Flagstaff (3/3)
Title: Flagstaff
Characters: Sam, Dean, John, Bobby
Rating: PG-13 (language)
Spoilers: Derived from part of 5.16, Dark Side of the Moon
Summary: John pinpoints what went wrong.
“Sammy,” he called. “Where are you going?” Sam stopped, just stood there in the middle of the road for a long moment before slowly turning around. Handcuffs hit the asphalt with a clatter. Hatred burned in his brother’s eyes as Sam spat, “I’m fucking leaving. I don’t care about this life. She’s dead, and dad should just let her go. I don’t give a shit about any of this. I don’t give a shit about you.” Sam’s eyes narrowed. “You always take his side! Just leave me alone.”
Dad’s voice was dark and deep behind him. “What the hell are you doing, Dean? I told you to look out for your brother. You just going to let him leave? Are you not even capable of taking care of my fucking son?” A hand gripped his shoulder hard enough to bruise as dad growled in his ear. “Should be you walking away, you’re not smart enough to be anything but a bodyguard. May as well just get a dog to look after Sam.”
He snapped awake from the same nightmare he kept falling into, over and over. He spun in the seat, looking for Sam. His brother was still there, sulking in the back, trapped with him and Dad for another hour. He felt Dad’s eyes on him as he turned back to the front. Exhaustion dragged him under again moments later, back to the endless unnamed road. Back to Sam walking away.
He wasn’t surprised when he saw Bobby’s driveway the next time he woke. Dad would leave them here. Bobby was a man, capable of taking care of Sam. Bobby would even have things to do to keep him busy and out of the way while Sammy learned Latin and mythology, things that would make him a good hunter, not just a killing machine. He looked over the newer cars near the fence as Dad and Bobby talked. He didn’t mind, really. He liked working on cars. Sometimes he could even get one running, and Bobby would slap him on the back with a grin and let him drive it up to the front. That was pretty freaking awesome, actually.
Dad opened the door and said something about going inside. After a few seconds, he got all his limbs to respond, and grabbed his bag before following Sam in. Sam still hadn’t said a single word. Not one actual word the entire day. Dean didn’t have any words. What do you say to make your brother want to be near you? The silence was deafening as they stood in the living room surrounded by books while Bobby got Dad a beer. Sam just kept walking, walked right through the room and up the stairs. He heard Dad say something to Sam, but he couldn’t seem to focus on anything. His head was still swimming with the echoing reverberation of one word.
Runaway.
“Dean!” Dad shouted. “Get unpacked. Meet me out back in fifteen.” Yes, Sir.
He had almost begun to hope. He had almost let himself believe that it was all over and done with, that Dad would just dole out punishment, and never speak of his shortcomings again. It was the Winchester way. That hope was dashed by his father’s tone, barely restrained anger laced with tired, tired of dealing with two sons who couldn’t seem to ever be good sons, who always screwed up and tested his patience. Dad wasn’t just going to dump them on Bobby and be done with it. Dad was about to rip him a new one. So far, there had only been a few shouted sentences. The anticipation of the hellfire to come was far worse than anything else.
Well, almost anything. Runaway.
He dropped Sam’s bag on the floor next to his bed. Sam was just sitting there, staring at the floor, didn’t even want to look at him, much less talk to him. And certainly not live with him. Do you blame him? He has to eat your shitty cooking, and share a bed while you snore. And even though you always try to take his side when he and Dad fight, you can’t win an argument against the man, either. Can’t even help him with his homework, you’re a whole year behind in everything but math, too stupid to keep up. Sammy’s busting his ass, getting straight A’s even with moving every month, and you can’t even give him any help. Dad should’ve followed Sammy’s lead and left you, too. Be a better hunter if he wasn’t tied down to you. Better get ready for that, three more years and he doesn’t have to drag you around anymore. Better start making yourself real fucking useful, or get used to flying solo. The thought was like a punch in the gut. Dean was no good at being alone. He hadn’t been alone more than a dozen days in his whole life, not counting the last twelve. A near-hysterical snicker escaped him at the thought. Sammy’s doing your job already. He just doubled your alone time. And look at you, a fucking wreck. Might as well go ahead and kill yourself, you’ll never make it. He turned on his heel and walked away from his brother toward his own room, before Sam had a chance to do it first.
He heard Bobby and Dad talking as he came down the stairs. “They need a daddy, and Dean ain’t it,” Bobby said. It wasn’t hard to pretend he hadn’t heard as he passed the two men and headed for the back door. It wasn’t hard at all to hide tears that simply didn’t come. It wasn’t hard to pretend it didn’t hurt his feelings to hear Bobby validate what he’d already been thinking. He was numb. It wasn’t hard to feel nothing at all. For the moment, that’s exactly what he felt.
He didn’t even find himself surprised when Dad stepped out behind him, tossing him a pair of boxing gloves. “Strap up,” Dad said. Here comes the beating. At least it won’t leave marks I have to explain.
* * *
He watched Dean come down the stairs, still walking on autopilot. May as well start with him. He tried to ignore the scowl Bobby threw at him over his shoulder as he excused himself to the kitchen. How did he get his eldest to start talking? The kid was a master at swallowing his emotions, and the fact that he hadn’t made a single wise-crack since yesterday told him clearly that Dean was miles away from alright. He only knew one way to connect with Dean. Whenever there was something on his mind, Dean would just mull over it silently. He’d watched issues float through his son’s eyes for weeks. Eventually, they’d get a sunny day with nothing pressing to do, and he’d take Dean outside to spar. Concentration on the physical would eventually wear down his concentration on repressing the emotional, and the inevitable phrase would emerge. “Dad, I’ve been thinking…” From there it was just a father-son talk like every other family had. An hour later they’d both walk away with smiles and bruises, Dean with a lighter heart, himself with a tentative connection to the one son he felt he actually knew. No reason that wouldn’t work now. He grabbed both sets of boxing gloves from the hook by the back door and followed Dean out.
“Strap up,” he said with a tight smile. Once Dean had his gloves on, he tossed a few slow jabs at his son’s shoulder. Dean feinted half-heartedly, taking a glancing blow on his left. A tired frown of concentration was etched on his son’s face, right up until he took a completely undefended jab to the temple. They both stopped, Dean’s hands dropping to his sides as his chin dropped to his chest. “Dad…” he croaked weakly.
“Hands up, Dean,” he replied. “Guard your front.” He winced as his son’s face hardened into a stone mask. Alright, maybe that was a little unsympathetic. Start again. The next jab caught Dean in the chin, and when the next snapped his son’s head around, he realized with startling dread that Dean was purposely not defending himself. His son was punishing himself by letting his father punch him in the face. But this is my fault. Whatever made Sammy leave, it’s guaranteed to be my fault. I yelled at him, or ignored him, or missed a big game or something. He’s got no reason to run from Dean. Dean gives him everything he ever asks for. And he did. From the last bowl of Lucky Charms, to the last dollar in his pocket, there was nothing Dean would ever refuse Sammy if he really wanted or needed it. Unless it was something he didn’t know about. His gut clenched as he suddenly remembered the argument he’d had with his youngest the day before he’d left.
“But Dad, it’s the regional soccer tournament. Please can’t we stay till Sunday? It’s just two more days, Dad. Just two days. I worked hard to get on the team in the middle of the year, and I’m good, Dad, I’m really good, and they need me.”
“I’m sorry, but no, Sam. As soon as I’m done with this hunt, we’re going to Santa Monica. There’s people there in a world of hurt that need our help. This should take me three days, tops, and we’re going. I know this is important to you Sammy, and I’m sorry. But there are lives at stake here.”
“But it’s just two days! We could just stay here, me and Dean. We’ll be okay till you get done in California, and then you can come back for us. Please, Dad.”
“The answer’s no, Sam. And that’s final. And not one word of this to your brother. He always takes your side, and I swear, if I have to argue with both of you, I’ll ground you till you’re eighteen. I don’t have any leads after Santa Monica, so we’ll probably stay there a while. You can join the team at your new school.”
The fucking soccer tournament. How the hell had he forgotten that? He’d expected to be back by Saturday, and when he and Dean hadn’t come dragged him back home by the third day, Sam had probably thought they weren’t coming. Not only had he thought he was man enough to take care of himself, he’d most likely thought his family had just left him behind. He suddenly felt sick, and he just didn’t have the heart to throw any more undefended punches at his eldest son, who obviously wasn’t up to talking just yet. Maybe tomorrow after they’d had some sleep. Right now, he had to talk to Sammy. The anger that had fueled him for the last day seeped out rapidly, leaving him drained of everything but the sense of his utter failure as a father.
* * *
He laid there in the dark, feeling hollow. He could hear Dad’s voice, distant and echoing through t he house with a wordless rumble. He listened to the tapping of a branch on the window, blown by a breeze that was almost as chilling as the sound of Sam’s occasional interjections. He let his mind wander, flashes of the past roiling by with lightning speed, too fast to even grasp. Minutes later, the creak of the door opening dragged him back to the present as Bobby peered into the room.
“Dean, you asleep?” came the quiet question from the man he thought of as an uncle.
“No, Sir,” he managed to whisper, shaking his head.
“I made some sandwiches, you want one?”
He just shook his head again, stomach rolling at the thought of food.
“Alright, son,” Bobby said with a sigh. “I’ll put em in the fridge. You come down and help yourself if ya change your mind.”
“Thanks, Uncle Bobby.” He managed a weak smile. He rolled over, turning his back to the door as Bobby shut it. Staring out the window at the moon, huge and lonely in a starless sky, he let his mind wander again. The sound of a pair of slamming doors punctuated the unintelligible argument downstairs with utter finality.
He had almost fallen through the crackling wall of his nerves into sleep when the door creaked again. He kept his breathing even, not wanting to answer any more questions from Dad or Bobby. He froze at the sound of sniffling, exhausted mind trying in vain to place the sound. A moment later, springs creaked as the bed dipped slightly, not heavy enough to be Dad. He rolled onto his back, eyes searching Sam’s tear-streaked face. Sam sat on the edge of the bed, staring back at him with pleading eyes.
They stayed that way for a short eternity, it felt. Sam looked so lost, so defeated, he felt his hand reaching out towards the river of tears he had been wiping away his entire life. He stopped, trembling hand suspended in the air. The hand clenched into a fist, started to drop back to the bed. Abruptly, Sam flung himself at his chest, scrawny arms wrapping around him tight, sobs wracking his thin frame. Whispered supplication poured from his baby brother’s lips.
“I’m sorry, Dean. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry.” Sobs eventually quieted back to sniffles as Dean found his arms wrapped tightly around Sam, one hand rubbing soothing circles into his back.
“It’s cool,” he managed to whisper. Slowly relaxing, he ran a hand through Sammy’s shaggy dark hair. “You didn’t wanna be there when I got to third base with Nicole, anyways. Coulda scarred you for life, Bitch.”
The bed shook briefly with a choked snicker. “Nothing you haven’t subjected my fragile psyche to already, Jerk.”
He chuckled softly, rolling onto his side and tucking Sam under his arm. Seconds later, with his arms wrapped protectively around his brother, Dean dropped like a stone into a quiet dreamless sleep.
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