FIC: The Lee - Epilogue
Title: The Lee - Epilogue
Author: pdragon76
Rating: PG (sailor mouths)
Genre: Gen
Characters: Sam, Dean
Spoilers: Set late Season Two, after WIAWSNB. AU for timeline and some minor canon-jiggery.
Disclaimer: It’s Kripke’s world, we’re all just living in it. *snaps fingers, points*
Summary: Wherever you go, there you are.
A/N: This fic was commissioned for Sweet Charity by the very lovely shadow_of_doubt, who wanted “something angsty that involves Sam and his powers”. Hope this scratches the itch, my dear. Apologies in advance to any native West Virginians. Beta’d by the brilliant, incessant kimonkey7 and the ever insightful, truly delightful riverbella. These guys demand that I earn it - and own it - to the best of my debatable ability, every step of the way. Any remaining niggles, wtf’s and humdingers are mine, all mine.
Previous chapter links: Ch1 Ch2 Ch3 Ch4 Ch5 Ch6 Ch7 Ch8 Ch9 Ch10
He that is born to be hanged shall never be drowned.
~ French Proverb
Sam rode shotgun while Dean drove them away from the Roadhouse. He spent the first ten miles ignoring Dean’s passionate, borderline-obscene reunion with the steering wheel. It wasn’t that Sam begrudged him his happiness at being back in the driver’s seat - his mind was just elsewhere. They were a good couple of states shy of the airport for which Beth was bound, but it was still the same sky, and he couldn’t stop his roaming gaze from drifting to the grumbling heavens.
After his fourth or fifth attempt at conversation tanked, Dean settled for some off-key crooning along with Metallica, and his mood didn’t seem dented any for Sam’s lack of input. They stopped at a crappy burger joint around noon, then kept driving. It was nightfall before Dean ran out of excuses and braved the elephant in the car.
“Maybe she listened to Ellen, ditched the flight.”
It was raining now, and it didn’t look like it was going to let up. Sam shifted around on the seat, despite an understanding there was no physical position that would relieve his discomfort.
“I called the airport when we stopped for lunch,” he confessed. “Bethwyn Carlisle checked in an hour and a half before her flight, hand luggage only. Plane took off on time.”
Dean pressed his lips together, blew a raspberry. “Okay, so she didn’t ditch the flight.”
“No, she’s gone.” Three hollow words.
“Ash’s got her. He’ll keep tabs, Sammy. He won’t lose her.”
“I know.”
“We’ve got time. We’ll figure something out.”
“I know,” Sam repeated, more to end the conversation than out of conviction.
“You think she told Gwen about the deal?”
Sam shook his head, lifted his eyebrows. “I dunno. I don’t think so. She would have had to come clean about California. I dunno what she thinks she’s doing.”
Dean lifted a hand from the wheel and ran his finger under his nose. “She probably doesn’t either. I really hope she didn’t tell Gwen. Man, what a mess.”
Sam squinted at the windshield. “Are you tryna make me feel better or worse?”
“Default setting’s worse. It’s a big brother thing.”
“Well, can you cut it out?”
“Not usually, no.”
“Have we decided where we’re going?” Sam said, in an effort to change the subject entirely.
Dean shot him a broad smile. “Nope.”
“Should we decide where we’re going?”
“Nope.”
“Remind me, what’s the logic behind that again?”
Dean rested an elbow on the door. “If we don’t know where the fuck we are, makes it harder for anyone else to figure it out.”
“And that passes for actual logic in your head?” Sam enquired dubiously.
His brother clucked his cheek. “You don’t like it, disprove it.”
A few miles passed while Sam mulled that over some, came up empty. “We can’t outrun this, Dean.”
“I violently disagree. This car can outrun anything.”
“I’m not kidding. Something’s coming for me. Something bad.” There weren’t any safe places, and maybe there never had been. Not Bobby’s, not the Roadhouse, not podunk towns in West Virginia or Beth Carlisle’s bed. “I can’t control it and I can’t stop it. You can’t either. I don’t know if there’s any point hiding from it.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Dean said. “You’re fine. You’re gonna be fine.”
Places out of the wind didn’t belong to them. Trying to pretend otherwise just got people hurt. Dead. “What are we gonna do, stay on the run like fugitives? Kill everyone who comes for me? Make no mistake, Dean. The YED told us, people are coming for me. Demons…hunters… Where do we draw the line? How many people?”
Dean eased the car to a stop on the highway's shoulder, killed the engine. He twisted gingerly on the seat, stretched one arm across the divide between them and cuffed the back of Sam’s head. “Okay, first up, I got no clue where you’ve been for the last year and a half, but we’re always on the run like fuckin’ fugitives. Welcome to our lives. And second, I know exactly where my goddamn line is. Some asshole points a gun at you, or gets their demon freak on within a five miles radius of you, that sonuvabitch has crossed my line. That is clear as fuckin’ crystal gets for me. That is no contest.”
“What if it’s me, Dean?”
“What?”
“What if it’s me, getting the freak on. What happens to your line then?”
Dean clamped his mouth shut, brow furrowed as he studied Sam in what appeared to be a grid-pattern search for a single non-irritating inch of his personage. He started the engine again. “You’re my brother, is what happens to my stupid line.”
“I exorcised a demon without a single word of Latin. I didn’t touch it. I thought it and it happened. We can’t pretend it didn’t. My line isn’t that simple, Dean.”
“Well, I suggest closing your eyes and humming a tune next time the shit hits the fan. ’Cause I don’t really give a rat’s ass about you and your wishy-washy line.” Dean pulled back out onto the blacktop and the rain slapped at the windshield as the Impala gathered speed.
“Dean-”
“Your problem is you think too much. You need to eat more and think less. We need food. I’m hungry.”
Sam sent a heavy sigh up at the roof. “The problem’s not the YED, Dean. The problem’s in this car. We can’t outrun a problem that’s in the fucking car.”
“You don’t shut your trap, I’m gonna make a problem in this car.” Dean peered over the steering wheel down the rain-blurred road. “Look for diners, Sasquatch.”
A few miles later, they followed a neon sign down a thin, potholed side road. A mile in past a wrought iron lamppost, another red and yellow advertisement beckoned them on to the Sunnyside Diner. It was a nondescript box of a building standing drab and grey beneath the distinct lack of anything sunny.
Dean parked near a red and white pickup, fished out his wallet and snapped some notes from the trifold. “Hey, don’t forget the extra onions this time.”
Sam made a long-suffering face as he snatched the cash. “Dude. I’m the one who’s gonna have to ride in the car with your extra onions.”
Dean’s grin confirmed this was the primary reason for the request. “Hey, see if they’ve got any pie,” he added as Sam exited the vehicle.
Sam declined to answer, slammed the car door on Dean’s repeated shout for dessert.
He hunched under a steady drizzle to the steps, mounted them and grasped the handle of the door beside the blazing sun logo of the Sunnyside Diner. Inside the welcome warmth of the dining room, the dulcet tones of a jukebox greeted him - the vaguely familiar opening bars of some lazy country and western ballad. He tried to place it en route to the counter, but the title eluded him.
An aproned woman wiped the long beige service bar with a tattered rag. “Hey, sweetie. What can I get for you?”
Sam gazed down at the red and white square tiles beneath his feet. His eyes flicked to the baseball-capped patron in the booth to his left.
Fuck.
His hand twitched for the gun he had left in the car.
“Showtime, kid.”
Author: pdragon76
Rating: PG (sailor mouths)
Genre: Gen
Characters: Sam, Dean
Spoilers: Set late Season Two, after WIAWSNB. AU for timeline and some minor canon-jiggery.
Disclaimer: It’s Kripke’s world, we’re all just living in it. *snaps fingers, points*
Summary: Wherever you go, there you are.
A/N: This fic was commissioned for Sweet Charity by the very lovely shadow_of_doubt, who wanted “something angsty that involves Sam and his powers”. Hope this scratches the itch, my dear. Apologies in advance to any native West Virginians. Beta’d by the brilliant, incessant kimonkey7 and the ever insightful, truly delightful riverbella. These guys demand that I earn it - and own it - to the best of my debatable ability, every step of the way. Any remaining niggles, wtf’s and humdingers are mine, all mine.
Previous chapter links: Ch1 Ch2 Ch3 Ch4 Ch5 Ch6 Ch7 Ch8 Ch9 Ch10
He that is born to be hanged shall never be drowned.
~ French Proverb
Sam rode shotgun while Dean drove them away from the Roadhouse. He spent the first ten miles ignoring Dean’s passionate, borderline-obscene reunion with the steering wheel. It wasn’t that Sam begrudged him his happiness at being back in the driver’s seat - his mind was just elsewhere. They were a good couple of states shy of the airport for which Beth was bound, but it was still the same sky, and he couldn’t stop his roaming gaze from drifting to the grumbling heavens.
After his fourth or fifth attempt at conversation tanked, Dean settled for some off-key crooning along with Metallica, and his mood didn’t seem dented any for Sam’s lack of input. They stopped at a crappy burger joint around noon, then kept driving. It was nightfall before Dean ran out of excuses and braved the elephant in the car.
“Maybe she listened to Ellen, ditched the flight.”
It was raining now, and it didn’t look like it was going to let up. Sam shifted around on the seat, despite an understanding there was no physical position that would relieve his discomfort.
“I called the airport when we stopped for lunch,” he confessed. “Bethwyn Carlisle checked in an hour and a half before her flight, hand luggage only. Plane took off on time.”
Dean pressed his lips together, blew a raspberry. “Okay, so she didn’t ditch the flight.”
“No, she’s gone.” Three hollow words.
“Ash’s got her. He’ll keep tabs, Sammy. He won’t lose her.”
“I know.”
“We’ve got time. We’ll figure something out.”
“I know,” Sam repeated, more to end the conversation than out of conviction.
“You think she told Gwen about the deal?”
Sam shook his head, lifted his eyebrows. “I dunno. I don’t think so. She would have had to come clean about California. I dunno what she thinks she’s doing.”
Dean lifted a hand from the wheel and ran his finger under his nose. “She probably doesn’t either. I really hope she didn’t tell Gwen. Man, what a mess.”
Sam squinted at the windshield. “Are you tryna make me feel better or worse?”
“Default setting’s worse. It’s a big brother thing.”
“Well, can you cut it out?”
“Not usually, no.”
“Have we decided where we’re going?” Sam said, in an effort to change the subject entirely.
Dean shot him a broad smile. “Nope.”
“Should we decide where we’re going?”
“Nope.”
“Remind me, what’s the logic behind that again?”
Dean rested an elbow on the door. “If we don’t know where the fuck we are, makes it harder for anyone else to figure it out.”
“And that passes for actual logic in your head?” Sam enquired dubiously.
His brother clucked his cheek. “You don’t like it, disprove it.”
A few miles passed while Sam mulled that over some, came up empty. “We can’t outrun this, Dean.”
“I violently disagree. This car can outrun anything.”
“I’m not kidding. Something’s coming for me. Something bad.” There weren’t any safe places, and maybe there never had been. Not Bobby’s, not the Roadhouse, not podunk towns in West Virginia or Beth Carlisle’s bed. “I can’t control it and I can’t stop it. You can’t either. I don’t know if there’s any point hiding from it.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Dean said. “You’re fine. You’re gonna be fine.”
Places out of the wind didn’t belong to them. Trying to pretend otherwise just got people hurt. Dead. “What are we gonna do, stay on the run like fugitives? Kill everyone who comes for me? Make no mistake, Dean. The YED told us, people are coming for me. Demons…hunters… Where do we draw the line? How many people?”
Dean eased the car to a stop on the highway's shoulder, killed the engine. He twisted gingerly on the seat, stretched one arm across the divide between them and cuffed the back of Sam’s head. “Okay, first up, I got no clue where you’ve been for the last year and a half, but we’re always on the run like fuckin’ fugitives. Welcome to our lives. And second, I know exactly where my goddamn line is. Some asshole points a gun at you, or gets their demon freak on within a five miles radius of you, that sonuvabitch has crossed my line. That is clear as fuckin’ crystal gets for me. That is no contest.”
“What if it’s me, Dean?”
“What?”
“What if it’s me, getting the freak on. What happens to your line then?”
Dean clamped his mouth shut, brow furrowed as he studied Sam in what appeared to be a grid-pattern search for a single non-irritating inch of his personage. He started the engine again. “You’re my brother, is what happens to my stupid line.”
“I exorcised a demon without a single word of Latin. I didn’t touch it. I thought it and it happened. We can’t pretend it didn’t. My line isn’t that simple, Dean.”
“Well, I suggest closing your eyes and humming a tune next time the shit hits the fan. ’Cause I don’t really give a rat’s ass about you and your wishy-washy line.” Dean pulled back out onto the blacktop and the rain slapped at the windshield as the Impala gathered speed.
“Dean-”
“Your problem is you think too much. You need to eat more and think less. We need food. I’m hungry.”
Sam sent a heavy sigh up at the roof. “The problem’s not the YED, Dean. The problem’s in this car. We can’t outrun a problem that’s in the fucking car.”
“You don’t shut your trap, I’m gonna make a problem in this car.” Dean peered over the steering wheel down the rain-blurred road. “Look for diners, Sasquatch.”
A few miles later, they followed a neon sign down a thin, potholed side road. A mile in past a wrought iron lamppost, another red and yellow advertisement beckoned them on to the Sunnyside Diner. It was a nondescript box of a building standing drab and grey beneath the distinct lack of anything sunny.
Dean parked near a red and white pickup, fished out his wallet and snapped some notes from the trifold. “Hey, don’t forget the extra onions this time.”
Sam made a long-suffering face as he snatched the cash. “Dude. I’m the one who’s gonna have to ride in the car with your extra onions.”
Dean’s grin confirmed this was the primary reason for the request. “Hey, see if they’ve got any pie,” he added as Sam exited the vehicle.
Sam declined to answer, slammed the car door on Dean’s repeated shout for dessert.
He hunched under a steady drizzle to the steps, mounted them and grasped the handle of the door beside the blazing sun logo of the Sunnyside Diner. Inside the welcome warmth of the dining room, the dulcet tones of a jukebox greeted him - the vaguely familiar opening bars of some lazy country and western ballad. He tried to place it en route to the counter, but the title eluded him.
An aproned woman wiped the long beige service bar with a tattered rag. “Hey, sweetie. What can I get for you?”
Sam gazed down at the red and white square tiles beneath his feet. His eyes flicked to the baseball-capped patron in the booth to his left.
Fuck.
His hand twitched for the gun he had left in the car.
“Showtime, kid.”