Knowledge of Dead Secrets (3 of 10)
The Impala’s where he left it, and sliding in behind the wheel has Dean breathing a sigh of relief at the comfort, the familiarity. He sets the paper bag on the passenger seat next to him, pulls away, and can’t help driving past the café on his way out of the French Quarter, slowing down enough to look at the windows, not slow enough to make out the faces of anyone inside. Head aching, Dean drives away, out of San Francisco, Motorhead blaring, amulet and charm bouncing against each other with every pothole.
He’s way outside of Palo Alto, in a small town called Bishop about forty miles from the Nevada border, before he pulls over and calls John. His father’s phone rings, and Dean leaves a message, not surprised to get voicemail. While he’s waiting for John to call back, Dean opens the paper bag and peers inside, sees a few plastic containers filled with things he can’t quite make out.
Dean pulls out one and grins, surprised, seeing it stuffed to the brim with beignets squished into every square inch of space. The next is filled with rice, the third with gumbo, and the fourth with a couple cut-up pieces of leftover pecan pie. It seems a little like Théo, a little like Pierre, and as Dean’s pulling the lid off the beignets, he wonders if it was their idea or if it was Sam’s.
The phone rings when his mouth’s full of pastry, and Dean can’t help rolling his eyes as he chews faster, grabbing his phone and pushing the button to talk just as he’s swallowing.
“’Lo?” he asks without looking at the caller ID. White flakes of powdered sugar fall off of his mouth onto the steering wheel.
“Dean, have you picked up your brother yet?”
Dean grimaces, looking at the window, brushing sugar off of his lips with one thumb. “Dad, Sam’s not, he’s got other stuff. He’s not coming.”
There’s silence for a moment, then John says, “Fine,” like he’s trying not to scream, trying not to let disappointment and worry and anger seep into his voice and fight there, out in the open, for dominance. “There’s a place south of Eldon, Missouri. You’ve got three days. I’ll try and find someone else to fill in the third.” He pauses, then asks, “He’s okay?”
Dean makes a face, says, “Yeah,” because apart from the loa, apart from the near-death experience, apart from the cracked up vodou shit Sam’s got going on, his brother’s not doing too bad for himself. “Can’t say I like how he’s doing it, but he’s doing.”
John sighs, the sound echoing across the states between them, and says, “Three days, Dean. Drive safe,” before hanging up.
Dean looks at the half of a beignet in his hand, then sighs, tosses it back in the Tupperware container, and starts driving toward Missouri.
--
Next to John’s truck, there’s a classic, an El Camino that Dean raises an approving eyebrow at as he walks past. He knocks on the door to the motel room John texted him about last night, and steps back while he waits for someone to answer it.
The guy who answers it is as tall as Dean, smirks while he looks Dean over and then says, “Who are you,” like he doesn’t know, like it isn’t written all over Dean’s face, his tired walk, the Impala parked in the lot.
“Dean,” he replies, bristling, “and who the hell are you?”
“Relax,” the guy says, opening the door and stepping out of the way, smirk fading into something halfway near an honest smile. “I’m Gordon Walker. Your dad called me up, said we had a demon. Not my usual monster, but I was close.”
Dean nods at that, slides inside, lets Gordon close the door behind him. “What is your usual monster?”
“Vampires,” John says, coming out of the bathroom, rubbing a towel over his face.
Dean blinks, looks at his father, then back at Gordon, who smirks, before turning back to John and asking, “Vampires? You’re kidding, right?”
“Sometimes I wish I was,” Gordon says, “but I’m not. Now, are we gonna talk about what we’re doing tonight or am I excusing myself for a while so you two can talk about Sammy?”
“It’s Sam,” Dean and John say at the same time.
Gordon holds up his hands, opens the door again and shoots them both a curious look before he gives them a mocking salute and slips out, shuts the door silently behind him.
Dean turns, looks at his father, and says, “I don’t like him. Where’d you find him?”
John sighs, tosses the hand towel back into the bathroom. “He’s a damn good hunter, Dean. Wavering on the edge of insanity, but aren’t we all? Tell me what happened when you went to get Sam.”
“He’s living in San Francisco,” Dean says, sitting on the edge of one bed. “Downtown, in the French Quarter, above a café. Has a couple of roommates, keeps busy. I spent the night there, they had a party,” and he grins, gives a little laugh as he adds, “must’ve been good one, because I don’t remember much.”
Nothing Dean says is a lie, exactly, but it’s a careful collection of half-truths and omissions forced out in as easy a tone as he can drum up.
Still, John seems to buy it, sits down on the bed next to Dean, rubs his forehead. “He’s okay, Dean?”
Dean breathes out, says, “Yes, sir. He’s okay,” and very carefully doesn’t think about whether that was a lie or a prayer.
--
They’re almost too late to save the mother; Dean blames it on Gordon but not out loud, not with Gordon holding a book of old rituals and walking into that kid’s nursery like seeing a woman on the ceiling doesn’t phase him one bit. Gordon reads, though, and Dean catches the mother as she falls to the ground, demonic power trapped by something that Dean thinks sounds Sumerian.
John comes in, then, holding a gun, and the demon says, “John,” lips shaping the name, giving it depth and passion in a dark, dangerous crooning lilt.
Gordon gets the woman and her child downstairs, and Dean doesn’t like giving civilians to Gordon, not when the man’s obviously insane and carrying, but he wants to be here, needs to be here.
“John and Dean,” the demon says. “Now, if only Sam was here, our little reunion would be complete. Tell me, how is Sam doing these days? Has he found his gift yet? His was the best out of all of the children I saw.”
John doesn’t take his eyes off of the demon, not even at the last words, the mention of a gift, and the demon looks bored. It’s as if it’s looking to get a rise out of one or both of them, and with John pointing the gun, hands held easy around the grip, it won’t be him.
The demon looks at Dean, then drops its eyes to the charm on Dean’s necklace, bouncing against the amulet. The demon smiles, and Dean’s throat goes dry. A crack of ozone, and John’s flying through the room, ends up pinned against a wall painted in yellow, the gun on the floor. Dean tosses holy water at the demon and smoke fills the room, but the demon’s stuck, doesn’t have anywhere to hide.
“Your brother knows how to work powerful protection,” the demon says, yellow eyes locked on Dean, as Dean moves, reaches for the gun. “It’s almost like he’s here, instead of you, with that piece of tin around your neck. Do you know how he’s able to do that?”
Dean doesn’t answer. He aims and shoots, and watches as the bullet imbeds itself into the demon’s forehead, above those yellow eyes. Silver lightning spreads outward, inward, and the edges of the trapping spell catch pieces of fire and black smoke when the demon breaks apart.
John sags, falling away from the wall, and catches himself on the corner of a dresser. “The hell was he talking about, Dean?”
Dean looks down at the gun, licks his lips, and says, “I need to go back, let Sam know its over.”
“So call him,” John says, crossing the room and taking Dean’s necklace in hand, moving the amulet to study the charm. “What is this?” and Dean closes his eyes the moment he sees the first hints of recognition dawning in his father’s expression. “Dean, what is this.”
“Sam gave it to me,” Dean says, and steps back, carefully. “I have to get back there, tell him what’s going on.”
Dean can hear Gordon’s footsteps outside, the way the floorboard’s creaking, but John’s asking him questions now, questions about Plaquemines Parish, about the loa and Sam and what kind of café Sam’s living above, what kind of party there was. He feels trapped, standing between two hunters, for the first time ever, wonders if this is why Sam left, this choking, clawing feeling that no one will understand, that they’re going to hurt him, that he’s going to die if he stays here a moment longer.
He pushes past Gordon, goes outside and throws up in the bushes, one hand on the wall of the house to brace his body. When he stands up, Gordon’s nowhere to be seen and John’s waiting for an answer.
“Tell me that your brother did not get mixed up with a bunch of voodoo witches,” John says, flatly.
Dean looks at his father and can’t lie, not with the way John’s staring at him, so he doesn’t say anything at all, wipes off his mouth with the back of one hand instead.
“Go back there and straighten this out,” John says. “Before word gets around, you get your brother out of whatever mess he’s in.” Dean opens his mouth to speak, to protest, but John cuts him off, says, “You’re supposed to protect him, Dean. Do it now, before another hunter finds out. You think it’s bad when hunters go after strangers, you don’t want to see what some of them’ll do to a hunter that switches sides.”
Dean straightens up, feels his blood run cold as John’s words sink in, and he nods. “Yes, sir.”
--
He calls the café on his way back west-calls information first and takes down the number before the girl, pleasant voice, if a little tired, connects him.
Pierre answers, and Dean says, “Hey, I’m on my way back for some beignets.”
There’s silence for a minute; Dean worries but then hears Pierre laugh, as if he’d been trying to hide it, and Pierre says, “We’ll have some made fresh. How long until you arrive?”
Dean glances at his watch, then at the speedometer. “Two days, give or take. I. Is Sam there? I was kind of hoping to talk to him.”
“I sent Sophie up to get ‘im the second I heard your voice,” Pierre says. “He’ll be down in a second, but for future reference, lemme give you his cell number. You have paper?”
By the time Dean’s got Sam’s number down, Pierre’s handing the phone over, and it’s the best sound Dean’s ever heard when his little brother says, “You’re on your way back?”
“I’ll be there in two days,” Dean says. “Be careful, okay?”
Sam pauses, then asks, “Is that a general warning or in reference to something specific?”
“Both.” Dean waits, listens, and then the voice crooning on the other end isn’t Sam.
“We all gonna be careful, Dean Winchester, don’t you worry. Get here fast as you can, but don’t kill yourself on the way. Lakwa ain’t gonna be happy if he has to do something ‘bout you, too.”
It’s a measure of relief, which provokes worry Dean doesn’t want to think about, when he answers Ati. “Yes, sir. I’m on my way.”
After he hangs up, Dean thinks that maybe he should’ve asked if Ati was warning him, wonders about that ‘too’ and what it means, who else Lakwa’s been dealing with. He looks at the speedometer and pushes the Impala a little bit faster.
--
There’s a closed sign on the door of the café when Dean walks up, having left the Impala parked in an alley somewhere. He’s bound to get a ticket, maybe even towed, but he’d driven past the café first and the way the lights inside were out, the way the closed sign was swinging on the door when it should’ve been open and full to capacity, has him a little spooked, that and the itch between his shoulder-blades like something’s going down and he’s almost too late to join in.
He bangs on the door, and someone upstairs peeks out through a window, yells down, “Dean? That you?”
Dean looks up, sees Théo leaning out, over the edge, and even from this far away, he can see panic kept barely in-check written all over Théo’s face.
“Yeah,” Dean calls back. “Someone gonna let me in or do I need to bust the door down?”
Before Théo can answer, Dean sees someone moving through the café, and he backs up enough to let Pierre open the door for him.
“What’s going on?” Dean asks, as Pierre pulls him inside then shuts and locks the door again. “Pierre, come on, what the hell’s happening?”
“Merde, that’s what,” Pierre mutters, and Dean hears anger in Pierre’s words, anger and an accent coaxed out by emotion running high. It’s not made any better when Dean gets close enough to see the bruises forming on Pierre’s face, around his eye and high on his cheekbone. “Trouble. Come on, Dean. Baron’s been waiting for you.”
Dean doesn’t like the sound of that, not at all, but he takes the steps two at a time and blinks when he sees the door at the top in pieces, like someone kicked it down. He turns the corner and stops, has to be pushed to one side by Pierre, who brushes past him and stands next to his brother.
“Dean Winchester, I never thought you’d be part of something like this,” Gordon spits out, twisting in his chair, struggling in vain to get free of the ropes tying his wrists and ankles to the wood. From the looks of his wrists under the rope, he’s been trying for a while, managed to get the rope bloody and his wrists are going to sting like hell until they heal up. He’s not wearing a shirt, looks all banged up, like he’s gone eight rounds with a mean son of a bitch.
Dean’s eyes flick to Pierre, the bruises on Pierre’s face, then back to Gordon. “A part of something like what?” Dean asks.
Before Gordon can answer, Sam comes walking out of the hallway, rubbing a towel over his hair. It’s clear he’s just come from the shower, and when Sophie follows him a split-second later, Dean wonders if they were in there together, wonders what his brother looks like wet and naked, water running down his body in rivulets, hair plastered to his forehead, his neck, eyelashes dripping, clumped together, mouth shining.
Dean swallows, looks away, then looks back, takes in the black Sam’s wearing, head to bottom, and sighs, turns back to Gordon, because dealing with Gordon has to be easier than dealing with Baron La Croix.
“You were listening when Dad I were talking, and you saw the charm, put two and two together, that right?” Dean asks. “Gordon, man, you’re a real piece of work, aren’t you.”
Gordon scowls, says, “Dean, it’s not your brother anymore. Whichever of the damned loa are inside of him, they’ll never let go. Sam’s dead, gone, was the first time it happened. Now all we can do is set his body free. You know he’d want that, if he was here.”
“Boy ain’t wantin’ nothing from you,” Sam says, and Dean hears Lakwa, sees Lakwa in Sam’s eyes when slanted eyes, large pupils, glance his way, nod at him.
Dean nods back, licks his lips, and steps to the side. Gordon bares his teeth when Sam drops to the floor in front of him, sitting cross-legged. Sophie and Théo kneel on either side of him, and Dean watches, keeping an eye on the knife in Sophie’s hand, the gun in Théo’s.
“You been here three hours, chile,” Lakwa says, focused on Gordon. “Three hours, and you ain’t even be asking us why we got you tied up, what we gonna do ‘bout you, nothing. Either you be pretty sure you’re gonna get out of those ropes or you ain’t thinking we gonna do anything ‘bout you. Which is it?”
Gordon spits at Lakwa, hits him square on the cheek, and even as Dean’s moving forward, Théo leans up, smacks Gordon, hard. When Théo sits back on his heels, Dean sees blood dripping out of Gordon’s nose.
“Watch yourself, hunter,” Théo says, and, for the first time, Dean hears Théo’s voice fill and echo with danger. It doesn’t sound like him, not at all, and when Dean sees Pierre’s muscles tense, he guesses.
Sam’s being ridden, Théo’s being ridden, Sophie probably is as well, Dean guesses, guesses until he hears her talk and knows for sure that she is.
“You disrespect our chwal, you disrespect us,” she says, and Dean shudders at the sound of her voice, smoky and raspy, ruffling through his hair and veins, burning low in his stomach and spiralling through his muscles. “Tell us why you here, causing dezòd, all this mess. Just to kill the boy?”
“He was a hunter,” Gordon growls. “He was a hunter, and you’ve perverted him. He was weak, he let you in, he doesn’t deserve to live. Since I can’t kill you, I might as well kill him and rid the world of one more of your kind.”
Dean can only stare at Gordon, the madness threatening to break apart in his eyes, madness and self-assurance, that he’s doing the right thing, that killing Sam is the right thing.
Gordon looks at Dean, pins his eyes on Dean, and says, “He isn’t Sam. Letting him live, you’re no better.”
Dean freezes, and the room’s held in tableau; for a long, never-ending moment, no one moves, no one says anything, it seems like no one’s breathing.
Lakwa shudders and stands up, Sophie and Théo doing the same a moment later. Lakwa turns, and Dean narrows his eyes, because, for a moment, he thinks it’s Sam, except words are spilling from Sam’s throat and there’s no way Sam would ever say what Dean’s hearing.
“We’ll have to kill him. If we let him go, he’ll only bring more hunters, and we can’t make him forget, not with her touch on him.”
Dean gapes as Théo asks, “During ritual? We can hold him long enough to call a gathering.”
Sam, because it is Sam, has to be, sounds like him, looks back at Gordon, who’s glaring and trying to get out of his ropes again. “No,” Sam says. “His blood would only taint us.”
“Sam,” Dean says, because he can’t not say something, not in the face of what Sam’s proposing. “Sam, he’s a hunter.”
Sophie holds out her knife as Théo holds out his gun. Sam looks at the knife, strokes it, but shakes his head, lets his fingers rest on Sophie’s wrist for a moment. He looks at Dean and says, “No, he isn’t. He’s a danger to everyone he’s around and a danger to himself,” and moves to stand behind Gordon.
“You gonna let your baby brother do this to me?” Gordon asks, quiet and still as Sam tilts Gordon’s head back, lets his hands caress Gordon’s neck, stroke their way over skin and behind ears, down Gordon’s neck and smoothing over his shoulders. Dean sees Gordon tense, shiver, but Gordon asks, “You gonna let him kill me in cold blood for speaking the truth?”
Dean opens his mouth, tries to move, but nothing comes out, his feet won’t work. He pushes harder, and Théo, in front of him and facing him, smiles.
“Don’t bother,” he says. “Pierre’s a bokò. You aren’t going anywhere.”
Dean’s eyes widen, move from Théo to Sam as his brother leans down, looks as if he’s going to whisper in Gordon’s ear but speaks loud enough for everyone to hear him. “When you killed your sister, she wasn’t fully gone yet.”
Dean doesn’t understand, but Gordon turns white.
“She could have been saved, if you would’ve waited. There’s a trick to it, Gordon, one you were too busy killing to learn.”
“You’re lying,” Gordon breathes, eyes blank, the craziness in them growing, splitting apart and multiplying. “You’re lying, you are.”
Sam runs one hand over Gordon’s head, closes his eyes, says, “My oath to le gran met, I’m not,” and grabs hold of Gordon’s neck, twists. The sound of a neck snapping echoes through the room, and Dean’s left standing there as everyone else moves.
Pierre disappears into the back hallway, sounds like he’s making phone calls, and he’s on a cell phone when he comes back out and leans against the wall, and Théo’s doing something in the kitchen, whistling. Sophie comes back from the bedroom and she’s carrying a needle, bends down and injects whatever was in there into Gordon’s arm, Gordon, whose eyes are already blank, dead.
“What did you do,” Dean whispers, and Pierre shoves a chair under him just as his knees collapse. “Sam, what did you do?”
Sam looks up from where he’s kneeling next to Gordon, untying the rope from the body, eyes too old, too knowing, shoulders bowed under with responsibility, with weight, with expectation.
“What I had to,” Sam says, and his voice is strong, self-assured, steely.
It sounds like John.
--
Almost worse, it’s like they’ve done this before. Sophie’s injected Gordon’s body with something and Pierre’s called a couple people, asked them to come and pick up the body. Dean asks how they’re going to get rid of him, and Sam looks at him as if Dean should know better.
“They’re going to take him outside of the city and burn him,” Sam says. “I’ve never seen someone more likely to come back as a vengeful spirit otherwise. Have you?”
“Then why bother with the Rohypnol?” Dean asks.
Sam frowns, looks like he’s confused, but then his expression clears. “What Sophie injected him with, it wasn’t ro. We wouldn’t waste it like that.”
Dean asks what it was, but Sam doesn’t answer.
--
With Gordon’s body gone and everything cleaned up, the apartment looks like it did the first time Dean came up here, everything in its place, Sam sitting in a leather armchair, Sophie perched on his lap with her arms around his neck like she can’t bear to let go. Sam’s running a hand up and down her back, has the other on Théo’s knee, where he’s sitting on the arm rest.
Dean’s coming out of the kitchen carrying a beer, and he asks, “So what now? Your loa have anything to say about what the hell’s gonna happen now?”
Sophie’s hold on Sam tightens and she lets out a silent little sob.
“Actually, they did,” Sam says, and Dean can’t help the expression that crosses his face. It makes Sam smile, just a little. “It’s too dangerous for me to stay here. I need to go down to Louisiana, see some people there.”
“He told us we can’t come,” Théo murmurs, eyes bloodshot, shining with unshed tears. “He told us to stay here.”
Dean nods, once, and understands why Sophie’s so distraught, why Théo’s shaking. Sam doesn’t look upset, though.
As if he hears what Dean’s thinking, Sam says, “It needs to be done,” like that’s the end of the story, and it might well be for these people, but not for Dean.
“I’m coming with you,” Dean says.
“I hoped you might drive,” Sam replies, and there’s a hint of a question in those eyes, one asked three years ago that’s still waiting for an answer.
Dean exhales, scratches the back of his head, and Sam’s eyes are closing off when Dean finally says, “Yeah, ‘course I will. Someone has to keep an eye on you, right?”
“I’ll pack some food,” Théo murmurs, but he doesn’t make a move to get up. Instead, he sinks down into the chair, onto Sam’s lap, on top of Sophie, and puts his face in Sam’s neck, crying.
Sam meets Dean’s eyes, then looks down at the two on his lap, closes his eyes and starts murmuring in Creole. Soothing, crooned words fill the air, and Pierre touches Dean’s arm, draws him away from the three, back into the kitchen.
Dean sits down, nursing his beer, and says, “You don’t seem too upset.”
It’s a casual observation, and Pierre doesn’t disagree as he takes Tupperware out of the cabinets, some pots and covered dishes out of the fridge.
“I’m not part of the trinity,” he says. “For them to be split up, merde. My brother’s gonna be useless for days, but at least he’ll have Sophie. Sam might be putting on a brave face, but if he don’t feel the pain of this either, I’ll eat my hat.”
“You’re not wearing one,” Dean points out.
Pierre smiles, starts moving food around, transferring it from dish to dish, long, slender fingers agile, quick. “He’s changed since he’s been here, Dean Winchester. He’s still Sam, but he ain’t entirely the Sam you remember. Keep that in mind.”
Dean nods, resists the urge to bridle at someone telling him how to behave around his brother, and asks, instead, “A trinity?” because he doesn’t know what the term means in this context.
“Three loa, one in each horse, working in concert,” Pierre says, focused on the food, not on Dean. “It’s rare, more because of the humans than the loa, so we treasure it when a trinity comes along. Your brother, he’s the head of the strongest trinity we’ve had in some time, and tearing them apart, mm, it won’t be pretty. People’ll be talking, Dean.”
Pierre shakes his head, clearly done with explanations, and Dean nods once, thoughtful, and finishes his beer.
--
Théo’s packed a basket full of food, shoved plastic containers into every space available, and then disappeared into the bedroom, door clicking closed behind him. Sophie’s sitting on the couch in the living room, eyes vacant, staring at the opposite wall as if she’s not aware of anything else. Pierre’s downstairs, giving instructions to the people getting rid of Gordon’s body, and Sam, Dean’s not sure what Sam’s doing.
He stands up, meanders around the apartment, finds Sam in the bathroom, door open. Sam’s shirtless, is using a red Sharpie to draw symbols down his chest, on top of some of the tattoos, turning and twining inside of them, and when Dean peeks his head in, looks in the mirror to see what Sam’s doing, Sam meets his eyes, wry, amused.
“Don’t worry,” he says, nearly a drawl, hints of the South in his voice, picked up from being around the others here, Dean thinks. “It’s nothing except some protection. Minor stuff, but it’ll keep me under the radar while we’re crossing territory.”
“Territory?” Dean asks, curious to know what Sam means.
Sam’s smile grows even as it turns sad, melancholic. “There’s a lot you don’t know about the people that practice vodou and hoodoo, Dean. Bondye believe me when I say I wish you won’t learn anything, either.”
Sam turns, and the light spills over him in a different way, his jeans are slung lower on his hips than normal, something, because, for a split second, Dean sees the reflection of a scar in the mirror. He spins Sam, lets his eyes and fingers fall over a line that runs for four inches just below his hip, white and smooth, something he must have seen before but passed off as being one of the tattoos.
“Knife fight?” Dean asks, voice quiet.
Sam meets his eyes, says, just as quietly, “Hunter,” and turns away.
Dean’s throat closes up, but he can’t help asking, “What happened to him?”
“I killed him,” Sam says, and puts his shirt on. “He wasn’t the first and I doubt he’ll be the last.”
Pierre knocks on the door, says something to Sam in Creole that has Sam muttering curses and running out of the bathroom. Dean moves to follow, but Pierre puts a hand on Dean’s chest, keeping him in place for a moment.
“He’ll take care of it,” Pierre says, and his eyes are too amused. “Were you likin’ what you saw?” he asks, tone full of ‘I told you so.’ “Want me to ask one of the loa to ride him so you can fuck him without feeling guilty?” Pierre gets a little closer, lets his fingers curl into Dean’s shirt, lets his nails snag the fabric, and he says, low and humid, “Would it count if he wasn’t the one asking for it or doesn’t it matter, so long as it be his body? You’re far too guilty for a man who lives the life you do, Dean Winchester. Shuck off some of that conscience you carrying around and live a little.”
Dean bats Pierre’s hand away, glares at the man, and sees Sam leading Sophie into the bedroom where Théo disappeared earlier and closing the door behind him. Dean scowls at the closed door, then scowls at Pierre, who just smiles and puts his hand back on Dean’s chest, strokes downward.
“You want I should help with that?” Pierre asks, and looks downwards, raises an eyebrow.
Dean follows his gaze, and even as he’s looking at the bulge in his jeans, suddenly aware that he’s hard and aching, soft noises filter out from the bedroom. Dean growls, honest-to-God growls, and pushes Pierre away, stalks out into the living room. As he walks past the door, all he can hear is Sam’s voice, crooning like Ati, and the sweat-slick slide of skin against skin against skin.
“Chere mo lemme t'oi.”
--
Théo and Sophie don’t come out of the bedroom, though Sam does, fifteen minutes later, tear tracks dried salty on his cheeks, chin held high. He’s carrying a duffel and a smaller box, wooden, and looks at Dean, says, “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
“You wanna,” Dean says, but Sam cuts him off.
“Let’s go,” and there’s steel under the near pleading tone.
Dean nods, takes the duffel from Sam, and leads his brother outside. Sam stops on the sidewalk outside of the café, looks up at the window, runs a hand over the name painted onto the door, and then inhales, squares his shoulders, and starts walking.
Dean watches, but Sam never turns around, never looks back.
“Sam,” he says, when they’re walking into the lot.
“Not right now, Dean,” Sam says, and Dean looks over, sees his brother’s jaw clenching and unclenching, sees Sam swallow, and doesn’t say another word.
Sam smiles when he sees the Impala, rests a hand on the trunk before Dean opens it, thumb rubbing back and forth. “Should’ve known you still had this,” he says.
Dean gives his brother a look, one that says, ‘You expected something else? Are you crazy?’
Sam laughs. “Yeah, fair enough. Still, you’ve had her a while, Dean. Ever thought about trading up?”
“We’re not related,” Dean mutters, and runs his hand over the Impala as he moves from trunk to door. “Don’t listen to him, girl. He’s crazy, you know that.”
Sam rolls his eyes, but he sighs once he sits down, sighs and knocks his knees against the glove box, adjusts the seat, makes himself at home.
Dean’s stomach aches to see it.
They’re barely out of the parking lot when Sam says, “If you’d rather not get involved,” trailing off and leaving it there.
Dean doesn’t even look, just reaches over and smacks Sam’s head. “Tell me the fastest way to get out of this damn city,” he says. “And don’t touch the radio. Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole.”
Sam snorts, pulls out the box of tapes from under the seat and rifles through them, an action Dean remembers, pulling out one and offering it to Dean. “Zeppelin?”
Dean chews on his lower lip for a minute, trying to decide whether to accept the peace offering or to emphasise his point, but he eventually nods, says, “Sounds good,” and lets Zeppelin II ease them out of the city.
Part Four