Two-Headed Boy: Fifteen
PART THREE
The hunter in Sam wakes up in the middle of the night. Hears the sound of a window opening downstairs, maybe in the livingroom.
He’s not drowsy, not scared, not unsure. There’s someone else here, in their home. He can feel it right down to the tremble of adrenaline in his empty hands as he makes his way down the stairs, his feet silent.
It’s all moonlight down here, shadows and spills of pale shine through the opened window on the old wood floors, and he knows just where to step to keep them from creaking. There’s a silhouette through a doorway and his heart flies right up into his throat, trapped against his fluttering tongue. Every single sense is heightened, sharp as knives. His skin is singing with fight, muscles tensed for a struggle, aching with remembered training.
He was built for this. The sudden danger of it is making him almost giddy.
He waits and pounces at precisely the right second, when the guy’s back is to him, when everything in him tightens and releases like a spring.
The guy fights back, perfect and immediate.
It’s beautiful, the feeling of hard bone and muscle striking out against his own again. His would-be burglar/murderer/sandman telegraphs his every move like he’s been watching Sam, studying him for months, seen his body in action and planned this all down to the last kick.
It seems to go on forever, like a dance. His right right cheek stings from a perfectly landed punch, his knuckles burning from contact with an unforgiving body. He’s being bested and he’s furious, a little scared now. The shadows drink the man right up, shroud him completely until Sam is suddenly flat on his back, all the air knocked out of his lungs.
A voice fills his ears before he can even suck in a breath, and the entire world narrows down to a single person on top of him, to his brother. To Dean, who has his hand over Sam’s heart to keep him where he is, whose smile is too bright for the years between them, for the unspoken words that stretch like miles of thread between their bodies, each one like a pinprick on his skin.
“Easy, tiger,” like they’d been sparring all afternoon. “Easy, tiger,” like this is just what they do. Like they touched each other every single day for the last two years, like Sam hasn’t almost forgotten what Dean’s voice sounds like. Like his skin isn’t burning up every single place they’re touching, like his heart isn’t slamming at the back of his teeth, threatening to jump right out, to go right to Dean, right where it belongs.
Dean.
It’s just barely after three a.m. when Sam tosses his duffel into the back seat of the Impala, the sound of the door closing echoing through the quiet of his neighborhood. He glances back up at the apartment, at the light on in his and Jess’ bedroom window. Her plants are visible even from here, happy, well-kept things that she tends to like they’re her children. They even have names. Pete and Townsend right up there, the two that live in the windowsill.
Dean’s already in the car, the engine off. He’s waiting with an amazing amount of patience, even though Sam’s hand has been poised on the door handle for more than a few seconds.
Sam remembers with a start that they’re almost out of milk, and he forgot to put it on the grocery list on the fridge door. He’ll have to call her in the morning to remind her.
He opens the door, the specific sound of the passenger door reminding him of Dean so vividly that a shiver drags up his spine. Except Dean’s in the driver’s seat now and Dad is years away from Sam. He wonders if Dad looks older. Wonders if Dad would think Sam looks older.
“You trancin’ out there? C’mon, let’s get on the road.” Dean’s waited long enough, and even Sam knows it, so he doesn’t snark back. Just sinks down into the passenger seat, long legs more wedged than he remembered, the old bench seat giving beneath him, the vinyl cold even through his layers.
The smell of the car hits him like a punch. The stale, vintage air: dust and hamburger wrappers and sweat and the echoing scent of beer. Dean, laced all through it. That smell he’d forced himself to forget, that he’d forgotten finally. That he’d replaced with the white flowers and honey of Jess.
And here he is.
He pulls the car door closed, jaw tensed. Stares straight ahead.
Dean’s looking at him and he knows it. Probably frowning at him, confused by his quiet, by how weird he’s being. Like he’s forgotten what a freak Sam is, forgotten how annoying he is to be around.
“You ready?” Dean almost sounds caring, like he’d listen if Sam said no, not yet. Like he wants to hear what’s going on in Sam’s head. Like Sam has ever really let anyone in there, even Dean.
He shifts in the seat, not blinking as he nods, a single jerk of the head. He toys with the black bracelet around his wrist, thumb stroking over skin, avoiding the scar. He hasn’t needed to touch it for a long time, and he’s not gonna start now.
Dean starts the car finally, the engine growling to life all around them, straight down into Sam’s bones. He closes his eyes and lets it thrum through him, all that familiar rumble and purr and power, that sound that’s more comforting than any song. He feels Dean’s eyes again, but they’re gone as fast as they’d come.
Dean throws her into drive and eases down the empty street, the black and orange of Halloween littering the sidewalks on either side. It’s a clear night, stars bright even in the city, the moon a tiny, curved slip of bone against the black void. Almost a new moon. Will be when he gets back home.
The silence builds up around them until it’s almost loud, until it’s awake and unavoidable. Dean weaves his way through these streets like he knows them, like he’s been here almost as long as Sam has. It unnerves Sam, makes him dig his nails into his skin and scratch until it hurts.
“You, uh. You can sleep if you want. I didn’t really mean to. To wake you guys.” Dean sounds so awkward, so stiff, like he’s talking to a fucking stranger. Sam shifts again in the seat, pushes up tighter against the door, letting his head rest against the cold glass, eyes going unfocused as Dean takes the ramp for I-5 South.
Sam doesn’t respond, his throat fluttering around all the things he could say. The quiet makes Dean clear his throat, makes him squirm and run his hand over the steering wheel, thumb stroking over the smooth curve. There’s a frown on his face, and Sam doesn’t have to look at him to know it.
It’s like they’ve never spoken before, like this is a social experiment or something. It’s like they don’t know each other’s every single breath and nuance, like they didn’t grown up tight around each other like twins in a womb. Like all those years are erased, every touch and glance and word. Like they’ve been replaced with this: this unease between them, this lack of anything between them.
This silence.
Sam pulls his sleeves down over his hands and forces his eyes closed, doesn’t want to be awake anymore. Wants to go back to sleep, wants to pretend for a little bit longer that Dean hasn’t just destroyed the tentative playhouse of a life Sam’s been trying to build, like he hadn’t just dug his perfect hands in and ripped out all of Sam’s scabs and reopened all that pain, all the ache and ruin between them just by coming back. Just by letting himself into Sam’s window. Just by inviting himself back into Sam’s life.
He’s tried so hard to forget Dean. Tried to save himself in the only way he knows how. And he’s back, just like he never left. And he feels like he’s drowning.
He keeps it all contained, keeps it all down deep in his chest, doesn’t let the rattle of his heart affect his breathing the way it wants to, doesn’t pull and pluck at the moon of the scar on his arm.
He pretends to sleep until dawn, trying to block out everything around him when all he really hears is Dean’s every single breath, every slide of tongue over his dry mouth, every quietly sung word, like Dean’s trying to stay awake, like he’s offering Sam a lullaby.
He spends every mile until dawn reminding himself that this is what’s temporary, not Stanford. Not Jess. This is the weirdness in his life now, this is the anomaly. Dean isn’t his life anymore. They’ll find Dad and he’ll be back home and his life will unpause, and Dean will turn back into that burrowing ache in the center of his chest in the middle of the night.
That’s the way it is. The way it has to be. Sam can’t really handle it any other way.
The next night finds Sam exhausted as he wanders through a gas station somewhere in the Yucca Valley outside of Jericho, waiting for Dean to come out of the bathroom. He hasn’t eaten since lunch the day before, but nothing much is appealing to him. Butterfingers, pork rinds, cereal bars, trail mix, soda, and beer. He wrinkles his nose and seeks out a bottle of apple juice and a water, turning around just in time to see Dean come out of the bathroom, still coated in head to toe in mud but he’s wiped his face off a bit, no more mud clinging to his eyelashes. Sam can’t help but smile though he pulls it into a smirk just in time for Dean’s eyes to find him.
“I hate the bathrooms in these places. You can practically smell the STDs.” Dean shuffles over to Sam, water drops sliding down his neck, making tracks through the mud dried on Dean’s skin and disappearing under his ruined shirt. Dean keeps his eyes down and Sam keeps his on Dean and they both know it, both can feel it, like riding a wave.
“I got juice,” Sam says suddenly, lamely, holding up the bottle along with his water. Dean frowns, looking almost confused before he blinks out of whatever world he’d been in before, the one that Sam had been in, too, the one that they used to share with each other and only with each other. They take a step back at the exact same time, eyes averting.
“Yeah. They got some apples up front, I think. Go ahead’n put your stuff up there and I’ll get it.” Dean turns his back then, fixated on a display of peanuts and sunflower seeds. Sam can see the tips of his ears and how pink they are all of a sudden, such a vulnerable flush of color that it makes his chest ache.
“I’ve got mine. I’ll be in the car.” Sam heads to the front of the store then where the cashier is perched, reading through a gossip magazine and picking her nail polish off. He drops his drinks down and grabs a couple of apples in the basket near the register, fishing his wallet out as she rings him up. He doesn’t glance back at Dean though he wants to, feels the weight of his silence behind him.
“Six seventy-six.” The cashier watches him with the flat, level stare of a woman who’s seen it all and doesn’t fall for a sweet smile. He digs a ten out of his wallet and busies himself with the inventory of lighters to his right. The woman takes his money and keeps staring at him, waiting for him to meet her eyes. When he does, she frowns.
“Better tell your boyfriend he’s getting mud ever’where. And who do you think’s gotta clean it up?”
Sam opens his mouth but no words come rushing up to be helpful, to correct her, to apologize. The only thing running through his mind is that she saw them back there, saw them standing close, saw Sam’s eyes on Dean, and had drawn her own conclusions. His cheeks heat up.
“Sorry,” he finally manages, his hand coming out, wide palm on display, eyes pleading with her to please give him his change, to please let him get out of here before Dean comes up. He doesn’t want to hear her repeat that in front of Dean.
She gives him one last, good glare and dumps the change into his hand and he lets out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He takes the money and his bag and leaves without looking back, not glancing back to have an idea of where Dean is, if he looks as alone as Sam has made him.
Sam rinses an apple off with a splash of water out the window of the car before taking a bite out of it. Dean leaves the gas station finally, silhouetted by the artificial light before he steps out into the dark, towards Sam in the Impala. Sam looks away, looks down at his fingers slick with juice that he licks off. A car pulls up beside them and Sam can hear a couple of guys get out, laughing and teasing each other and using the word “fag” and he can’t help but freeze up.
The guys stop right in front of Dean, both blatantly staring at him and his mud-caked self. Sam can only see the guys’ backs but Dean’s face is drawn into a scowl, probably fresh from an argument with Ms. Sunshine behind the register.
“What? You ain’t never forgotten to take off your mud mask before you leave the house?” Dean steps toward the guys, his shoulders back, every inch of him alpha and challenging, eyebrows raised like he’s daring them to say something.
Sam pulls his lips into his mouth, ducking his head to hide a smile as the guys clearly submit, their own heads dropping as they step past Dean, not even looking at each other on their way inside.
Dean rolls his eyes to himself and walks around to the driver’s side of the car, sinking into the towel-covered seat. He lets out a wet snort, obviously directed at the guys.
“Classy bastards, huh?” He yanks the door closed after him and roots around in his plastic bag, making lots of racket as he does and Sam just has to take a deep breath and let it out slowly, staring down hard at the apple in his hand, the flesh already starting to brown. He doesn’t respond.
“Got you a sandwich. They had ‘em in a case near the register we didn’t see before.” Dean sets the wrapped up sandwich on Sam’s thigh, the label facing up, reading ‘Turk Club - Exp. 11/2/05.’
“Not hungry.” Sam scoops up the sandwich and passes it back over to Dean, not looking as he drops it back in the bag. “Thanks anyway.”
He takes another bite of his apple just for something to do more than any kind of hunger pangs. He watches the two guys in the gas station arguing over beef jerky in bags and laughing. He wonders if they would have tried to pick on him in high school. Wonders if he could take them both right now, just because.
“You doin’ that thing again?”
Sam snaps his attention back over to Dean who’s sitting just like he was before, who is watching him in the mostly-dark of the car. Sam’s heart rate picks up for no reason, nerves itching all under his skin. He doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes, just raises his eyebrows in his general direction.
“Uh. What are you talking about?”
“That not eating thing. I didn’t think you’d done that in years.” Dean’s voice is careful again, like Sam’s made of spun sugar or something. It makes Sam’s blood pressure kick up, makes him grit his teeth and look away with a sharp turn of his head. He throws the rest of his apple out the window.
“I’m not not eating. I’m just not fucking hungry. Not that it’s any of your business.” He sucks in a quick breath and sinks down deeper into the seat, hands on his thighs so he doesn’t cross his arms over his chest like a fucking teenager. He can see Dean’s eyebrows go up out of the corner of his eyes, can imagine every bit of his reaction.
“Christ, Sammy, this isn’t an interrogation. I was just asking a question. Unclench.” Dean huffs, an annoyed sound and Sam knows where this is going, where it always goes when they’re both being like this. Dean digs around in his bag again, the sound even louder than it was before, probably on purpose.
“It’s not like you’d know anyway. You haven’t even been around me since I was a teenager anyway. I’m a little different than the last time you saw me, Dean.” He opens his water and gulps some down before recapping it. His leg is jumping in a fit of angry energy, everything from the set of his shoulders to the way he’s staring dead ahead saying that he’s just spoiling for a fight. Anyway, it’s easier than silence.
“It’s just been a couple of years, dude. You’re not some big fucking mystery, Sam. I know you like to think you are, but.” Dean rips open a bag of chips and shoves a few in his mouth, slouching down into the seat himself. They’re not going anywhere and they’re saying this shit now. They’re doing this here, apparently.
“You know what, Dean? I think I’m tired. I’m just gonna go to sleep.” Sam jumps up then, throwing the door open and climbing out of the car only to find himself face-to-face with one of the guys trying to get back in their car. Sam steps up onto the sidewalk and waits for the guy to pass, both him and his friend getting into the car in silence, almost like they can feel the fight in the air, idiots or not.
They pull out and Sam finishes up his decision to take the high road by climbing into the backseat and jerking the door shut. He stretches out over the seat, head pillowed on his duffel. Dean keeps eating his chips and sipping on what smells like beer, the air between them swirling with resentment.
“You call your girlfriend?”
Sam looks up and over and stares at the back of Dean’s stupid head. He wants to smack him.
“Jessica. Her name is Jessica.”
“Okay, fine. Jessica. Did you call Jessica?” Several gulps follow and then the sound of an empty can getting thrown into a plastic bag. The snick-pop of a new beer being opened.
“I’ll call her in the morning.” It’s all he’s offering Dean and it’s more than he deserves. He folds his arms over his chest and closes his eyes. Maybe he can fall asleep even if Dean is talking. Just snore through his questions.
“Bet she’s wild in bed. Is she?” Movement and Dean’s turning a little to look back and down at him. Sam squeezes his eyes shut even tighter, can’t look up at him or he really will punch him. He purses his lips and refuses to answer, even if it’s just going to be something mean back. Ignoring Dean hurts him more.
Dean surprises him by not saying anything else, by not tossing out increasingly vulgar questions until he gets a reaction out of Sam. He finishes eating whatever it is he got, guzzles down his second beer and even burps quietly. He shoves all his trash into that loud-ass bag and lets out a sigh.
“You wanna get a room tonight or what? I don’t have a whole lot left on this card, and if we wait ‘til morning we won’t have to pay for two nights.”
Sam stays quiet, slowing his breathing down so Dean’ll think he really did just fall asleep. Dean growls after a few seconds, a low, deeply discontent sound followed by a hand rubbing hard over a scruffy face.
“Alright, Sammy. Good talk. Night.”
More movement, the sound of boots being kicked off and finally stillness punctuated by Dean letting out a long, heavy sigh.
They stay there in the parking lot of the gas station that night, Sam in the back seat and Dean in the front. The windows are cracked but it’s still warm inside the car. Sam spends most of the night staring at the ceiling of the Impala, listening to the drift and rumble of Dean’s snores, pretending he doesn’t want things the way they used to be. That it’s not his fault everything’s different.
November 2, 2005
The Woman in White is just a story once again, and Sam had forgotten how good it feels. The deep contentment of keeping people safe, of leaving a place and knowing that you played a big part in protecting them. It’s so simple and so straight-forward, so different than laws and debates and loopholes of the American justice system.
The air blowing in through the open window is cool, an icy lick all over his tired body, and he has to hold the map down firm in his lap to keep it from blowing out. He’d found Blackwater Ridge, had finally had the conversation with Dean that he’s been waiting for all weekend.
He’d told him no, in more than that many words. And Dean had told him he’d take him home, and that was that. Lights off between them again, Dean’s eyes straight ahead in the darkness, sadness leaking from him in tired waves. The quiet language of them, the one they’d started creating back when Dean used to sleep in Sam’s crib, the one that Sam is still fluent in, no matter how many years they’re apart, is painfully loud now.
Sorrow, that’s what Sam’s getting from Dean. Sorrow. He wonders what would happen if he told his eleven-year-old self about this moment, about the pain between them, the excruciating knowledge that they’re about to separate again, maybe this time for good. What if he told his younger self that it’s all his fault. That he’s the one making that decision. Young Sam would never understand, could not fathom being away from Dean, even for a few hours.
And he can’t explain it, even now, even to himself. He can only chalk it up to survival, that he has to do this or he wouldn’t be alive. The pull to Dean is irresistible and undeniable and just as strong as ever, and Sam knows he can’t open himself up to it again. Because nothing will come from it, nothing ever comes from it. Because Dean just isn’t as fucked-up as he is, and Sam can’t bring himself to wish that he was.
Dean reaches up to turn the the radio up and he settles in to drive, eyes heavy and beautiful with exhaustion. Sam just wraps his arms around himself, right thumbnail finding the barely raised scar on his wrist and digging in hard. They don’t speak all the way back up to Palo Alto.
They don’t even say goodbye. They never do. He feels caught in Dean’s eyes, held there inside the eternity of a second, and it’s almost enough to pull him back in, almost enough to make him say fuck it, to climb back in the car.
But he doesn’t. He steps back, watches Dean drive away, listens to the sound of the Impala pulling away without him which has always twisted at his gut, made him feel like he’s going to throw up.
Some things just don’t change.
He sighs to himself, hefts his bag up onto his shoulder, and digs his keys out of his pocket. The night air is still here, cooler than Southern California had been. But at least he’s home.
The apartment is completely dark when he walks in.
“...Jess? You home?”
His voice echoes through the entire downstairs, and he gets no reply. He closes the door absently behind him, eyes already trained on the little plate on the kitchen table next to his National Geographic magazine. The cookies are fresh, the smell strong in the air, and the note lifts the very last of the shadows from his smile.
Missed you! Love you!
He’s suddenly starving after not eating the entire weekend. His stomach rumbles grumpily and his smile softens as he reaches under the note to grab one of the cookies. Still warm, perfectly baked, and exactly what he needed to see.
He loves her. Maybe not with all of his heart, and maybe she’s miles and miles too good for him, but she loves him right back. It’s never what he expected to find, she’s never what he expected to have, but it’s enough. And they work.
The cookie crumbles and melts in his mouth, and he lifts his eyes to the stairs. He’s suddenly not tired anymore and he can’t wait to see Jess.
Bile rises up in the back of Dean’s throat when he gets to the end of Sam’s street. There’s a panic that’s been building in him ever since they crossed into Santa Clara County, and it’s so strong now that he can’t even focus to drive.
He stares out at the empty street, at the fog hovering under the streetlights. The roads are slick, raindrops beaded all over the windshield, and the air from the broken window has a bite to it. It’s that feeling, the one that’s been gnawing at him for days, the one that got him here from New Orleans so fast. The one that made him feel like he was being chased. The one that feels like everything is wrong but hiding, in the shadows. Waiting to pounce.
And he’s just left Sam again. Drove away, left him standing alone on the sidewalk.
We’re all in danger.
He realizes then that he’s been holding his breath for nearly a full minute, that he’s gripping the steering wheel so hard his hands are shaking. He exhales quick just so he can breathe in again, his body sagging back against the seat.
“Why don’t you act like more of a drama queen, Winchester. I dare ya,” he mutters to himself, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Jesus.”
He hits the gas again and eases down the street, forcing himself to loosen his deathgrip on the wheel. It’s kind of fucking ridiculous, really. They’d just solved the case Dad had been on, they’d found the coordinates for the next case Dad wanted them, well, him on. There’s no reason for this, no reason to be so dramatic. To be acting like such a chicken shit when the only thing that’s wrong is that his heart is breaking the further he gets away from Sam.
“Sky ain’t fallin’,” he says softly, a trace of a sad smile tugging on one side of his mouth. He’s tired all of a sudden, the whirlwind of the weekend suddenly crashing down on him. He wants to get at least as far as Reno before he stops for the night, but he doesn’t even know if he can make it out of the city now. He needs sleep.
He glances at his watch, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up when he sees that it’s stopped, stuck on 2:50, the second hand unmoving. He spares a quick glance in the rearview to make sure he’s still alone on the road before he makes a U-turn right there, foot pushing down hard on the gas. He’s two blocks away. And clocks don’t stop on their own. Not for them.
He remembers Dad telling him. Remembers reading it in the journal. About how the cops said all the clocks in the house were stopped on the same time the night of the fire. The night Mom died. He’s heard it a hundred times in his life.
Shouldn’t have left him alone. Shouldn’t have fucking left him.
“Goddamnit,” Dean whispers to himself, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, the only thing he can hear. He runs a stop sign and eases over to the side of the road to throw the car into park. “Goddamnit.”
He shoves his keys into his pocket and runs across the street, the adrenaline racing through his entire body, every single one of his senses focused on one thing and one thing only. Which is how he hears Sam’s voice in the window above just as he reaches the front door.
“No! Jess!”
Dean’s blood runs cold, all the color draining from his face.
“Sammy. Sammy!”
He charges up the steps and lifts his leg, throwing all his strength into it as he kicks the doorknob with the flat of his foot. The door gives easily, clattering open just as the thick scent of smoke hits his nose, the smell of cooking flesh, of scorched hair.
“Sam!” He heads right for the stairs, racing up them two at a time and he can see their bedroom the second he hits the top step, can see the smoke pouring out through the open door, the flicker of bright orange, can hear Sam’s voice.
Sam is on the bed when Dean gets to the doorway, he’s staring up at the ceiling like he’s terrified, like the monster is up there, like he can’t seem to leave because of whatever he’s seeing.
Dean’s heard Dad’s story. Heard it since he was little, heard every small detail so many times that he feels like he was there, really there. Saw-his-mom-burn kind of there. He’d always thought he understood, always thought everything he’d seen in his life had given him enough personal experience to really, truly know what it had been like for his Dad, walking into that room, seeing her pinned to the ceiling like that, her body dissolving in fire.
Jess had been so beautiful. She’d had bright, intelligent eyes that hadn’t fallen for Dean’s charm, she’d had a kind of strength that seemed to draw Sam right in, made him trust her. Made him love her.
Now he’ll never forget what it looks like when the white and green of her eyes seem to be melting in flames, never forget what it’s like to see one of those angel blonde curls fall from where she’s held to the ceiling by evil, the yellow strands of it burning where it hits the bed, catches the sheets on fire.
It’s a split second but it’s there in his mind, the reality of it. It’s really happening right in front of him, and inside of that second he feels like a little boy again, like that’s his mom up there, like his whole life looped back around onto itself and he’s never going to escape it, the nightmare of this.
But then he hears Sam again.
Sam.
“Sam!” He races toward his brother who doesn’t seem like he wants to move, wants to leave. “Sam! C’mon, we gotta go!”
He grabs him up by his jacket and Sam fights him, just like Dean knew he would. He keeps screaming her name, screaming it like she can hear him, like she’s still really alive up there. And what if she is? What if she’s living through this, can feel it?
Sam almost gets away from him so Dean tightens his grip on him and yanks him out of the room, shoving him out into the hallway even as he grabs onto the doorframe, tries to get away from Dean, to get back in there to her.
“Sammy, she’s gone. Man, she’s gone. It’s--”
A rush of flames swoops down just then, heading straight toward them. Dean reacts then, fight or flight, fists Sam’s jacket and pulls him down the stairs, getting them both out of the house or losing his arm in the process because he ain’t letting go, not now, not ever.
They burst out of the front of the apartment and they both suck in huge gasps of clean air before they start coughing. Sam collapses down onto the grass, his body suddenly wracked with sobs, the sounds caught between heaving coughs.
“Sammy.” Dean’s in tears himself, his hands shaking so hard he can’t get a better grip on Sam’s sleeve. “Sam, please. We have to get away. C’mon, just get to the sidewalk. Not here. C’mon.”
“Jess,” Sam whimpers, soft, panting hiccups finally breaking through and it’s honest to God heartbreaking, those pitiful sounds coming from his brother. From Sammy. “Jess.”
“Please,” Dean whispers, pleading with Sam, with Dad, with anything that will help. Just need to get Sam safe, need to get him away. Away. “Please, just--”
Chaos descends on them like it’s been waiting in the wings, like it’s seizing its chance. People come rushing out of doors and from down the street, sirens coming from all sides, shattering the quiet from only ten minutes before.
Dean covers Sam as much as he can, hides him from the eyes of every single person who has appeared, all these safe, unknowing people without targets on their backs. He looks up at the burning building, at the window to their bedroom that’s been shattered, that’s spilling out flame and smoke like rushing water.
Sam’s lifeless now, curled in on himself and sobbing. Dean grabs him under his arms and lifts him up, almost falling back himself to do so. He drags Sam away, just need to get him away, dragging him to the sidewalk, just far enough away that they can’t feel the burn of the heat anymore.
They sprawl there on the sidewalk as the firetrucks finally arrive, people shouting and crying, dogs barking, hoses being dragged out but it’s all obliterated by the roar of the fire, a sound like the eye of a tornado, like the deafening rush of water as you’re drowning.
Dean just watches, his arm around Sam’s waist, not letting go of him for any fucking thing in the world. Watches firefighters rush into the apartment, watches the fire grow and grow in that window up there, in Jess and Sam’s room. And Jess is the center of it, the source of all the flames, the sacrifice, right at the heart of it all.
And right now, there’s no one else. No one to take care of this, no one to deal with this, but Dean.
It’s nearly dawn by the time they find a motel and get a room. They don’t say a word as they turn on the lamps by the beds, as they take off their jackets. Dean closes the blinds and the curtains, ignoring the lightening sky for now. He turns around and there’s Sam, standing in the middle of the room, his hoodie still on, his face startlingly blank, his eyes far-off, gone.
“Sammy, uh,” Dean starts, walking up to him slow, one step at a time, like Sam’s a frightened animal. “Why don’t you go take a shower? We both smell like smoke and--”
“I don’t have anything,” Sam says back, his voice distant, like he’s recalling something, like he’s talking in his sleep, maybe. His eyes are bloodshot, rimmed in red and swollen. He looks shaken, his face deathly pale. “I don’t have anything anymore.”
“I’ve got some sweats and a t-shirt for you to change into. Don’t worry about that. We’ll worry about all that tomorrow. Just. Just go take a shower, okay? You’ll. You’ll feel.”
He pauses, stops himself from saying you’ll feel better because it’s a horrible thing to say. A fucking false, lying sentiment, in the face of what they’d seen tonight. Of what Sam has just gone through.
“Just,” Dean starts again, licking his lips, wanting to reach up and touch Sam, just to remind himself that Sam’s here and he’s alive and he’s not hurt. He’s okay. But he won’t. He won’t. “Just go ahead. I’ll leave the clothes on the sink for ya.”
Sam nods, a curt, single jerk of his head, not meeting Dean’s eyes as he turns away. He flicks on the bathroom light and pushes the door to but doesn’t close it, just like they’ve always done. Habit, probably.
Dean digs through his own clothes, grateful for having something to do, even if it’s just finding a damn clean t-shirt. He finds a grey one that’s not too dirty and his favorite pair of black sweatpants that he only wears when he’s officially off-duty. They’ll be laughably short on Sam, but they’ll work. He even finds a clean pair of socks and a pair of underwear, adding them to the top of the pile.
Steam is swirling around in the bathroom when Dean opens the door, and it reminds him suddenly and too much of the smoke. The smell of it’s everywhere, all over Dean’s clothes, all over Sam’s clothes there on the bathroom floor. Dean feels a sudden need to vomit.
He sets the clean clothes down on the edge of the sink and glances over at the closed shower curtain. He can see the top of Sam’s head, the near-black of his wet hair. Doesn’t hear or see any movement, doesn’t smell soap or shampoo.
“Sammy, you doin’ okay?” Waits a beat. “You need anything?”
Silence. The water rushes on from the showerhead, sound dampened a little by Sam’s body. Dean closes his eyes against the burn of tears that sneaks up on him, and he reaches out to steady himself on the sink.
“There’s some clothes for you on the sink. Just, uh. Just take as much time as you need.”
Dean waits, listens for something, anything. He sighs when he still gets nothing, reaching down to gather up Sam’s clothes, hugging them to his chest on his way out.
He pulls the door closed behind him, trying to give Sam at least the illusion of privacy. He strips down himself and shoves his and Sam’s clothes into an empty garbage bag, tying a knot on it and tossing it beside his bag. He just wants rid of that smell, that horrible, unmistakable smell of burning skin, cooking human flesh. But it’s in his nose, caught there, not leaving for days.
He changes into another pair of his makeshift pajamas and pulls down the covers on one of the beds, turning all the lamps off but one. He doesn’t want to turn on the TV, doesn’t want to go to bed before Sam comes out.
He knows he should call Dad, call Bobby, someone. But there’s nothing anybody can do tonight, nothing anybody can do to actually fix this. The only thing left to be done is to avenge it. And Dean is not taking that job away from Sam and giving it to anyone else, even Dad.
He pulls out the box of salt from his duffel, still new, unopened. He moves on instinct as he lines the door and window, not letting himself feel silly as he makes a circle around Sam’s bed, the pile of salt thick, two inches wide. Just in case. He scoops the cat’s eye shells out of the pocket of his jacket, the ones from Dad’s motel room and puts them in a little pile next to the phone on the nightstand, between him and Sam.
Just in case.
He slides back on the mattress, pillow cradling his head. He stares at the ceiling, the blank, white ceiling. He can’t imagine what Sam saw, how he found her pinned up there. What that moment was like for him. He closes his eyes, refuses to cry. Can’t fall into that, not when Sam needs him.
The shower’s stopped, and there’s some movement on the other side of the bathroom door. Sam steps out, silhouetted for a brief second before he turns the light off, leaving him in shadow except for the lamp between the beds. He smells so good, clean, like soap, and the scent breaks through even just for a second.
Dean’s head is turned and he’s watching Sam, watching him make his way to the other bed, watching him pull down the covers. He looks like he’s working on autopilot, like he’s following a very specific list of instructions.
“Sam,” Dean starts, not sure what else he wants to say.
Sam doesn’t pause, doesn’t look over. Just slides under the covers, facing away from Dean, on his side. He pulls the blankets up around him, hiding all but the wet curls of his hair. He doesn’t sigh, doesn’t sniffle, doesn’t speak. Silence covers the room again.
Dean just watches him for a long moment in the low light, eyes catching on Sam’s foot sticking out from under the covers, covered up with Dean’s sock but his ankle’s exposed, bare, almost heartbreakingly vulnerable. He gets the inexplicable need to cover Sam up completely, to hide him just for a little while. He wants so badly to keep talking, to get Sam to talk to him. To go over there to him, to touch his strong, long back, to press right up behind him and wrap his arms around his little brother, like he’s done before. Like he’s done so many times before.
But this, this time, this night, is nothing like the rest of them were. And nothing Dean can say is going to fix this. Not this time.
He turns the lamp between them off and turns on his side toward Sam. Exhaustion settles over him, his muscles shaking from exertion, but he knows he won’t sleep. He’ll stay awake, keep sentinel as long as Sam needs to sleep. Because it’s the least he can do. It’s all he can do right now.
next.
The hunter in Sam wakes up in the middle of the night. Hears the sound of a window opening downstairs, maybe in the livingroom.
He’s not drowsy, not scared, not unsure. There’s someone else here, in their home. He can feel it right down to the tremble of adrenaline in his empty hands as he makes his way down the stairs, his feet silent.
It’s all moonlight down here, shadows and spills of pale shine through the opened window on the old wood floors, and he knows just where to step to keep them from creaking. There’s a silhouette through a doorway and his heart flies right up into his throat, trapped against his fluttering tongue. Every single sense is heightened, sharp as knives. His skin is singing with fight, muscles tensed for a struggle, aching with remembered training.
He was built for this. The sudden danger of it is making him almost giddy.
He waits and pounces at precisely the right second, when the guy’s back is to him, when everything in him tightens and releases like a spring.
The guy fights back, perfect and immediate.
It’s beautiful, the feeling of hard bone and muscle striking out against his own again. His would-be burglar/murderer/sandman telegraphs his every move like he’s been watching Sam, studying him for months, seen his body in action and planned this all down to the last kick.
It seems to go on forever, like a dance. His right right cheek stings from a perfectly landed punch, his knuckles burning from contact with an unforgiving body. He’s being bested and he’s furious, a little scared now. The shadows drink the man right up, shroud him completely until Sam is suddenly flat on his back, all the air knocked out of his lungs.
A voice fills his ears before he can even suck in a breath, and the entire world narrows down to a single person on top of him, to his brother. To Dean, who has his hand over Sam’s heart to keep him where he is, whose smile is too bright for the years between them, for the unspoken words that stretch like miles of thread between their bodies, each one like a pinprick on his skin.
“Easy, tiger,” like they’d been sparring all afternoon. “Easy, tiger,” like this is just what they do. Like they touched each other every single day for the last two years, like Sam hasn’t almost forgotten what Dean’s voice sounds like. Like his skin isn’t burning up every single place they’re touching, like his heart isn’t slamming at the back of his teeth, threatening to jump right out, to go right to Dean, right where it belongs.
Dean.
It’s just barely after three a.m. when Sam tosses his duffel into the back seat of the Impala, the sound of the door closing echoing through the quiet of his neighborhood. He glances back up at the apartment, at the light on in his and Jess’ bedroom window. Her plants are visible even from here, happy, well-kept things that she tends to like they’re her children. They even have names. Pete and Townsend right up there, the two that live in the windowsill.
Dean’s already in the car, the engine off. He’s waiting with an amazing amount of patience, even though Sam’s hand has been poised on the door handle for more than a few seconds.
Sam remembers with a start that they’re almost out of milk, and he forgot to put it on the grocery list on the fridge door. He’ll have to call her in the morning to remind her.
He opens the door, the specific sound of the passenger door reminding him of Dean so vividly that a shiver drags up his spine. Except Dean’s in the driver’s seat now and Dad is years away from Sam. He wonders if Dad looks older. Wonders if Dad would think Sam looks older.
“You trancin’ out there? C’mon, let’s get on the road.” Dean’s waited long enough, and even Sam knows it, so he doesn’t snark back. Just sinks down into the passenger seat, long legs more wedged than he remembered, the old bench seat giving beneath him, the vinyl cold even through his layers.
The smell of the car hits him like a punch. The stale, vintage air: dust and hamburger wrappers and sweat and the echoing scent of beer. Dean, laced all through it. That smell he’d forced himself to forget, that he’d forgotten finally. That he’d replaced with the white flowers and honey of Jess.
And here he is.
He pulls the car door closed, jaw tensed. Stares straight ahead.
Dean’s looking at him and he knows it. Probably frowning at him, confused by his quiet, by how weird he’s being. Like he’s forgotten what a freak Sam is, forgotten how annoying he is to be around.
“You ready?” Dean almost sounds caring, like he’d listen if Sam said no, not yet. Like he wants to hear what’s going on in Sam’s head. Like Sam has ever really let anyone in there, even Dean.
He shifts in the seat, not blinking as he nods, a single jerk of the head. He toys with the black bracelet around his wrist, thumb stroking over skin, avoiding the scar. He hasn’t needed to touch it for a long time, and he’s not gonna start now.
Dean starts the car finally, the engine growling to life all around them, straight down into Sam’s bones. He closes his eyes and lets it thrum through him, all that familiar rumble and purr and power, that sound that’s more comforting than any song. He feels Dean’s eyes again, but they’re gone as fast as they’d come.
Dean throws her into drive and eases down the empty street, the black and orange of Halloween littering the sidewalks on either side. It’s a clear night, stars bright even in the city, the moon a tiny, curved slip of bone against the black void. Almost a new moon. Will be when he gets back home.
The silence builds up around them until it’s almost loud, until it’s awake and unavoidable. Dean weaves his way through these streets like he knows them, like he’s been here almost as long as Sam has. It unnerves Sam, makes him dig his nails into his skin and scratch until it hurts.
“You, uh. You can sleep if you want. I didn’t really mean to. To wake you guys.” Dean sounds so awkward, so stiff, like he’s talking to a fucking stranger. Sam shifts again in the seat, pushes up tighter against the door, letting his head rest against the cold glass, eyes going unfocused as Dean takes the ramp for I-5 South.
Sam doesn’t respond, his throat fluttering around all the things he could say. The quiet makes Dean clear his throat, makes him squirm and run his hand over the steering wheel, thumb stroking over the smooth curve. There’s a frown on his face, and Sam doesn’t have to look at him to know it.
It’s like they’ve never spoken before, like this is a social experiment or something. It’s like they don’t know each other’s every single breath and nuance, like they didn’t grown up tight around each other like twins in a womb. Like all those years are erased, every touch and glance and word. Like they’ve been replaced with this: this unease between them, this lack of anything between them.
This silence.
Sam pulls his sleeves down over his hands and forces his eyes closed, doesn’t want to be awake anymore. Wants to go back to sleep, wants to pretend for a little bit longer that Dean hasn’t just destroyed the tentative playhouse of a life Sam’s been trying to build, like he hadn’t just dug his perfect hands in and ripped out all of Sam’s scabs and reopened all that pain, all the ache and ruin between them just by coming back. Just by letting himself into Sam’s window. Just by inviting himself back into Sam’s life.
He’s tried so hard to forget Dean. Tried to save himself in the only way he knows how. And he’s back, just like he never left. And he feels like he’s drowning.
He keeps it all contained, keeps it all down deep in his chest, doesn’t let the rattle of his heart affect his breathing the way it wants to, doesn’t pull and pluck at the moon of the scar on his arm.
He pretends to sleep until dawn, trying to block out everything around him when all he really hears is Dean’s every single breath, every slide of tongue over his dry mouth, every quietly sung word, like Dean’s trying to stay awake, like he’s offering Sam a lullaby.
He spends every mile until dawn reminding himself that this is what’s temporary, not Stanford. Not Jess. This is the weirdness in his life now, this is the anomaly. Dean isn’t his life anymore. They’ll find Dad and he’ll be back home and his life will unpause, and Dean will turn back into that burrowing ache in the center of his chest in the middle of the night.
That’s the way it is. The way it has to be. Sam can’t really handle it any other way.
The next night finds Sam exhausted as he wanders through a gas station somewhere in the Yucca Valley outside of Jericho, waiting for Dean to come out of the bathroom. He hasn’t eaten since lunch the day before, but nothing much is appealing to him. Butterfingers, pork rinds, cereal bars, trail mix, soda, and beer. He wrinkles his nose and seeks out a bottle of apple juice and a water, turning around just in time to see Dean come out of the bathroom, still coated in head to toe in mud but he’s wiped his face off a bit, no more mud clinging to his eyelashes. Sam can’t help but smile though he pulls it into a smirk just in time for Dean’s eyes to find him.
“I hate the bathrooms in these places. You can practically smell the STDs.” Dean shuffles over to Sam, water drops sliding down his neck, making tracks through the mud dried on Dean’s skin and disappearing under his ruined shirt. Dean keeps his eyes down and Sam keeps his on Dean and they both know it, both can feel it, like riding a wave.
“I got juice,” Sam says suddenly, lamely, holding up the bottle along with his water. Dean frowns, looking almost confused before he blinks out of whatever world he’d been in before, the one that Sam had been in, too, the one that they used to share with each other and only with each other. They take a step back at the exact same time, eyes averting.
“Yeah. They got some apples up front, I think. Go ahead’n put your stuff up there and I’ll get it.” Dean turns his back then, fixated on a display of peanuts and sunflower seeds. Sam can see the tips of his ears and how pink they are all of a sudden, such a vulnerable flush of color that it makes his chest ache.
“I’ve got mine. I’ll be in the car.” Sam heads to the front of the store then where the cashier is perched, reading through a gossip magazine and picking her nail polish off. He drops his drinks down and grabs a couple of apples in the basket near the register, fishing his wallet out as she rings him up. He doesn’t glance back at Dean though he wants to, feels the weight of his silence behind him.
“Six seventy-six.” The cashier watches him with the flat, level stare of a woman who’s seen it all and doesn’t fall for a sweet smile. He digs a ten out of his wallet and busies himself with the inventory of lighters to his right. The woman takes his money and keeps staring at him, waiting for him to meet her eyes. When he does, she frowns.
“Better tell your boyfriend he’s getting mud ever’where. And who do you think’s gotta clean it up?”
Sam opens his mouth but no words come rushing up to be helpful, to correct her, to apologize. The only thing running through his mind is that she saw them back there, saw them standing close, saw Sam’s eyes on Dean, and had drawn her own conclusions. His cheeks heat up.
“Sorry,” he finally manages, his hand coming out, wide palm on display, eyes pleading with her to please give him his change, to please let him get out of here before Dean comes up. He doesn’t want to hear her repeat that in front of Dean.
She gives him one last, good glare and dumps the change into his hand and he lets out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He takes the money and his bag and leaves without looking back, not glancing back to have an idea of where Dean is, if he looks as alone as Sam has made him.
Sam rinses an apple off with a splash of water out the window of the car before taking a bite out of it. Dean leaves the gas station finally, silhouetted by the artificial light before he steps out into the dark, towards Sam in the Impala. Sam looks away, looks down at his fingers slick with juice that he licks off. A car pulls up beside them and Sam can hear a couple of guys get out, laughing and teasing each other and using the word “fag” and he can’t help but freeze up.
The guys stop right in front of Dean, both blatantly staring at him and his mud-caked self. Sam can only see the guys’ backs but Dean’s face is drawn into a scowl, probably fresh from an argument with Ms. Sunshine behind the register.
“What? You ain’t never forgotten to take off your mud mask before you leave the house?” Dean steps toward the guys, his shoulders back, every inch of him alpha and challenging, eyebrows raised like he’s daring them to say something.
Sam pulls his lips into his mouth, ducking his head to hide a smile as the guys clearly submit, their own heads dropping as they step past Dean, not even looking at each other on their way inside.
Dean rolls his eyes to himself and walks around to the driver’s side of the car, sinking into the towel-covered seat. He lets out a wet snort, obviously directed at the guys.
“Classy bastards, huh?” He yanks the door closed after him and roots around in his plastic bag, making lots of racket as he does and Sam just has to take a deep breath and let it out slowly, staring down hard at the apple in his hand, the flesh already starting to brown. He doesn’t respond.
“Got you a sandwich. They had ‘em in a case near the register we didn’t see before.” Dean sets the wrapped up sandwich on Sam’s thigh, the label facing up, reading ‘Turk Club - Exp. 11/2/05.’
“Not hungry.” Sam scoops up the sandwich and passes it back over to Dean, not looking as he drops it back in the bag. “Thanks anyway.”
He takes another bite of his apple just for something to do more than any kind of hunger pangs. He watches the two guys in the gas station arguing over beef jerky in bags and laughing. He wonders if they would have tried to pick on him in high school. Wonders if he could take them both right now, just because.
“You doin’ that thing again?”
Sam snaps his attention back over to Dean who’s sitting just like he was before, who is watching him in the mostly-dark of the car. Sam’s heart rate picks up for no reason, nerves itching all under his skin. He doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes, just raises his eyebrows in his general direction.
“Uh. What are you talking about?”
“That not eating thing. I didn’t think you’d done that in years.” Dean’s voice is careful again, like Sam’s made of spun sugar or something. It makes Sam’s blood pressure kick up, makes him grit his teeth and look away with a sharp turn of his head. He throws the rest of his apple out the window.
“I’m not not eating. I’m just not fucking hungry. Not that it’s any of your business.” He sucks in a quick breath and sinks down deeper into the seat, hands on his thighs so he doesn’t cross his arms over his chest like a fucking teenager. He can see Dean’s eyebrows go up out of the corner of his eyes, can imagine every bit of his reaction.
“Christ, Sammy, this isn’t an interrogation. I was just asking a question. Unclench.” Dean huffs, an annoyed sound and Sam knows where this is going, where it always goes when they’re both being like this. Dean digs around in his bag again, the sound even louder than it was before, probably on purpose.
“It’s not like you’d know anyway. You haven’t even been around me since I was a teenager anyway. I’m a little different than the last time you saw me, Dean.” He opens his water and gulps some down before recapping it. His leg is jumping in a fit of angry energy, everything from the set of his shoulders to the way he’s staring dead ahead saying that he’s just spoiling for a fight. Anyway, it’s easier than silence.
“It’s just been a couple of years, dude. You’re not some big fucking mystery, Sam. I know you like to think you are, but.” Dean rips open a bag of chips and shoves a few in his mouth, slouching down into the seat himself. They’re not going anywhere and they’re saying this shit now. They’re doing this here, apparently.
“You know what, Dean? I think I’m tired. I’m just gonna go to sleep.” Sam jumps up then, throwing the door open and climbing out of the car only to find himself face-to-face with one of the guys trying to get back in their car. Sam steps up onto the sidewalk and waits for the guy to pass, both him and his friend getting into the car in silence, almost like they can feel the fight in the air, idiots or not.
They pull out and Sam finishes up his decision to take the high road by climbing into the backseat and jerking the door shut. He stretches out over the seat, head pillowed on his duffel. Dean keeps eating his chips and sipping on what smells like beer, the air between them swirling with resentment.
“You call your girlfriend?”
Sam looks up and over and stares at the back of Dean’s stupid head. He wants to smack him.
“Jessica. Her name is Jessica.”
“Okay, fine. Jessica. Did you call Jessica?” Several gulps follow and then the sound of an empty can getting thrown into a plastic bag. The snick-pop of a new beer being opened.
“I’ll call her in the morning.” It’s all he’s offering Dean and it’s more than he deserves. He folds his arms over his chest and closes his eyes. Maybe he can fall asleep even if Dean is talking. Just snore through his questions.
“Bet she’s wild in bed. Is she?” Movement and Dean’s turning a little to look back and down at him. Sam squeezes his eyes shut even tighter, can’t look up at him or he really will punch him. He purses his lips and refuses to answer, even if it’s just going to be something mean back. Ignoring Dean hurts him more.
Dean surprises him by not saying anything else, by not tossing out increasingly vulgar questions until he gets a reaction out of Sam. He finishes eating whatever it is he got, guzzles down his second beer and even burps quietly. He shoves all his trash into that loud-ass bag and lets out a sigh.
“You wanna get a room tonight or what? I don’t have a whole lot left on this card, and if we wait ‘til morning we won’t have to pay for two nights.”
Sam stays quiet, slowing his breathing down so Dean’ll think he really did just fall asleep. Dean growls after a few seconds, a low, deeply discontent sound followed by a hand rubbing hard over a scruffy face.
“Alright, Sammy. Good talk. Night.”
More movement, the sound of boots being kicked off and finally stillness punctuated by Dean letting out a long, heavy sigh.
They stay there in the parking lot of the gas station that night, Sam in the back seat and Dean in the front. The windows are cracked but it’s still warm inside the car. Sam spends most of the night staring at the ceiling of the Impala, listening to the drift and rumble of Dean’s snores, pretending he doesn’t want things the way they used to be. That it’s not his fault everything’s different.
November 2, 2005
The Woman in White is just a story once again, and Sam had forgotten how good it feels. The deep contentment of keeping people safe, of leaving a place and knowing that you played a big part in protecting them. It’s so simple and so straight-forward, so different than laws and debates and loopholes of the American justice system.
The air blowing in through the open window is cool, an icy lick all over his tired body, and he has to hold the map down firm in his lap to keep it from blowing out. He’d found Blackwater Ridge, had finally had the conversation with Dean that he’s been waiting for all weekend.
He’d told him no, in more than that many words. And Dean had told him he’d take him home, and that was that. Lights off between them again, Dean’s eyes straight ahead in the darkness, sadness leaking from him in tired waves. The quiet language of them, the one they’d started creating back when Dean used to sleep in Sam’s crib, the one that Sam is still fluent in, no matter how many years they’re apart, is painfully loud now.
Sorrow, that’s what Sam’s getting from Dean. Sorrow. He wonders what would happen if he told his eleven-year-old self about this moment, about the pain between them, the excruciating knowledge that they’re about to separate again, maybe this time for good. What if he told his younger self that it’s all his fault. That he’s the one making that decision. Young Sam would never understand, could not fathom being away from Dean, even for a few hours.
And he can’t explain it, even now, even to himself. He can only chalk it up to survival, that he has to do this or he wouldn’t be alive. The pull to Dean is irresistible and undeniable and just as strong as ever, and Sam knows he can’t open himself up to it again. Because nothing will come from it, nothing ever comes from it. Because Dean just isn’t as fucked-up as he is, and Sam can’t bring himself to wish that he was.
Dean reaches up to turn the the radio up and he settles in to drive, eyes heavy and beautiful with exhaustion. Sam just wraps his arms around himself, right thumbnail finding the barely raised scar on his wrist and digging in hard. They don’t speak all the way back up to Palo Alto.
They don’t even say goodbye. They never do. He feels caught in Dean’s eyes, held there inside the eternity of a second, and it’s almost enough to pull him back in, almost enough to make him say fuck it, to climb back in the car.
But he doesn’t. He steps back, watches Dean drive away, listens to the sound of the Impala pulling away without him which has always twisted at his gut, made him feel like he’s going to throw up.
Some things just don’t change.
He sighs to himself, hefts his bag up onto his shoulder, and digs his keys out of his pocket. The night air is still here, cooler than Southern California had been. But at least he’s home.
The apartment is completely dark when he walks in.
“...Jess? You home?”
His voice echoes through the entire downstairs, and he gets no reply. He closes the door absently behind him, eyes already trained on the little plate on the kitchen table next to his National Geographic magazine. The cookies are fresh, the smell strong in the air, and the note lifts the very last of the shadows from his smile.
Missed you! Love you!
He’s suddenly starving after not eating the entire weekend. His stomach rumbles grumpily and his smile softens as he reaches under the note to grab one of the cookies. Still warm, perfectly baked, and exactly what he needed to see.
He loves her. Maybe not with all of his heart, and maybe she’s miles and miles too good for him, but she loves him right back. It’s never what he expected to find, she’s never what he expected to have, but it’s enough. And they work.
The cookie crumbles and melts in his mouth, and he lifts his eyes to the stairs. He’s suddenly not tired anymore and he can’t wait to see Jess.
Bile rises up in the back of Dean’s throat when he gets to the end of Sam’s street. There’s a panic that’s been building in him ever since they crossed into Santa Clara County, and it’s so strong now that he can’t even focus to drive.
He stares out at the empty street, at the fog hovering under the streetlights. The roads are slick, raindrops beaded all over the windshield, and the air from the broken window has a bite to it. It’s that feeling, the one that’s been gnawing at him for days, the one that got him here from New Orleans so fast. The one that made him feel like he was being chased. The one that feels like everything is wrong but hiding, in the shadows. Waiting to pounce.
And he’s just left Sam again. Drove away, left him standing alone on the sidewalk.
We’re all in danger.
He realizes then that he’s been holding his breath for nearly a full minute, that he’s gripping the steering wheel so hard his hands are shaking. He exhales quick just so he can breathe in again, his body sagging back against the seat.
“Why don’t you act like more of a drama queen, Winchester. I dare ya,” he mutters to himself, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Jesus.”
He hits the gas again and eases down the street, forcing himself to loosen his deathgrip on the wheel. It’s kind of fucking ridiculous, really. They’d just solved the case Dad had been on, they’d found the coordinates for the next case Dad wanted them, well, him on. There’s no reason for this, no reason to be so dramatic. To be acting like such a chicken shit when the only thing that’s wrong is that his heart is breaking the further he gets away from Sam.
“Sky ain’t fallin’,” he says softly, a trace of a sad smile tugging on one side of his mouth. He’s tired all of a sudden, the whirlwind of the weekend suddenly crashing down on him. He wants to get at least as far as Reno before he stops for the night, but he doesn’t even know if he can make it out of the city now. He needs sleep.
He glances at his watch, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up when he sees that it’s stopped, stuck on 2:50, the second hand unmoving. He spares a quick glance in the rearview to make sure he’s still alone on the road before he makes a U-turn right there, foot pushing down hard on the gas. He’s two blocks away. And clocks don’t stop on their own. Not for them.
He remembers Dad telling him. Remembers reading it in the journal. About how the cops said all the clocks in the house were stopped on the same time the night of the fire. The night Mom died. He’s heard it a hundred times in his life.
Shouldn’t have left him alone. Shouldn’t have fucking left him.
“Goddamnit,” Dean whispers to himself, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, the only thing he can hear. He runs a stop sign and eases over to the side of the road to throw the car into park. “Goddamnit.”
He shoves his keys into his pocket and runs across the street, the adrenaline racing through his entire body, every single one of his senses focused on one thing and one thing only. Which is how he hears Sam’s voice in the window above just as he reaches the front door.
“No! Jess!”
Dean’s blood runs cold, all the color draining from his face.
“Sammy. Sammy!”
He charges up the steps and lifts his leg, throwing all his strength into it as he kicks the doorknob with the flat of his foot. The door gives easily, clattering open just as the thick scent of smoke hits his nose, the smell of cooking flesh, of scorched hair.
“Sam!” He heads right for the stairs, racing up them two at a time and he can see their bedroom the second he hits the top step, can see the smoke pouring out through the open door, the flicker of bright orange, can hear Sam’s voice.
Sam is on the bed when Dean gets to the doorway, he’s staring up at the ceiling like he’s terrified, like the monster is up there, like he can’t seem to leave because of whatever he’s seeing.
Dean’s heard Dad’s story. Heard it since he was little, heard every small detail so many times that he feels like he was there, really there. Saw-his-mom-burn kind of there. He’d always thought he understood, always thought everything he’d seen in his life had given him enough personal experience to really, truly know what it had been like for his Dad, walking into that room, seeing her pinned to the ceiling like that, her body dissolving in fire.
Jess had been so beautiful. She’d had bright, intelligent eyes that hadn’t fallen for Dean’s charm, she’d had a kind of strength that seemed to draw Sam right in, made him trust her. Made him love her.
Now he’ll never forget what it looks like when the white and green of her eyes seem to be melting in flames, never forget what it’s like to see one of those angel blonde curls fall from where she’s held to the ceiling by evil, the yellow strands of it burning where it hits the bed, catches the sheets on fire.
It’s a split second but it’s there in his mind, the reality of it. It’s really happening right in front of him, and inside of that second he feels like a little boy again, like that’s his mom up there, like his whole life looped back around onto itself and he’s never going to escape it, the nightmare of this.
But then he hears Sam again.
Sam.
“Sam!” He races toward his brother who doesn’t seem like he wants to move, wants to leave. “Sam! C’mon, we gotta go!”
He grabs him up by his jacket and Sam fights him, just like Dean knew he would. He keeps screaming her name, screaming it like she can hear him, like she’s still really alive up there. And what if she is? What if she’s living through this, can feel it?
Sam almost gets away from him so Dean tightens his grip on him and yanks him out of the room, shoving him out into the hallway even as he grabs onto the doorframe, tries to get away from Dean, to get back in there to her.
“Sammy, she’s gone. Man, she’s gone. It’s--”
A rush of flames swoops down just then, heading straight toward them. Dean reacts then, fight or flight, fists Sam’s jacket and pulls him down the stairs, getting them both out of the house or losing his arm in the process because he ain’t letting go, not now, not ever.
They burst out of the front of the apartment and they both suck in huge gasps of clean air before they start coughing. Sam collapses down onto the grass, his body suddenly wracked with sobs, the sounds caught between heaving coughs.
“Sammy.” Dean’s in tears himself, his hands shaking so hard he can’t get a better grip on Sam’s sleeve. “Sam, please. We have to get away. C’mon, just get to the sidewalk. Not here. C’mon.”
“Jess,” Sam whimpers, soft, panting hiccups finally breaking through and it’s honest to God heartbreaking, those pitiful sounds coming from his brother. From Sammy. “Jess.”
“Please,” Dean whispers, pleading with Sam, with Dad, with anything that will help. Just need to get Sam safe, need to get him away. Away. “Please, just--”
Chaos descends on them like it’s been waiting in the wings, like it’s seizing its chance. People come rushing out of doors and from down the street, sirens coming from all sides, shattering the quiet from only ten minutes before.
Dean covers Sam as much as he can, hides him from the eyes of every single person who has appeared, all these safe, unknowing people without targets on their backs. He looks up at the burning building, at the window to their bedroom that’s been shattered, that’s spilling out flame and smoke like rushing water.
Sam’s lifeless now, curled in on himself and sobbing. Dean grabs him under his arms and lifts him up, almost falling back himself to do so. He drags Sam away, just need to get him away, dragging him to the sidewalk, just far enough away that they can’t feel the burn of the heat anymore.
They sprawl there on the sidewalk as the firetrucks finally arrive, people shouting and crying, dogs barking, hoses being dragged out but it’s all obliterated by the roar of the fire, a sound like the eye of a tornado, like the deafening rush of water as you’re drowning.
Dean just watches, his arm around Sam’s waist, not letting go of him for any fucking thing in the world. Watches firefighters rush into the apartment, watches the fire grow and grow in that window up there, in Jess and Sam’s room. And Jess is the center of it, the source of all the flames, the sacrifice, right at the heart of it all.
And right now, there’s no one else. No one to take care of this, no one to deal with this, but Dean.
It’s nearly dawn by the time they find a motel and get a room. They don’t say a word as they turn on the lamps by the beds, as they take off their jackets. Dean closes the blinds and the curtains, ignoring the lightening sky for now. He turns around and there’s Sam, standing in the middle of the room, his hoodie still on, his face startlingly blank, his eyes far-off, gone.
“Sammy, uh,” Dean starts, walking up to him slow, one step at a time, like Sam’s a frightened animal. “Why don’t you go take a shower? We both smell like smoke and--”
“I don’t have anything,” Sam says back, his voice distant, like he’s recalling something, like he’s talking in his sleep, maybe. His eyes are bloodshot, rimmed in red and swollen. He looks shaken, his face deathly pale. “I don’t have anything anymore.”
“I’ve got some sweats and a t-shirt for you to change into. Don’t worry about that. We’ll worry about all that tomorrow. Just. Just go take a shower, okay? You’ll. You’ll feel.”
He pauses, stops himself from saying you’ll feel better because it’s a horrible thing to say. A fucking false, lying sentiment, in the face of what they’d seen tonight. Of what Sam has just gone through.
“Just,” Dean starts again, licking his lips, wanting to reach up and touch Sam, just to remind himself that Sam’s here and he’s alive and he’s not hurt. He’s okay. But he won’t. He won’t. “Just go ahead. I’ll leave the clothes on the sink for ya.”
Sam nods, a curt, single jerk of his head, not meeting Dean’s eyes as he turns away. He flicks on the bathroom light and pushes the door to but doesn’t close it, just like they’ve always done. Habit, probably.
Dean digs through his own clothes, grateful for having something to do, even if it’s just finding a damn clean t-shirt. He finds a grey one that’s not too dirty and his favorite pair of black sweatpants that he only wears when he’s officially off-duty. They’ll be laughably short on Sam, but they’ll work. He even finds a clean pair of socks and a pair of underwear, adding them to the top of the pile.
Steam is swirling around in the bathroom when Dean opens the door, and it reminds him suddenly and too much of the smoke. The smell of it’s everywhere, all over Dean’s clothes, all over Sam’s clothes there on the bathroom floor. Dean feels a sudden need to vomit.
He sets the clean clothes down on the edge of the sink and glances over at the closed shower curtain. He can see the top of Sam’s head, the near-black of his wet hair. Doesn’t hear or see any movement, doesn’t smell soap or shampoo.
“Sammy, you doin’ okay?” Waits a beat. “You need anything?”
Silence. The water rushes on from the showerhead, sound dampened a little by Sam’s body. Dean closes his eyes against the burn of tears that sneaks up on him, and he reaches out to steady himself on the sink.
“There’s some clothes for you on the sink. Just, uh. Just take as much time as you need.”
Dean waits, listens for something, anything. He sighs when he still gets nothing, reaching down to gather up Sam’s clothes, hugging them to his chest on his way out.
He pulls the door closed behind him, trying to give Sam at least the illusion of privacy. He strips down himself and shoves his and Sam’s clothes into an empty garbage bag, tying a knot on it and tossing it beside his bag. He just wants rid of that smell, that horrible, unmistakable smell of burning skin, cooking human flesh. But it’s in his nose, caught there, not leaving for days.
He changes into another pair of his makeshift pajamas and pulls down the covers on one of the beds, turning all the lamps off but one. He doesn’t want to turn on the TV, doesn’t want to go to bed before Sam comes out.
He knows he should call Dad, call Bobby, someone. But there’s nothing anybody can do tonight, nothing anybody can do to actually fix this. The only thing left to be done is to avenge it. And Dean is not taking that job away from Sam and giving it to anyone else, even Dad.
He pulls out the box of salt from his duffel, still new, unopened. He moves on instinct as he lines the door and window, not letting himself feel silly as he makes a circle around Sam’s bed, the pile of salt thick, two inches wide. Just in case. He scoops the cat’s eye shells out of the pocket of his jacket, the ones from Dad’s motel room and puts them in a little pile next to the phone on the nightstand, between him and Sam.
Just in case.
He slides back on the mattress, pillow cradling his head. He stares at the ceiling, the blank, white ceiling. He can’t imagine what Sam saw, how he found her pinned up there. What that moment was like for him. He closes his eyes, refuses to cry. Can’t fall into that, not when Sam needs him.
The shower’s stopped, and there’s some movement on the other side of the bathroom door. Sam steps out, silhouetted for a brief second before he turns the light off, leaving him in shadow except for the lamp between the beds. He smells so good, clean, like soap, and the scent breaks through even just for a second.
Dean’s head is turned and he’s watching Sam, watching him make his way to the other bed, watching him pull down the covers. He looks like he’s working on autopilot, like he’s following a very specific list of instructions.
“Sam,” Dean starts, not sure what else he wants to say.
Sam doesn’t pause, doesn’t look over. Just slides under the covers, facing away from Dean, on his side. He pulls the blankets up around him, hiding all but the wet curls of his hair. He doesn’t sigh, doesn’t sniffle, doesn’t speak. Silence covers the room again.
Dean just watches him for a long moment in the low light, eyes catching on Sam’s foot sticking out from under the covers, covered up with Dean’s sock but his ankle’s exposed, bare, almost heartbreakingly vulnerable. He gets the inexplicable need to cover Sam up completely, to hide him just for a little while. He wants so badly to keep talking, to get Sam to talk to him. To go over there to him, to touch his strong, long back, to press right up behind him and wrap his arms around his little brother, like he’s done before. Like he’s done so many times before.
But this, this time, this night, is nothing like the rest of them were. And nothing Dean can say is going to fix this. Not this time.
He turns the lamp between them off and turns on his side toward Sam. Exhaustion settles over him, his muscles shaking from exertion, but he knows he won’t sleep. He’ll stay awake, keep sentinel as long as Sam needs to sleep. Because it’s the least he can do. It’s all he can do right now.
next.