, a gesture that tells him that Dean heard it all anyway.
A weird part of Sam's brain hopes it bruises just to prove that this is all real.
Sam has the worst night's sleep since his first night here in the cabin. The lightning seems to have stopped, but there's a rumble of thunder far off in the distance, and the constant patter of rain on the roof drags him under for a minute at a time, but he keeps jerking awake. Finally he just gets up and hovers in front of Dean's room, peeking through the open door and reminding himself that it wasn't all a dream; his brother really is here.
The need for answers is bothering him more than it should, and his brain keeps circling around the idea that something must have gone wrong, no matter what Dean's said. It's not like Dean doesn't have a history of half-truths, especially if it involves Sam, and while that's all in the past, he still can't seem to shake it.
The storm seems to be on its way out, so Sam unlocks all the windows and doors, and undoes the shutters, the soft light of dawn racing in. He drinks his coffee out on the wraparound porch, breathing in the air and the view of the lake and mountains beyond. He picks up a stick and throws it off into the distance, watching as the dog chases after it.
Ultimately, he tells himself that whatever's going on, Dean's here, and if there's one thing that he's learned over the years, it's that there's nothing that they can't overcome when they're together.
“You've really been holding out on me, huh?” Dean says, a chipped mug of coffee in his hand. “That's one helluva view.”
It's still raining, but the clouds are starting to lift and the water looks so blue it's almost unreal. “I never tire of it either. Every day it looks a little different: the lighting, the clouds, the change of seasons. It's peaceful, y'know?”
“So you're happy here? This really is what you want?”
And that's the big question isn't it? Sam has everything he could ever want, and everything that he needs, but it's still not perfect. It's missing something. Someone. “You already know the answer to that.”
“Do I? It looks pretty damn perfect to me.”
“Yeah, well. Maybe I miss my brother too much for this to be picture-perfect.” He can't look at Dean when he says that; his heart beating out of his chest. They never talk like this, and it makes him feel vulnerable in ways that he never thought he could be with Dean; the one person who really knows him. “Besides, you're a far better cook than me. I haven't eaten properly since I got here.”
Dean snorts, and nudges his shoulder into Sam's. “I wasn't lying, Sam. The plan really did work. My time was just up earlier than we thought.”
Ever since they made this agreement, Sam's always feared that this might happen. “You promised me, Dean. This is why we made the plan in the first place. It was my time to go first, not yours. You were to supposed to live your life.”
“Yeah, well, I got sick.” Dean's looking out over the water, but he looks well rested; relaxed even, more so than Sam's ever seen before. “Something with my heart. There wasn't anything anyone could do. My time came up, and now I'm here with you, just like we planned.”
Sam takes a deep breath. “I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't know.”
“S'OK.” Dean shrugs. “It wasn't much of a life; not really. Not without my pain-in-the-ass little brother.”
They both take a sip of their coffees, and the dog appears from the trees, his stick between his teeth. He drops it by Dean's feet, who throws it towards the water.
Sam watches the dog skid in the mud, the air heavy with a light drizzle. “You know that's probably the most chick-flick thing you've ever said, right?”
“And you're still such a little bitch.”
“Right back at you, Jerk.”
They're laughing as they head inside, and then Dean's rummaging through all Sam's neatly arranged cupboards in search of breakfast.
“There was a big storm when I got here. So, I'm guessing you're the reason for this one?” Sam asks, even though he already knows the answer.
“I guess adding a person here creates some teething problems.”
Sam nods; it makes sense. They're not in heaven, or hell. They bypassed the empty and purgatory, and this is someplace new, built only for the Winchester brothers by Billie's own fair hands. A way to give them some peace in their death, but also to keep them out of her hair, and out of trouble.
He watches Dean putter around the small kitchen, cracking eggs and frying up bacon, and immediately looking at home and at ease in this space. They eat a massive breakfast; the whole nine yards, and it's the best thing that Sam has eaten since he got here.
Sam takes Dean for a guided tour around the cabin, the shed and the old truck, the pier, the vegetable garden, and the boat; the dog following them the whole way. Sam tells Dean about the trail around the lake, and they make plans to walk that tomorrow, and head out on the boat too. Sam tells his brother about his idea to build a little boat house, and that seems to pique Dean's interest almost immediately.
They grill burgers on the barbecue outside, and later they drink beers on the deck, talking for hours until it's well into the night. The stars are out, and they watch the shooting stars light up the perfect sky like fireworks, the moon big and bright, the dog asleep on Dean's feet.
“Bones totally likes me more than you.”
“He does not.”
“Oh come on, your dog loves everything about me.”
“You're just new here. In time, your shine will fade.”
“We'll see, Sammy. We'll see.”
Dean takes a long drag from his beer, the rocking chair swinging back and forth; a loose floorboard underneath squeaking with each gentle rock.
“So, what do think?” Sam asks, picking nervously at the label on the beer bottle.
“I think it's pretty damn perfect.”
“And you, er, think you could be happy here?”
Dean flicks his gaze over his shoulder. “Hell, yeah. This is the dream. And you were right all those years ago; we deserve this.”
Sam huffs, his face aching from smiling so big and wide all day. He feels good; lighter than ever before, and the peace and quiet of a contented afterlife suddenly doesn't seem so hard to envisage.
“You don't miss the Impala?”
Dean grins, his teeth gleaming whiter than white in the moonlight as he digs his hand into his pocket; the keys for the Impala dangling off his fingers. “You didn't think I'd leave her behind, did you?”
Sam laughs, his dimples digging craters into the apples of his cheeks. “She's here? Really?”
“Wanna go for a drive?”
Sam's up on his feet before he has time to think. “Always.”
She's just as he remembers, and Sam takes a moment to run his fingertips over her gleaming-black curves before jumping into the passenger seat. Dean revs her engine, over and over again, his face a picture of childlike glee, and then they're driving too fast down empty back roads.
Sam will happily spend the rest of eternity riding shotgun with his brother behind the wheel; exactly where they both belong.
The End.
Summary: Sam lives a quiet life in an old cabin by a lake that's surrounded by mountains. It should be exactly what he wants; it should be the peace and quiet that he's been dreaming of for as long as he can remember. But there's something missing. There's someone missing.
Art: by blindswandive and her masterpost is here.
Genre/Spoilers: Gencest. None.
Warnings: Character deaths. Kinda.
Word Count: 4800+
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural that privilege belongs to CW, Kripke and Co, I'm simply borrowing them for a while. I'm not making a profit, this is just for fun and all the standard disclaimers apply.
A/N: This was written for the first ever round of gencestbang challenge. I was absolutely blessed to work with the lovely blindswandive who has produced the most wonderful artwork. The art is embedded in the fic, but please do send her all the love and praise that she deserves here.
A/N 2: A huge thank you to my awesome beta harrigan for all her ideas and input. I've tinkered so all mistakes are mine. Thank you also to the mods for running this wonderful challenge - long may it continue!
The Good Life
The boat's bobbing up and down on the choppy lake-water, the wind whipping up small waves that are spilling over the sides of the boat and soaking through Sam's clothes. He's cold and damp, and he really should be four shades of miserable, but despite everything, Sam loves it out here; he feels out of the way, and yet somehow still in the centre of everything.
Tall trees are packed tightly around the lake, huddled in secret conversations that Sam's only just learning to speak. Huge mountains loom overhead, the tops shrouded in constant thick grey clouds, like they don't ever want to be seen. Sam knows that feeling.
He needed to get out here today; give himself some space to breathe, and to get in the right headspace for what's going to happen later today.
He rows towards the smaller of the two hidden stony beaches that are both only accessible by boat. The smaller one is his favourite, stirring up a childhood memory of skimming stones across a lake with his brother. Sam spends the majority of his time on that beach; scribbling down notes and ideas for his manuscript, Dean never feeling far away.
With the repetition of pulling the oars through the water soothing his nerves, Sam looks up at the dark clouds that are almost upon him now. He saw a distant hint of them earlier this morning over his black coffee and oatmeal, but they were far enough away for Sam to still head out onto the lake. Ever since he got out onto the water, though, it feels like the clouds have been moving in faster, growing darker and moodier by the second.
A storm's coming, and there's no denying it now.
Pushing his disappointment deep down, Sam turns the boat around and rows back towards the small pier; his pace steady and strong. It takes longer than it should to reach the shore, but he's rowing into a mean headwind, his muscles tensing and seizing as he battles through it.
He ties up the boat tighter than he normally would, hoping that it can survive the storm. Sam had found it in the shed, but it needed repairs and since all he had was time on his hands, he'd invested it on the boat, and it was time well spent. He's fond of her, but she always makes him ache for another girl he used to know.
“Here, boy,” Sam calls and then whistles short and sharp, making his way back up the steep bank and the little path that leads towards the cabin. A moment later a yellow dog emerges from the woods to his left, tongue out, running excited circles around Sam as they pass the vegetable garden. Sam laughs gently as the dog runs ahead of him like it's a race to the door. Sometimes he joins in, but not today.
Sam hauls himself up the steps, stands on the decking that circles the small cabin, and takes a breath. It's dark now, the mountains barely visible at all, and the air is heavy with static.
“Think it's going to be a big one?” Sam asks, looking down at the dog, who shoves his wet nose into the palm of Sam's hand. Then the dog whines, and then starts to scratch at the door, barking once and then twice for Sam's attention. “That bad, huh?”
Sam shakes his head. He lets the dog in, feeds and waters him, and then starts locking the doors and closing the small wooden shutters on the windows. There was a bad storm here when Sam first arrived, but it's been pretty quiet since then.
The rain starts as Sam finishes closing the last window shutter. It starts strong, the raindrops cutting into his skin like needles, and it doesn't let up, hammering on the roof like it just might break through the shingles. He should stay indoors with the dog, who's still whining, but even as the first bolt of lightning strikes, he knows he's not staying.
He's got a long drive ahead of him; storm, or no storm. There's no calendar in the cabin, no way for Sam to mark the passing of time, but he's never needed one. Only one day is different, matters more than all the rest, and he always feels the pull of that day deep in the marrow of his bones.
Sam kneels down by the dog now hiding in his bed by the fire, and kisses him on the top of his head and scratches behind his ears; his yellow coat golden and soft between Sam's fingers. “I'll be back soon. I promise.”
He adds wood to the fire and then locks the door, trying not to hear the dog cry, or the sound of his claws clicking on the wooden floorboards as he heads to the door and barks. It's safer for him here, Sam tell himself.
The truck is locked up in the shed and despite the jacket and boots he's wearing, Sam's drenched by the time he gets in. His hair is dripping down his neck, soaking the collar of his blue-plaid shirt and running in streams down his back and making him shiver.
The truck starts with the first turn of the key, and it hasn't ever done that before. Sam's logical brain knows that it's not a sign, but it still feels like it one, and he can't help but smile.
The drive feels long, but in reality it's only a couple of hours. It's been a long time since being on the road with his brother was his life; when tarmac and gas were the blood in his veins. He doesn't stop for the thunder, or for the lightning that lights up the black sky like a lighthouse beam cutting through a storm. He doesn't even stop for the floods that threaten to wash out the road.
Sam pulls the battered old phone out of the glove box as he gets near, and turns it on. He flicks his gaze down, looking for the moment when it lights up and beeps for the only signal found around here. His heart races the moment it does, and he feels dizzy with the rush of emotions.
This call still feels like the best and worst part of his life.
He eases the truck off the road, and dials the only number that's saved into the address book.
“You're late.”
Just the sound of Dean's voice makes Sam grin; a bittersweet feeling rushing through his veins. They agreed to one phone call every year, and it's become Sam's only real measure of time here.
Hearing his brother's voice makes him feel like a little kid all over again, hanging on his brother's every word. Dean sounds good; he sounds great, just like he always does, and always will. Not that Sam will ever tell him that. “There's a storm and it took me longer to get here. Sorry.”
Dean breathes heavily down the phone, and in Sam's mind's eye he can see his brother scrubbing a hand at the back of his head, and pacing the room like a caged animal. Something's wrong.
“Dean, what's going on? Is everything OK?”
“I, er, a change of plan. Well, sort of.”
The line is full of static and Sam can barely hear his brother, but he's pretty sure he heard that right.
“What do you mean a change of plan? This is all figured out and agreed.”
The line crackles, and Dean is speaking, but Sam can't make out what he's saying.
“Dean? I can't hear you.”
“... cabin...”
“Dean?”
“... cabin... now Sam!”
The line goes dead, and Sam tries calling back, but gets nothing. He drives up and down the road and keeps trying, but Dean's gone, and Sam feels sick with it. He punches the steering wheel, once, twice, three times, feeling the raw heat of bruises form on his knuckles almost immediately. He takes a deep breath, and pushes down the rising panic. He hates orders on the best of days, but this one feels like it's burning him from the inside out.
He has no choice but to follow it, heading back to the cabin with a sense of dread that he thought he left behind years ago.
The windshield wipers can't clear the rain fast enough, and Sam squints so hard trying to see that it feels like something is drilling into his grey matter. The full beams of the headlights are barely lighting the way, and Sam's pretty much driving blind.
There's a few close calls, and he has to slam on his breaks for a fallen tree branch that he has to get out and physically move in order to get past, and some stretches of the road are flooded with fast-flowing torrents but he makes it through, eventually.
When he parks up inside the shed, he feels exhausted; his bones heavy, his head pounding, and he can't stop thinking about Dean, and worrying about what could have gone wrong. He thought being here would mean no more living on the edge, and in constant fear that everything will fall apart, that the world will end and more people will die, and he'll lose more of his family.
But in reality it's just the same here. Maybe the views are prettier, and maybe it's quieter, but those fears have never left; they've just become more concentrated on Dean than they ever were before.
With the groan of a man older than Sam's years, he drags himself out of the truck and walks back into the cabin. He can hear the dog barking over the pounding rain, and when he opens the door, the dog all but throws himself at Sam.
Despite everything, it's good to be home.
Sam dreams about the water. He's stranded in the middle of the lake, and the boat's nowhere in sight, and it feels like something is pulling at his feet, trying to drag him under. He's so tired and he knows that he can't fight much longer, and then he's screaming for Dean, over and over again, but no one comes. Sam's all alone.
He jackknifes awake, choking on phantom water, his sheets tangled around his legs and pinning him in place. He hauls away the covers and runs to the bathroom, puking up nothing but bile, his heart still racing. All he can taste is lake water.
He washes up in the sink, purposely not looking at his reflection. He cleans his teeth and combs his fingers through his hair. He picks out some sweats and an old hoodie from the wardrobe and heads into the living room. The dog is waiting patiently by his bowl, his tail wagging excitedly from side to side.
The rain is still hammering on the roof, and with each rumble of thunder and lightning strike the foundations of the cabin seem to shake. Sam doesn't have to look outside to know that the storm is right on top of them, and it's not showing any signs of leaving soon.
He scratches absently at the stubble on his cheeks, and carries out his morning routine almost without a thought. Breakfast eaten, and the washing up done, he's sitting in front of the fire on a high-back chair with a book, when suddenly the dog leaps up from its bed and starts barking at the door.
“There's no one there,” Sam tells the him, because there never is, but then there's a knock, and Sam's on his feet, the book falling to floor with a thud. He pulls out the desk drawer, and his fingers find the cold metal of the loaded .45 that he keeps there. Some habits you just can't break, like the salt lines, sigils, and devil's traps that he's hidden throughout the cabin and its boundaries.
The dog's still barking, and the knocking starts up again. Sam raises the gun and stalks towards the door, arm and weapon outstretched and aimed at whatever's behind that door. He unlocks it, and then steps back, ordering the dog to heel. “It's open.”
The door knob turns in slow motion, like in the terrible horror movies that he and Dean used to watch when they kids; Dean laughing his ass off and shoving popcorn down his throat, and Sam copying his brother's every move.
Heart racing, Sam squares his jaw and perfects his aim, his finger squeezing the trigger just a little as the door creaks open.
“I know it's been a while, Sammy, but you really should recognise your own brother; handsome as he is.”
He wants to lower the weapon, his body is telling him too, but he doesn't let it, because this has to be some sort of trap; his brother can't be here, no one should be here, that was the deal.
“Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?”
He wishes he could say that the dog was snarling, or looking menacing, but maybe Sam's a soft touch when it comes to training, because his dog is nothing but a traitor who goes immediately to the stranger and begs for attention.
“Well at least I get a warm reception from someone, huh, boy?!” Dean, or whoever he really is, bends his knees and pats the dog, who starts to lick his face like he's known him all his life. It's only then that Sam lowers the weapon. Just a little.
“Dean?”
“Well yeah, who did you expect?” Dean stands, his fingertips still grazing the top of dogs head. “I mean I made it through all your secrets traps and sigils, didn't I? And dude, this place is like a maze. I got lost the moment I got here and I had the directions!”
Sam huffs out a laugh and a relieved breath that he didn't know he was holding, and then he's tucking his weapon in the waistband of his jeans, stepping forward, and pulling his brother into his body. He holds tight, and he's grinning so wide that Dean would rip the shit out of him if he could see it.
They hold onto each other for a long time; long enough for Sam's neck to get damp from Dean's breath on his skin, and long enough for the dog to start barking because he's feeling left out.
“It's good to see you, Sammy.” And it feels like Sam's been waiting a lifetime to hear that name.
Dean pulls away gently, but grabs at Sam's biceps and just stares like he needs to catch up on everything he missed.
“You too, man. You too.” It takes Sam a moment to realise that he's doing the same damn thing. There are flecks of silver in Dean's hair that didn't used to be there, and the crows feet around his eyes are set deeper. His skin is paler and his freckles stand out more than they ever used to, and Dean's squinting like he needs glasses but refuses to wear them. He's also soaking wet; a puddle of water is starting to form under his feet.
Sam ushers him further inside and without words, he's taking Dean's coat and getting him a fresh towel from the linen closet.
He watches Dean take his boots off and towel at his hair; things he's seen him do a million times before, but it all feels brand new. Sam knows he's still grinning like a spoilt kid at Christmas; that his eyes are misty and filled with tears of joy. He sees all of that and more reflected in his brother's face.
It's been too long. Too damn long.
“Wait, what are you doing here? What's going on?” That all too familiar feeling of cold dread is settling back into Sam's bones.
“Everything is OK. Everyone is OK. The world isn't ending. So cool your jets and take a breath.”
Sam tries too, he really does, but honestly, it's not really working. They worked hard to make this plan; to hammer out the details, to get everyone's agreement, and now what? Has it gone to absolute shit? Sam's sense of time hasn't been great since he got here, but it hasn't been long enough, has it?
“I promise, I'll answer every possible question you could have, and then all the little ones that you pretend you're not thinking, but actually are.” Dean looks around the small open-plan room, taking it all in. “But can I please just sit down, and put my feet up first. Maybe have a drink and shoot some normal shit with my brother, before we get into all the craziness that is our life.”
“Be my guest.” Sam ushers Dean in front of the fire and down into the chair, the dog already at Dean's feet, his chin resting on Dean's thigh. Sam stokes the fire, and adds more wood before heading into the kitchen and rooting out the special bottle of bourbon that he keeps hidden in the back of the cupboard. He pours a shot into the only glass tumbler he has, which looks pretty much like the ones back in the bunker, and another into his Stanford mug.
Sam drags a chair in front of the fire, right up next to Dean; close enough that the knuckles of their hands graze every now and then.
“So you're doing OK? Settled in and all that jazz?” Dean sits back in the chair, his gaze still flicking around the room, the dog stretched out on the floor over both of their feet.
“Yeah, it's pretty perfect actually. I'll show you around the cabin later, and when the storm's over I'll give you a proper tour of the grounds.”
“And how's that going?” Dean asks, gesturing at the small desk and the old-school typewriter tucked into the corner. There's a stack of white paper held down by a rounded and smooth stone from Sam's beach. “You're really writing it?”
“Yeah,” Sam clear his throat awkwardly, suddenly protective over a book that he once told Dean he'd like to write when he got here. “It's slow going, and I've restarted it more times than I can count. Actually, it's more of a memoir now, I guess.”
Dean nods, his gaze still on the typewriter as he takes a sip of his bourbon. “I'd like to read it someday. Y'know, if that's OK?”
“Sure. Someday.” The conversation flows for a while but it's all about Sam; what he grows in his garden, what he likes to cook, and what he does with all his time. And it feels familiar, but also uncomfortable, like they still need to find their old rhythm in between all the unknowns.
“Was it Billie?” Sam finally has to ask. She was always the weakest link and the one most likely to smash their plan to smithereens.
Dean's staring at the flames in the fire, and there's an expression on his face that Sam doesn't recognise at all; his eyes are sad, but there's a soft smile on his face. Yet another thing to add to the list of all the things Sam doesn't know about his brother.
“Billie kept her part of the bargain. Everyone did.” Dean huffs through his nose and tilts his head to side. “For once, one of our plans actually worked.”
Sam has a thousand questions resting on the tip of his tongue, but then Dean turns his head and looks at Sam right in the eye; a perfect bull's-eye. The firelight makes his skin glow, and for a second he looks just like that kid who broke into Sam's apartment in Stanford all those years ago and set them both on the path that lead them right here.
“I'm kinda beat. Tomorrow? I promise.”
The cabin has two bedrooms. Sam had long ago settled into the smaller one; now he leads Dean into the master. It's not massive, and it doesn't have its own bathroom or anything, but if the shutters weren't closed you could see right onto the lake. There's an old record player on top of the dresser, and a cardboard box full of classic rock records on the floor. There's a photograph in frame by the lamp on the nightstand; a Winchester family portrait only possible because Dean made a wish to a magical pearl years ago.
Dean settles onto the memory foam mattress, and Sam shakes out a blanket and drapes it over his brother, whose eyes are already closed.
Sam wants to whisper something; to spill his heart out about how perfect it is here, a peacefulness that calms his soul.... and yet there was always the quiet ache of something vital missing. Until now, that is. But the words just don't come, and he hovers restlessly by Dean's bed instead.
With his eyes still closed, Dean blindly reaches for Sam's hand, but gets his arm instead, fingers squeezing hard, a gesture that tells him that Dean heard it all anyway.
A weird part of Sam's brain hopes it bruises just to prove that this is all real.
Sam has the worst night's sleep since his first night here in the cabin. The lightning seems to have stopped, but there's a rumble of thunder far off in the distance, and the constant patter of rain on the roof drags him under for a minute at a time, but he keeps jerking awake. Finally he just gets up and hovers in front of Dean's room, peeking through the open door and reminding himself that it wasn't all a dream; his brother really is here.
The need for answers is bothering him more than it should, and his brain keeps circling around the idea that something must have gone wrong, no matter what Dean's said. It's not like Dean doesn't have a history of half-truths, especially if it involves Sam, and while that's all in the past, he still can't seem to shake it.
The storm seems to be on its way out, so Sam unlocks all the windows and doors, and undoes the shutters, the soft light of dawn racing in. He drinks his coffee out on the wraparound porch, breathing in the air and the view of the lake and mountains beyond. He picks up a stick and throws it off into the distance, watching as the dog chases after it.
Ultimately, he tells himself that whatever's going on, Dean's here, and if there's one thing that he's learned over the years, it's that there's nothing that they can't overcome when they're together.
“You've really been holding out on me, huh?” Dean says, a chipped mug of coffee in his hand. “That's one helluva view.”
It's still raining, but the clouds are starting to lift and the water looks so blue it's almost unreal. “I never tire of it either. Every day it looks a little different: the lighting, the clouds, the change of seasons. It's peaceful, y'know?”
“So you're happy here? This really is what you want?”
And that's the big question isn't it? Sam has everything he could ever want, and everything that he needs, but it's still not perfect. It's missing something. Someone. “You already know the answer to that.”
“Do I? It looks pretty damn perfect to me.”
“Yeah, well. Maybe I miss my brother too much for this to be picture-perfect.” He can't look at Dean when he says that; his heart beating out of his chest. They never talk like this, and it makes him feel vulnerable in ways that he never thought he could be with Dean; the one person who really knows him. “Besides, you're a far better cook than me. I haven't eaten properly since I got here.”
Dean snorts, and nudges his shoulder into Sam's. “I wasn't lying, Sam. The plan really did work. My time was just up earlier than we thought.”
Ever since they made this agreement, Sam's always feared that this might happen. “You promised me, Dean. This is why we made the plan in the first place. It was my time to go first, not yours. You were to supposed to live your life.”
“Yeah, well, I got sick.” Dean's looking out over the water, but he looks well rested; relaxed even, more so than Sam's ever seen before. “Something with my heart. There wasn't anything anyone could do. My time came up, and now I'm here with you, just like we planned.”
Sam takes a deep breath. “I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't know.”
“S'OK.” Dean shrugs. “It wasn't much of a life; not really. Not without my pain-in-the-ass little brother.”
They both take a sip of their coffees, and the dog appears from the trees, his stick between his teeth. He drops it by Dean's feet, who throws it towards the water.
Sam watches the dog skid in the mud, the air heavy with a light drizzle. “You know that's probably the most chick-flick thing you've ever said, right?”
“And you're still such a little bitch.”
“Right back at you, Jerk.”
They're laughing as they head inside, and then Dean's rummaging through all Sam's neatly arranged cupboards in search of breakfast.
“There was a big storm when I got here. So, I'm guessing you're the reason for this one?” Sam asks, even though he already knows the answer.
“I guess adding a person here creates some teething problems.”
Sam nods; it makes sense. They're not in heaven, or hell. They bypassed the empty and purgatory, and this is someplace new, built only for the Winchester brothers by Billie's own fair hands. A way to give them some peace in their death, but also to keep them out of her hair, and out of trouble.
He watches Dean putter around the small kitchen, cracking eggs and frying up bacon, and immediately looking at home and at ease in this space. They eat a massive breakfast; the whole nine yards, and it's the best thing that Sam has eaten since he got here.
Sam takes Dean for a guided tour around the cabin, the shed and the old truck, the pier, the vegetable garden, and the boat; the dog following them the whole way. Sam tells Dean about the trail around the lake, and they make plans to walk that tomorrow, and head out on the boat too. Sam tells his brother about his idea to build a little boat house, and that seems to pique Dean's interest almost immediately.
They grill burgers on the barbecue outside, and later they drink beers on the deck, talking for hours until it's well into the night. The stars are out, and they watch the shooting stars light up the perfect sky like fireworks, the moon big and bright, the dog asleep on Dean's feet.
“Bones totally likes me more than you.”
“He does not.”
“Oh come on, your dog loves everything about me.”
“You're just new here. In time, your shine will fade.”
“We'll see, Sammy. We'll see.”
Dean takes a long drag from his beer, the rocking chair swinging back and forth; a loose floorboard underneath squeaking with each gentle rock.
“So, what do think?” Sam asks, picking nervously at the label on the beer bottle.
“I think it's pretty damn perfect.”
“And you, er, think you could be happy here?”
Dean flicks his gaze over his shoulder. “Hell, yeah. This is the dream. And you were right all those years ago; we deserve this.”
Sam huffs, his face aching from smiling so big and wide all day. He feels good; lighter than ever before, and the peace and quiet of a contented afterlife suddenly doesn't seem so hard to envisage.
“You don't miss the Impala?”
Dean grins, his teeth gleaming whiter than white in the moonlight as he digs his hand into his pocket; the keys for the Impala dangling off his fingers. “You didn't think I'd leave her behind, did you?”
Sam laughs, his dimples digging craters into the apples of his cheeks. “She's here? Really?”
“Wanna go for a drive?”
Sam's up on his feet before he has time to think. “Always.”
She's just as he remembers, and Sam takes a moment to run his fingertips over her gleaming-black curves before jumping into the passenger seat. Dean revs her engine, over and over again, his face a picture of childlike glee, and then they're driving too fast down empty back roads.
Sam will happily spend the rest of eternity riding shotgun with his brother behind the wheel; exactly where they both belong.
The End.